A/N: This includes spoilers from Glee episode 2x20 and onwards.
To Be Infinite
i'm an addict for dramatics
i confuse the two for love
so you can tell me that you don't beg
[liar; taking back sunday]
Sometimes you try to think about how it all started, but if you're going to be honest with yourself, then you'll admit that there really was no concrete beginning nor end, just a cycle - the endless endearments he indirectly threw your way when he thought no one else was listening, with that distinct glint in his eye that you grew to hate so much, and the ghosts of your past coming back to haunt you when it was the last thing you ever wanted, leaving no time for your constant wondering that surrounded what it must mean - what it must feel like to be infinite.
You always wondered.
And as you wondered, you continued to lie to yourself, because you were the girl who knew all along that he was impossible, impossible, impossible to attain, but you couldn't stop yourself from running after him anyway, forever engulfed in a battle between your rational senses that told you not to and the breathlessness he could invoke in you with one look from across the span of an entire room.
In a way, however, it all worked out, because lying and running were the two things you could accomplish best with those emotionless eyes of yours closed.
The cycle always begins with a drink.
You don't notice him or his entrance at first, trying to make sense of the party you've been talked into attending that isn't even all that great, considering the somewhat limited experience you have with these sorts of escapades. You hold a forgotten drink in your hand, stirring it around every so often to create an image to send to the broken-hearted teenagers that seem to be enjoying themselves around you, pretending like you're actually interested in copying their actions when getting wasted is probably the last thing you want to do. You even consider that doing so might make you fit in more with the rest, it might make people like you more, because it feels like almost everyone has been spending their free time hating you lately.
But after much debate with yourself, you don't give in to the temptation, because in the grand scheme of things, everyone around you is insignificant, and to be quite frank, they don't matter.
You convince yourself that it must be a complete accident that he bumps into you there, because he definitely didn't overhear you discussing what you would be doing tonight earlier that day in Glee club with Finn - or, more accurately, you definitely didn't plan it so he would overhear.
You pause momentarily as he mumbles something incoherent, giving him a brief look of surprise as he brushes it off as nothing, that half-smile of recognition growing on his face as he realizes just who it is he's run into.
But you still don't buy it, not even when he looks you over slowly from head to toe in that signature manner you've realized is his attempt to be discreet and obvious at the same time.
"Didn't think I'd run into you here," he says crisply, because apparently, he doesn't bother with a proper greeting anymore when he sees you, since you see each other every single day - after all, it's a hard feat to be in a show choir and completely ignore your one and only show choir consultant, no matter how much you wish you could.
You shrug, responding in a cross tone out of pure habit. "I could say the same for you."
He shoots you a look before surveying the people around you, no doubt searching out Finn in the crowd to try to figure out whether or not you're alone, because he knows that you're not about to give him any straight or easy answers unless he works his sorry ass off to get you to do so.
"Just decided that it might be worth my time to check out if you Ohio people can keep up with maintaining a solid party," he says smoothly, crossing his arms and still glancing around this way and that. "This is nothing compared to what we used to pull off in LA."
You ignore his jibe towards the quality of the party because hell, there's finally someone else who could care less about the pointless shenanigans of a group of sexually frustrated teenagers, but your attention is transferred when you realize exactly who it might be he's looking around for, and a small smirk escapes you before you can stop yourself. Much to your distaste, he catches it quicker than you can hide it, just as he's always been able to do.
You clear your throat decisively as he shoves his hands into his pockets; taking a step closer to the wall you're leaning against in what you quickly conclude is a way to be able to hear each other better over the pop garbage tunes playing over the second-hand speakers.
Even though that's just an excuse for something else, pure and simple, and you're aware of that more than you've been aware of anything in your life.
"What's so funny?" he asks in response to your previous smirk, tone amused and eyes bright as he stares suspiciously at the drink you still haven't taken a sip out of.
"Nothing," you manage, suddenly feeling like you don't belong and chugging down the entire contents of the plastic red cup, shaking your head slightly as it burns its way down your throat.
"Don't get too ahead of yourself, now," he replies in monotone to your action, as if he couldn't give two shits that you just shoved four shots worth of vodka into your system in one gulp.
Your face remains impassive as you find yourself throwing the now empty cup on the floor partly in anger, and partly because finding a wastebasket would be a failed use of twenty minutes. "Don't tell me what I can and can't do," you respond tensely, feeling the rush of the vodka getting to your head already.
"Alright," he raises his eyebrows, miming giving up, "do whatever you want, then. In fact, I would say you're pretty uptight to begin with, so you might as well loosen up a bit more," he says carelessly, referencing the alcohol that you know for sure you don't want – and can't handle – any more of.
"I'm not uptight," you snap back, scowling as someone trips over your outstretched feet as they walk by, taking no notice of the quiet scene that's taking place against the wall you're currently leaning against that is so public that everyone should be seeing it and objecting in some manner to make it stop so you don't have to make it stop yourself, but no one is, and that makes you feel even more guilty. "Are you trying to get me drunk, St. James?" you ask lightly, copying his expression and raising your own eyebrows.
You know you've made a huge error in judgment by saying this when you can feel him glancing at you sideways, a balanced mixture of disbelief and amusement ever present on his flawless features. "Why, is that the first thing that popped into your mind?" he asks suavely.
"Obviously not," you retort, knowing that you're continuing to make a fool of yourself but still not giving him the satisfaction of knowing that he's won. "But I can't think of any other reason you would want me to 'loosen up'."
He smiles at you, then, a warm and genuine smile that you have no idea could even come from him, because all you've ever seen is his game face that tells you he's going to destroy any competition he has, and his smirk, which can make you feel completely worthless in the matter of seconds. "I'm just saying you should loosen up because it would be good for you," he admits, pausing dramatically before going on to voice what you know has been running through his mind for the past few minutes. "I know you're here with Finn, and since you're not with him right now, that just goes to show that he's not that good of company, is he?"
You have to do a double take, because he sounds like he cares when you know he doesn't, because it's just not in his nature to show that sort of emotion – at least, not when it comes to you. "How do you know I'm here with Finn?" you respond sharply, immediately on the defensive. You realize that this will be going nowhere unless you can somehow get better comebacks to match him, because you are here with Finn – well, you're supposed to be, but for all you know, he's off with someone else, and you really should have left this party ages ago, but you didn't, because that would ruin your facade of actually caring.
"Just a guess," he says, adjusting his scarf in a harmless manner that still seems to attract your attention.
You say nothing, instead fighting the desire to look over again and observe the skin that's revealed where the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, because that would just be an unhealthy habit to pursue since you can't have this.
He accepts your silence as his answer, swiveling on his heel and turning around so he's standing directly in front you instead of his previous "safe" position of next to you. He has one arm resting against the wall along the side of your body, face so close to yours that you can hear his soft, almost melodic breathing.
"Dance with me," he whispers into your ear, and you can tell without thinking twice about it that it's not a question he's asking you, but a command that he's kindly informing you to go along with.
Once again, you say nothing, focusing on the way you can feel his warm breath on your neck as he stares down at you, the way how in that one moment, you want him more than anything you've ever wanted before, and since your entire life has been one big tragedy in which you've always wanted things that you can never have, this epiphany shouldn't come as a shock to you – but it still does.
You hesitate, trying to regain your composure. To anyone passing by, it would look like a guy seducing a girl that he has pushed up against the wall and hanging on his every word, and that's what it is, isn't it? Or is it something else entirely?
You have to ask yourself these questions repeatedly in your mind, because he's making no move to readjust his position, and you think you're either going to throw up on the spot or die. With obvious hesitation preceding it, you murmur a doubtful, "Let's go," before snaking your way out of the small space where he had you pinned against the wall, the wall that no one in this party has seemed to spare a second glance at thus far, because once again, if they did, none of this would be happening.
Your head's spinning as you lead him to the center of the room, not looking back to see if he's following because that would just be pathetic, and you curse yourself for having such a low tolerance for alcoholic beverages. Suddenly, he's right beside you as if he always had been, and out of nowhere, you're pulling the nerve to slide your hand into Jesse St. James's, and you don't care about the consequences anymore because this should be right in every way and there's no need for you to justify it.
He turns to you, staring at the spot where your fingers are now intertwined, and his face is so unreadable that you could almost cry, because damn it all to hell, you want a reaction from him, a reaction that you know he'll never give you.
You ignore the dance floor for the time being and continue walking further into the depths of the somewhat unknown house. He follows you silently to where you know the drinks are all hidden, and even though he wrinkles his nose at the cheap drink you mix up for him, he takes it, sipping it all at once in a motion so delicate and rhythmical that you want to completely melt, because it's not fair that this boy can make drinking out of a plastic cup look so inviting.
You sloppily ingest another drink yourself, much more content now, and as much as you want to just go home and forget about this entire encounter, because there's only one direction it can lead to as the night goes on, you don't back down on his original offer of a dance, wrapping your arms around his neck hesitantly, but finally letting the story that the music is telling you to not protest as his own arms find your waist.
After that, you don't remember much except for you being the music and the music being you, and the fact that you make him have another drink or two as well. You're taking less and less notice of all the exciting things that are occurring around you in slow motion, and everything's become a colorful blur, but you don't even mind because all your attention is on how hard you're still trying to convince yourself that he's not getting you drunk, he's not, he's not, he's not.
Either much later on or not much later on at all, you somehow end up secluded from the rest of the crowd with him, and although you can barely even walk on your own two feet, you know, deep down, that everything's going to be alright, because you have him, and you can trust him, and he will not hurt you, he won't.
He's whispering something into your ear again, something you can't seem to comprehend but are enjoying anyways, because his breath on the side of your face is ticklish, and in your humble opinion, he should keep whispering to you, whispering things that if you were sober would know to be lies.
You're confused when he stops, so you look up, biting your lip and trying to figure out what he's planning.
"So," he begins in a regular volume instead of a whisper, and even in your drunken stupor, you can tell exactly where this is going, but you don't have the willpower left to stop it.
You giggle, a weird sensation bubbling up in your stomach. "So..." you mimic, winking at him stupidly.
His lips are on yours before you can process anything else, slow and sweet in the beginning, exactly like you'd always expected, but quickly growing desperate, more wanting, and even though this is just another stage of the cycle, you can feel that this - his hand running through your hair, your hand developing a mind of its own and tugging impatiently on the button his jeans - is the beginning of the end.
Somewhere along the way, you know that you're literally falling over, because you can hear a thud from somewhere far, far away, but it's all fine, because it seems you've landed on something soft and he's still on top of you with his lips massaging something passionate onto your own.
You're slightly disappointed because you still haven't gotten your hand into his pants, but that's okay, too, because he's a brilliant multi-tasker enough for the two of you - he's kissing you, with one hand on the bare, exposed skin of your stomach from your shirt riding up, and one hand tugging relentlessly on the hem of your skirt.
Something in you breaks, then - it all becomes too much, and you moan against his lips anxiously, wanting him to stop and not stop all at the same time.
He pulls away, groaning, and you stare up at him confusedly once more, wondering why you might have signaled him to stop in the first place and hoping he will either give you an answer or keep doing whatever it is he was just doing, because this few seconds of silence is just worthwhile time being wasted.
"Where are we, Jess?" you murmur, giving him something to think about as he still lays on top of you, obviously breathless, but your question doesn't even matter anymore, since you shouldn't be using your breath up on it when your lips could be on his.
"I dunno," he slurs, and that's good enough for you, because his hand has found its way up your shirt again, and it feels unimaginably good.
You wake up groggy and absolutely disconcerted with the normal sync of the world, your head a battlefield of fragmented words and touches and throbbing from the night before, and as you try to make sense of it all, wondering where you are and how you got there and why you're there and who you're there with -
- and this can't be happening.
You have to cover your mouth as a small, fragile cry escapes your lips, your eyes widening in shock at the rise and fall of Jesse's bare, well-toned chest as he sleeps next to you, tangled in a mess of sheets from the waist down that you dare not peek under because you don't want to know how far you went.
You look down at yourself and your mood only worsens, saddening the tiniest bit that this was the way it had to end, even though it's most certainly not over for good, because when he wakes up like you did, he'll know, and you won't know what to say or how to say it when you come face to face with him again.
Your breath catches in your throat as you lean over, eying him just because you can - he's not looking back at you this time, and therefore it's much easier for you to stop and stare for a few seconds. You realize for the millionth time what your mind has been forcing you to believe over the past few weeks – that he's picture perfect, just like everything you've always wanted, and you know that you deserve no one else.
In more accurate terms, no one else deserves you.
But that was just one fleeting glance that he threw your way, even though it's been the same fleeting glance over and over and over again countless times, but it's one that doesn't even count anymore because whatever happened last night doesn't matter. It's because he's too emotionless and suave and undeniably attractive to even let it matter, and you know for a fact that Jesse St. James can play girls faster than he can claim solo numbers. You know this because of experience, because it's happened before and nothing was ever the same again.
You force yourself to stand up and dress yourself quietly, although you're absolutely seething on the inside, and as you walk out the door, leaving his sleeping figure behind, you make a promise to yourself that you'll refuse to fall for his games any longer.
But you break your own promise, as it goes, because irresistible and unattainable is what you happen to run after the most.
He corners you in the crowded school cafeteria two days later on Monday afternoon, and you should have known much better than to think that public humiliation wasn't his style.
You see him coming out of the corner of your eye while you're chattering away to Finn about something that's not even remotely interesting, attempting to keep the conversation light because you still haven't had the guts to tell him what happened on Saturday night.
Finn thinks that he sees Jesse first - he doesn't say anything to you before he's about to stand up in a somewhat confrontational posture as the other boy approaches your table, but you give your boyfriend a hard look that reads "Don't you dare do this right now" and that sits him right back down quite easily on your part.
"Jesse St. Sucker," Finn greets as Jesse stops at the edge of your table, receiving several questionable glances from students in the near vicinity but taking no notice of them. You almost spit out the sip of milk you just drank in an attempt to not say something you'll hate yourself for later, because Finn's going to have to try a whole lot harder if he wants to keep up with Jesse's witty comebacks.
Jesse winks at you as he hears your slight guffaw, and the gesture passes by in a split second that you wouldn't even have caught had you not been staring right up at him in anticipation for a sarcastic remark. You look away quickly, pretending like it didn't happen, and it's no surprise that Finn still doesn't notice what's going on right in front of his own eyes.
"That the best you got, Hudson?" Jesse replies in a joking manner to Finn, but somehow, he's still efficiently pulling off the act of staring at you while he's talking to the person sitting next to you. "I wouldn't be talking in that manner if I were you. Wouldn't want me to spill your secrets of who you were with on Saturday night, now would you?"
That shuts Finn up straight away, but as you whip around to face him so you can understand the implications of Jesse's statement, your suspicions are only confirmed as you stare, horrified, at Finn looking down at the table, determined not to meet your eyes.
You look up slowly to see Jesse's amused face glancing between the two of you, and you feel strangely betrayed by both of them. "Don't do this," you say simply, hoping it will be enough to get Jesse to leave. "First of all, you're lying about Finn, aren't you?" you accuse, even though he's most likely not and you know it. "And besides that, you're only here because –"
"I'm not lying," he interrupts, expression darkening considerably, "ask your boyfriend yourself. He knows what he was doing that night, and it's obviously not my problem if you guys have horrible trust issues to a point where you can tell each other that you've cheated –"
Finn stays quiet through this exchange, and you shake your head frantically at Jesse to stop him in mid-sentence, hoping that he has enough mercy left in him to let you be this one time. "Don't!" you snap, taking a deep breath to calm down and pretend like it's not a huge deal. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, damn," he feigns, sarcasm practically dripping from his voice, "I forgot that this is the part where you get up and hit me because you don't have enough courage to 'remember' or talk about what happened last weekend."
Your eyes flicker over to Finn instinctively, but he's not smart enough to figure out the underlying meaning of this comment, and it doesn't look like he's even trying to listen to, much less decode the conversation that's occurring without his input.
You cross your legs as gracefully as it's possible for you to do under the current circumstances, putting on your best innocent face for Jesse's benefit, even though Finn's still not paying any attention to you or him. "I certainly don't know what you want to talk about, Jesse," you lie, tone and eyes both cold, "if I did, I promise that we would talk about it. Unfortunately, however, I'm actually not aware of what matter you wish to discuss. Pity."
He raises his eyebrows and tries to hide the smirk on his face just as you once did the exact same with him, but it's no use, because that half-smirk is the first thing you notice, and why can't he just give you the satisfaction of getting angry? Why can't he leave behind his collected manner for once and just react to you?
"I guess we can discuss everything later, then," he responds firmly, staring pointedly at where Finn's hand is resting on your upper thigh, which you've failed to notice in the past few moments for some odd reason. You're almost amused that Jesse's willing to go far enough to stare so obviously and say such things so casually in the presence of your boyfriend, your boyfriend who's completely clueless and abandoned you at that dreadful party –
You don't even want to go there, so you look down at your plate whilst feeling your skin grow warm all over as Finn whispers stupidly to you that Jesse hasn't left yet.
You know that he won't leave without an adequate reply from you, and you know that it's just another minor game that you have to play in order to work your way out of his even bigger game, so you sigh, choosing your words carefully. "I guess we can," you direct in his general direction, finally looking up from the boring cafeteria table and mouthing "Stop it" to him as you angle yourself in a manner so Finn won't be able to tell what you just said.
He looks at you as you mouth these two words full of many meanings, no longer taking any interest in Finn, only staring at you and the way your eyes are burning, not with tears or happiness or anger, but with something else that he can't quite place.
"We'll see who has to stop," he says nonchalantly, almost as a challenge, and turns around swiftly, leaving you behind in the dust of his absence that's growing stronger and stronger every time he has to walk away from you like this.
He leaves you alone for the next few days, and that makes you even more nervous, because he should have done something by now, and the fact that you're expecting something that hasn't happened yet is all the more nerve-wracking. So when he comes to your locker after school one day later that week, you're almost relieved, but then you remind yourself that this can't ever be going anywhere good.
He crosses his arms expectantly as you slam your locker door shut without addressing him, and damn, why is being show choir consultant such a great excuse for him to be able to torture you like this at school, let alone before and after school hours?
"What do you want?" you ask bluntly, wanting to get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.
"What do you think I want?" he says suggestively, and you almost break down right then and there.
Looking to the direct left and right of him to avoid his eyes, you notice that the number of people in your hall are slowly thinning down, getting ready to go home and find their individual escapes in what they do best, while you go home every night and try to figure out your purpose in this world, and whether or not it even makes a difference to anyone. "I don't know what you want," you say.
"Stop this," he says, not blinking an eye. "It was amusing for a while, but it's not funny at all anymore."
"What's not funny anymore?" you retort bitterly, feeling your resolve crumbling. "The fact that I broke up with Finn," you continue, as if that's relevant to something or will finally get some sort of unusual reaction out of him, "or the fact that you're the reason that we broke up?"
He gives you a disbelieving look, but then realizes that you're dead serious and something akin to surprise – or shock, even – passes across his face as he takes one step closer to you. "What did you just say?"
"Nothing," you respond hastily, trying desperately to cover up your mistake. "I'm not sure why I brought it up, considering it doesn't even matter to you." You let out one of those anxious little laughs that show just how angry you are without raising your voice like other people do when they get mad, and turn around so he can't see your face.
He grabs your arm, and you're wondering if he's gone insane or if it's not really Jesse, because the Jesse you know would definitely not do something as petty as grab a girl's arm if she was walking away and he wanted her – it's just not classy enough for him.
Before you know it, he's turned you around to face him again, your arm still firmly in his grip, and you narrow your eyes.
"What the hell?" he asks you, the slightest traces of growing anger evident in his eyes. "You need to stop pretending, okay? That's your main problem." You open your mouth to respond or find any solace in the passionate way he's looking at you, but before you can, he's closed the distance between your lips and his, and for one moment, you're taken aback, because maybe, just maybe this cycle won't end the same way as all the others – but you're so stupid for even allowing yourself to wonder about an alternate ending. It's only that one, sole moment that leads you to wonder, because after that, you cannot fathom anything but the sweetness of his lips on yours, not lustful this time like when you were both drunk, but much more soft, not pressuring you into anything, but instead allowing you to push it further only if you want to.
Nonetheless, you finally pull away a few seconds later, half in anger and half in sadness, because you're finally getting what you want, but it doesn't seem like it'll ever last, so there's really no point in continuing on so wishfully when it can only end in one possible way.
He reads your expression immediately, knowing exactly what you're thinking, and sighs – a small, content sigh that's reassuring and discouraging all at once.
"You're worth it," he tells you, voice commanding in a way that's meant to get you to believe his words, even though you can tell by his tone that he's been expecting this all along.
"No, I'm not," you reply breathlessly, hoping he doesn't hear the way your voice cracked just a tiny bit. "Don't waste your time anymore. It's not going to end well."
He cocks his head to the side, staring at you intently, his eyes slightly glossed over as if he knows all your secrets, which, even if he doesn't, wouldn't take all that much stress on his part to figure out anyways, so what's the point in hiding them now?
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks simply, voice heavy.
It takes you all of your strength to mutter your next answer and make it sound even partially like a reflection of what you truly want.
"If that's what you really want me to do," he responds effortlessly, and when he lets you go, you're suddenly aware that he'd been holding you the entire time, and you can't help but feel like he'd always known that this was coming, that all your insecurities would come back and become your biggest weakness, giving him no chance to penetrate the walls you've built up so high.
He surprises you by looking back one last time over his shoulder, eyes traveling up your body shamelessly before they meet your own, hesitantly awaiting some sort of response from you, and you have to force yourself to stare at a certain point on the wall that is to the complete left of him so you won't waver when you see that longing look on his beautiful face.
It's funny because you know he would never, never in a million years look back if it was any other girl, because he's not one to run after someone that doesn't want him back unless it's a part of one of his master plans to make them want him back, and that fact alone should give you some sort of contentment with yourself, but it doesn't - it only makes you feel even more disgusted at everything you have become.
You see him shrug slightly as he gets no quotable response from you, and you wait until you can't hear his footsteps any longer until you let out a breath that you weren't even aware you'd been holding.
The cycle always ends with an averted gaze.
You're minding your own business for once in the complete secrecy of an abandoned classroom after school a few weeks later, practicing a solo that you'd never dare perform in front of an audience, and only a few minutes have passed by before you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up slightly.
You almost sense a presence behind you that definitely isn't your ex-boyfriend as you let yourself falsely believe for a second before you see that other boy standing behind you. He's lounging in the doorway in a way that's completely meant to ruin your newfound peace with yourself, because you've been just fine on your own for the past couple of days, but he obviously cannot seem to leave this alone, can he? Your mind wanders, and you realize that you somehow must have left the door open, and how did he know you would be here? is all you can think.
You whip around silently, and obvious recognition must cross your face, because he smirks and it takes all of the willpower you possess to not take two steps over and wipe that look off his face, whether or not it means that you'd have to kiss him to do so.
He raises his eyebrows at your expression, surely noticing that you're practically fuming, and you hate him because he can tell in one simple glance what it is you're feeling.
You take a deep breath, still glaring daggers at him, and in response, he leans back against the wall behind him and runs a hand through his hair in that debonair way that he just needs to stop doing, because it drives you mad, and he only does it because he's most probably aware of what it does to you.
"I have one question and one question only for you," he begins suavely as ever, deciding that it's about time that he stops teasing you nonverbally and start speaking, "why are you making this into such a big deal?"
Once again, you find it hard not to observe just how illegal it should be to look as gorgeous as he looks with that leather jacket on that defines his muscles so well, those skin-tight jeans that are just teasing you with every second that passes by, that one irritating lock of his golden hair that always seems to fall into his eyes, but the intensity of his words - the words he's saying to you - immediately snap you out of your reverie.
You continue to stare at him, but for a completely different reason this time, because did he just accuse you of making this into a big deal? You refuse to break eye contact, trying to make those brown eyes of his flinch in some way or another, debating storming off in your diva-like fashion as you normally would.
But this is quite different, because he is the reason for your entire downfall, and it's not fair that he should blame it all on you, so you can't leave this alone without a proper argument, even if it kills you in the process.
You rack your memory for a moment before responding, attempting to come up with something witty or insulting to say, something that you hope will get to him, but of course, you come up blank, because nothing that comes out of your mouth will ever faze him.
Your bitterness has never had any effect on him, you recall wistfully. Biting back a sarcastic laugh, you shake your head. "I've done nothing to make this a big deal," you tell him, almost angrily, but not quite there yet because you're trying not to satisfy him further by losing your cool.
"Come on," he scoffs. "I'm not going to waste any energy convincing you otherwise, but you and I both know that you're the one that didn't want any of it, that you're the one that kept running away, that you're the one who regrets everything for some reason that I'm still not quite aware of –"
"Yeah, you're right!" you interrupt, voice rising with every word as you realize you can't handle this treatment any longer. "I fucking regret everything, alright? I regret pining over you for as long as I can remember and drinking with you and dancing with you and sleeping with you and kissing you and pretending like I don't care about you! I regret everything and I hate you!" you finish, your throat dry from yelling so loudly.
He doesn't move. "I don't regret anything, and therefore, I'm not sorry," he tells you firmly, and no matter how much you want to, how can you possibly even reply to that when he's staring you down like he would undress you quicker than you could protest to it if you weren't in a public place, even though you've just snapped at him so harshly? Luckily, you get a bit of time to regain your normal breathing function and convince your rational mind to think up a reply, because he continues talking.
"However, I am sorry that you regret everything that happened between us, Quinn," he says evenly, and as fast as he arrived, he's disappearing before you can even tell him to stop, not looking back over his shoulder this time and instead leaving behind only the faintest scent of that goddamned fragrance he refuses to stop using every single day, and the vague shadow of where he just stood, giving you no chance to cease your slightly dysfunctional world to come crashing down before your very eyes with every further step he takes until he's finally out the door, and so far away that you know you will never catch up.
He's present the next day in Glee club, as always, but you are the only one who can ever know just how taunting that is, because what better way would there be to tease you of everything you will never be able to possess, everything you're clearly not worthy of because you can't seem to let this boy into your life no matter how much he wants to?
That's always the way it has been with him - you're either worthy enough that he'll never let you go, or you're nothing, something that he's ever going to waste his time on. There's no middle ground for him, and for some odd reason, you find that amusing, even though you shouldn't, because he's tried so many times to make it clear to you that you are worthy, but you can't let yourself believe it, since he walked all over the little heart you had left and you willingly let it happen.
He catches your eye with perfect timing, because it's a talent of his, knowing exactly when and where to pinpoint you and make you feel weak. You look away immediately, not catching his eyes as they practically bore holes into the back of hair when you turn away, feeling that simply looking away isn't enough anymore.
You can practically hear his over dramatic sigh from across the room an octave louder than everything else, but maybe that's only because you were waiting and specifically listening for it. Maybe it's because he knew it would get your attention, because you seem to stray from your promises to yourself all the time, and you find yourself peeking over, which is probably one of the biggest mistakes you've ever made.
He raises his eyebrows - his signature look that can mean just about anything, which is why you hate it so vehemently - as your eyes immediately fall upon the spot where his arm is slung casually around the back of Rachel's chair, tracing what the girl believes to be absent-minded circles on the exposed skin of her shoulder while you and he both know that the gesture is serving an entirely different purpose.
Your lower lip trembles, but you refuse to break down now, because that would only showcase to the entire world how stupid you've been, even though the world doesn't know - he knows, and you know. Other than that, though, everyone else is completely oblivious to the game you've both been playing, the lies you've both been telling, the hearts you've both been fooling.
And in the end, it was because of those glances that never seemed to remain fleeting glances, those one or two word answers that had an entire universe of meaning in them much more than any other well thought out response in the world, those barriers in your path that possessed names, of course they did, names such as Finn and Rachel that were direct poison your tongue to have to say out loud.
You should have seen this coming, and if you think back far enough, you probably did, because all you had to do to predict this outcome was to follow the cycle, the imaginary cycle that is but a whisper in the wind which you've created with the illusion in your heart that you will one day have a happy ending.
You still don't know what it feels like to be infinite.
A/N: ... and this is what happens when I re-watch certain scenes from Glee when I really should be studying for my final exams.
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Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of the characters. The title is based off the line: "And in that moment, I swear we were infinite" from The Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky.