Fic: Summer Mornings (1.1/3)
Title: A Summer Morning-In Which Rachel Berry Wrestles With Words-But The Words Fight Back-And Win
Author: freshtilapia
Rating: PG-13
Length: 2,160+
Spoilers: Season 1, definitely
Summary: (see: Title)
A/N: This is the 11th morning or the morning after Summer Mornings-In Which Rachel Berry Finds a New Reason for Exercising Vigorously Every Morning-That Reason is Quinn Fabray-Jogging or an interlude before the summer mornings that have yet to be written. This turned out longer than I expected and doesn't fit the second part at all that's why it's getting posted by its lonesome. In hindsight, I think I wanted to get to know Rachel better.
This is for jbluish, who is willing to dump a bucket of ice-cold water on me to wake me up or get me out of my funk. And I will gladly do the same for her, especially when it's hot and because she hates summer. If that's not love, I don't know what is.
The eleventh morning
It’s still dark outside.
The kind of dark that’s not black but navy blue…the kind of blue that becomes azure and makes way for streaks of pink and orange in a span of minutes…and if you’re lucky enough to see it, a dash of apple green.
The best dawns are made of these.
And yet-
You appear by your window, in your white nightgown with a bodice that’s squeezing your breasts too tightly that they look like they’re about to take a leap off of it in a heartbeat.
Your long brown hair is down and flowing in waves, looking so soft that anyone will be tempted to reach out their hand, unable to resist the urge, to touch it.
By candlelight, you are a vision and with the moonlight, ethereal.
You rest your elbows on your window sill and lean your cheek upon your hand. And you sigh.
Ay me!
You gaze at the stars in the distance, or so it seems, but you’re gazing into nothing with such a far away look in your eyes that it’s no mystery what you’re thinking about-or who.
Again, you sigh.
Ay me!
And you know that somewhere down your orchard, someone is hiding behind a bush, watching your every move, and whispering.
She speaks.
You smile.
O, speak again, bright angel.
And with impeccable timing, you pronounce:
O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?
-that is how it should be!
Not this.
You’re lying in bed with your left wrist covering your eyes, your right hand over your heart, your head somewhere in the middle of your bed, and your feet up against the headboard.
You’re wearing pajamas with little rainbow prints-the oldest and thinnest one you have and the most comfortable. You expect it to give you a good night’s sleep but it doesn’t.
You’re awake for most of the night.
And you fail to notice the stars twinkling or the moon shining brightly or the sky changing its color because you’re too caught up with all the should-have-been and the would-have-been and the could-have-been.
This is not what I had in mind-not since I was five years old-when I demanded an introduction to Shakespeare after seeing a minor ballet company perform his famous play-Dad and Daddy didn’t buy a copy of Baz Luhrmann’s version-they didn’t let me see it until I was 13-and opted for Franco Zeffirelli’s 1960’s film instead-I still have the VCD-and I still look away in the scene where Juliet says, “It was the nightingale, and not the lark”-thus cultivating my love for the classics and for Shakespeare and for Romeo and for Romeo’s eyes-He is such a dreamboat!
You don’t admit it-and maybe you never will-but the truth is, you’re just as captivated by Juliet’s neckline and Juliet’s lips and Juliet’s adorable facial expressions as you are by Romeo’s eyes-maybe even more so. And once, you take a chance to glance at the screen to see Juliet’s breasts. You regret doing it after feeling something like heartburn. But it doesn’t stop you from thinking about that scene over and over and over again. And you convince yourself that it’s because of Romeo.
It’s not.
This is not how it’s supposed to be-not when I leaned down to kiss Finn again on the staircase at school-even if I didn’t quite get the effect that I was aiming for-not when he told me he loves me just before we sang Faithfully-it would have been fitting-but I couldn’t say it back-my heart just wasn’t dancing the conga-it just didn’t-it was simply too early to proclaim what I felt for him as love-and I am pretty confident that I’ll recognize love when I see it-feel it.
This is not love.
You gasp.
And your left hand instinctively covers your mouth leaving your eyes with no choice but to open.
I shouldn’t even be considering that word.
Your hands converge above your stomach, fingers clasped together as if in prayer.
Surely, there are other words to describe how I’m feeling.
You stare at your ceiling with the glow-in-the-dark stars that have lost a lot of their luster but are still visible enough. There are hundreds of them glued to your ceiling and your poor dad and daddy put in a lot of effort for them to resemble the northern constellations at your insistence. It doesn’t matter that the stars are perfectly discernible outside; you want to see them at your convenience when it’s cloudy. So with your stern directions at the age of nine, they place the Little Bear right smack in the center of your ceiling, because that’s who you are to them.
How appropriate! Some days, you do resemble a grizzly.
What is this I’m feeling?
It’s a question you’ve been asking yourself the whole night. Several hours later and you still don’t have an answer. You continue to stare at your ceiling, hoping to find it there.
What is this I’m feeling? I just can’t explain…
You sound like a broken record.
That sounds like a line in a song-a pleasant, albeit cheesy song.
An incandescent bulb lights up in your head.
How could I forget? I am not only fluent in English and a bit in Spanish but verily in song, which is my major dialect!
You seize your iPod from its docking station and open your iTunes library to search through all 26,457 songs in it, starting with A, You're Adorable.
If something can truly articulate what you feel, it will most likely be in song.
You scroll down your list of thousands.
…A Change Is Gonna Come, A Day In The Sun, A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes, A Fool For You, A Girl’s Gotta Do (What A Girl’s Gotta Do), A Good Idea At That Time, A Good Man Is Hard To Find, A Heartache Tonight…
You pause for a second at A Moment like This-but then the moment’s gone.
You move along.
…A New Day Has Come-yes it has but, no. That’s not it…Accidentally In Love-no…All At Once-you don’t say…All By Myself, All Coming Back To Me Now, All I Ask of You-no, no, no...All I Want Is You, All I Want Is You, All I Want Is You-oh God, no.
…All In Love Is Fair-no, it isn’t, Stevie!
You fluff your pillows rather harshly and make yourself comfortable sitting against the headboard with your legs folded up. And you continue to scroll down your iPod in search of the perfect song.
…And I Love Her-you freeze-no!
…Anyone Can See-absolutely not.
You sink deeper and deeper into your pillows.
…At Last-hold that thought, Etta.
You slide down bit by bit into your bed as song after song flash before your eyes.
…Baby I Love Your Way-I would prefer not to dedicate this song to someone else, Peter. This should only be sung for me!
…Baby One More Time-no, Britney. Just, no.
…Because You Loved Me-you sniff.
…Borderline-seriously?!
Feels like you’re going to lose your mind.
…Can You Feel The Love Tonight?-No, I don’t, Elton.
What you feel is an escalating ache in your thumb.
…Can’t Fight This Feeling-yes, I can.
You carry on.
…Can’t Get You Off My Mind, Can’t Get You Off My Mind, Can’t Get You Out Of My Head, Can’t Get You Outta My Mind, Can’t Help Falling In Love, Can’t Help Falling In Love…
Yes, I can-you repeat to yourself-yes, I can…
You skim through each song a lot quicker than before.
…Can’t Hurry Love-yes, I can-I mean, no-again, this is not love.
You try hard to assure yourself that this is true as you scroll down faster and faster. And you consider if this action is a cause for carpal tunnel syndrome. There must be a study somewhere…
And then, you see it-a word you’ve been avoiding for almost 24 hours-a song by Jennifer Paige.
Your iPod slips from your hand, falling on the bed with a very soft thud, leaving your mouth agape.
I cannot possibly have a crush on Quinn Fabray!
It’s simply preposterous, isn’t it?
You hesitate.
Isn’t it?!
Cue crickets.
You lie on your stomach, bury your face in your pillow, thrash your feet about, and muffle your scream.
This is ridiculous!
You stay still for a minute before rolling onto your back to stare at your ceiling yet again.
Ah…crush. Ah…
There’s only one face you can imagine singing that line in a breathy, sultry voice.
And you can’t take it anymore.
You scramble to get your laptop from your desk, bring it over to your bed, and turn it on.
You click on Firefox, go to one of your favorite websites, type: how do you know if you have a crush, and press Enter.
You scroll down the search results and “How to Tell a Girl You Have a Crush on Her” catches your eye. You open the link in a new tab.
It says, “Regardless of how old you are, telling a girl that you like her can be one of the most difficult things to do.”
“Difficulty: Moderately Challenging”
You read the instructions and nod your head every once in a while as if the words truly resonate in you. You reach Step 6 and you immediately close the tab.
You switch to “How to talk to a crush when you’re shy.” But you don’t get past the introduction.
You click on the second page and you roll your eyes at the first article that you see: “How to know if you’re Gay.”
“You don't simply decide to be gay, but you have to decide to accept it. First, however, you have to know for sure that you’re really…”
Pathetic!
You slam your laptop shut and flop backwards down your bed.
I’m the one who ought to be wooed…romanced on a balcony…not the one who is wondering what to do…the one hiding behind the shadows of a second floor window like a stalker.
This has to stop.
You are a woman of action. You are not content to sit idly by watching things unfold without doing anything. You are not about to take this lying down.
You sit up, straighten your back, and hold your head high.
You always grab the bull by its horns.
You are now fully aware that everything outside your window is visible, which usually signifies that it’s daytime.
You take matters into your hands every time, all the time.
You glance at your clock.
From time to time, however, you do take leave of your senses…
It’s 5:58 AM.
…like right now.
You spring from your bed, tear your door open, step loudly down your staircase, and charge towards your main door like you’re on a mission from God.
If you can do it once, you can do it again. There is no obstacle that you can’t tackle.
How hard can it be to march up to Quinn Fabray and say, “Hello, I’ve noticed that you’ve been jogging past my house every morning for the past ten days at exactly 5:59 AM in your very tight outfits and I’ve been watching you from afar and you’ve damaged my concentration-can you please not do it again?”
Your steps never falter as you move closer and closer to your main door.
You get there, unrelenting, and you forcefully turn the knob, thrust your body out the door, take two very stout strides, catch a glimpse of her, go into reverse, lock the door in a hurry, and slam your back against it with your chest heaving as if all the oxygen got sucked out from the atmosphere.
You are more cowardly than you think.
You tilt your head back and close your eyes and words start flooding your consciousness instantly-words like yearning and longing and hankering and pining, want, rapture, enchantment, excitement, attachment, fixation, affection, attraction, ardor, fervor, fancy, hunger, thirst, craving, fascination, infatuation, or simply put, a crush.
Quinn Fabray is ruining my vocabulary.
You slump to the floor, still leaning on your door.
What was I thinking? Attempting to come out like that-and in my favorite pajamas?
You groan at the thought.
I don’t want a repeat of what happened before-when I piteously arranged a picnic in the auditorium for Finn or impulsively made out in my room with Puck or desperately cleaned Mr. Schuester’s house without his consent or tastelessly swooned over Jesse to the tune of Lionel Richie.
I have to be certain.
You must find a way to interact with Quinn Fabray.
And you recover easily with the prospect of brainstorming the whole day.
Oh, no.
Oh, yes!
You have a lot to learn.
The twelfth morning
Author: freshtilapia
Rating: PG-13
Length: 2,160+
Spoilers: Season 1, definitely
Summary: (see: Title)
A/N: This is the 11th morning or the morning after Summer Mornings-In Which Rachel Berry Finds a New Reason for Exercising Vigorously Every Morning-That Reason is Quinn Fabray-Jogging or an interlude before the summer mornings that have yet to be written. This turned out longer than I expected and doesn't fit the second part at all that's why it's getting posted by its lonesome. In hindsight, I think I wanted to get to know Rachel better.
This is for jbluish, who is willing to dump a bucket of ice-cold water on me to wake me up or get me out of my funk. And I will gladly do the same for her, especially when it's hot and because she hates summer. If that's not love, I don't know what is.
The eleventh morning
It’s still dark outside.
The kind of dark that’s not black but navy blue…the kind of blue that becomes azure and makes way for streaks of pink and orange in a span of minutes…and if you’re lucky enough to see it, a dash of apple green.
The best dawns are made of these.
And yet-
You appear by your window, in your white nightgown with a bodice that’s squeezing your breasts too tightly that they look like they’re about to take a leap off of it in a heartbeat.
Your long brown hair is down and flowing in waves, looking so soft that anyone will be tempted to reach out their hand, unable to resist the urge, to touch it.
By candlelight, you are a vision and with the moonlight, ethereal.
You rest your elbows on your window sill and lean your cheek upon your hand. And you sigh.
Ay me!
You gaze at the stars in the distance, or so it seems, but you’re gazing into nothing with such a far away look in your eyes that it’s no mystery what you’re thinking about-or who.
Again, you sigh.
Ay me!
And you know that somewhere down your orchard, someone is hiding behind a bush, watching your every move, and whispering.
She speaks.
You smile.
O, speak again, bright angel.
And with impeccable timing, you pronounce:
O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?
-that is how it should be!
Not this.
You’re lying in bed with your left wrist covering your eyes, your right hand over your heart, your head somewhere in the middle of your bed, and your feet up against the headboard.
You’re wearing pajamas with little rainbow prints-the oldest and thinnest one you have and the most comfortable. You expect it to give you a good night’s sleep but it doesn’t.
You’re awake for most of the night.
And you fail to notice the stars twinkling or the moon shining brightly or the sky changing its color because you’re too caught up with all the should-have-been and the would-have-been and the could-have-been.
This is not what I had in mind-not since I was five years old-when I demanded an introduction to Shakespeare after seeing a minor ballet company perform his famous play-Dad and Daddy didn’t buy a copy of Baz Luhrmann’s version-they didn’t let me see it until I was 13-and opted for Franco Zeffirelli’s 1960’s film instead-I still have the VCD-and I still look away in the scene where Juliet says, “It was the nightingale, and not the lark”-thus cultivating my love for the classics and for Shakespeare and for Romeo and for Romeo’s eyes-He is such a dreamboat!
You don’t admit it-and maybe you never will-but the truth is, you’re just as captivated by Juliet’s neckline and Juliet’s lips and Juliet’s adorable facial expressions as you are by Romeo’s eyes-maybe even more so. And once, you take a chance to glance at the screen to see Juliet’s breasts. You regret doing it after feeling something like heartburn. But it doesn’t stop you from thinking about that scene over and over and over again. And you convince yourself that it’s because of Romeo.
It’s not.
This is not how it’s supposed to be-not when I leaned down to kiss Finn again on the staircase at school-even if I didn’t quite get the effect that I was aiming for-not when he told me he loves me just before we sang Faithfully-it would have been fitting-but I couldn’t say it back-my heart just wasn’t dancing the conga-it just didn’t-it was simply too early to proclaim what I felt for him as love-and I am pretty confident that I’ll recognize love when I see it-feel it.
This is not love.
You gasp.
And your left hand instinctively covers your mouth leaving your eyes with no choice but to open.
I shouldn’t even be considering that word.
Your hands converge above your stomach, fingers clasped together as if in prayer.
Surely, there are other words to describe how I’m feeling.
You stare at your ceiling with the glow-in-the-dark stars that have lost a lot of their luster but are still visible enough. There are hundreds of them glued to your ceiling and your poor dad and daddy put in a lot of effort for them to resemble the northern constellations at your insistence. It doesn’t matter that the stars are perfectly discernible outside; you want to see them at your convenience when it’s cloudy. So with your stern directions at the age of nine, they place the Little Bear right smack in the center of your ceiling, because that’s who you are to them.
How appropriate! Some days, you do resemble a grizzly.
What is this I’m feeling?
It’s a question you’ve been asking yourself the whole night. Several hours later and you still don’t have an answer. You continue to stare at your ceiling, hoping to find it there.
What is this I’m feeling? I just can’t explain…
You sound like a broken record.
That sounds like a line in a song-a pleasant, albeit cheesy song.
An incandescent bulb lights up in your head.
How could I forget? I am not only fluent in English and a bit in Spanish but verily in song, which is my major dialect!
You seize your iPod from its docking station and open your iTunes library to search through all 26,457 songs in it, starting with A, You're Adorable.
If something can truly articulate what you feel, it will most likely be in song.
You scroll down your list of thousands.
…A Change Is Gonna Come, A Day In The Sun, A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes, A Fool For You, A Girl’s Gotta Do (What A Girl’s Gotta Do), A Good Idea At That Time, A Good Man Is Hard To Find, A Heartache Tonight…
You pause for a second at A Moment like This-but then the moment’s gone.
You move along.
…A New Day Has Come-yes it has but, no. That’s not it…Accidentally In Love-no…All At Once-you don’t say…All By Myself, All Coming Back To Me Now, All I Ask of You-no, no, no...All I Want Is You, All I Want Is You, All I Want Is You-oh God, no.
…All In Love Is Fair-no, it isn’t, Stevie!
You fluff your pillows rather harshly and make yourself comfortable sitting against the headboard with your legs folded up. And you continue to scroll down your iPod in search of the perfect song.
…And I Love Her-you freeze-no!
…Anyone Can See-absolutely not.
You sink deeper and deeper into your pillows.
…At Last-hold that thought, Etta.
You slide down bit by bit into your bed as song after song flash before your eyes.
…Baby I Love Your Way-I would prefer not to dedicate this song to someone else, Peter. This should only be sung for me!
…Baby One More Time-no, Britney. Just, no.
…Because You Loved Me-you sniff.
…Borderline-seriously?!
Feels like you’re going to lose your mind.
…Can You Feel The Love Tonight?-No, I don’t, Elton.
What you feel is an escalating ache in your thumb.
…Can’t Fight This Feeling-yes, I can.
You carry on.
…Can’t Get You Off My Mind, Can’t Get You Off My Mind, Can’t Get You Out Of My Head, Can’t Get You Outta My Mind, Can’t Help Falling In Love, Can’t Help Falling In Love…
Yes, I can-you repeat to yourself-yes, I can…
You skim through each song a lot quicker than before.
…Can’t Hurry Love-yes, I can-I mean, no-again, this is not love.
You try hard to assure yourself that this is true as you scroll down faster and faster. And you consider if this action is a cause for carpal tunnel syndrome. There must be a study somewhere…
And then, you see it-a word you’ve been avoiding for almost 24 hours-a song by Jennifer Paige.
Your iPod slips from your hand, falling on the bed with a very soft thud, leaving your mouth agape.
I cannot possibly have a crush on Quinn Fabray!
It’s simply preposterous, isn’t it?
You hesitate.
Isn’t it?!
Cue crickets.
You lie on your stomach, bury your face in your pillow, thrash your feet about, and muffle your scream.
This is ridiculous!
You stay still for a minute before rolling onto your back to stare at your ceiling yet again.
Ah…crush. Ah…
There’s only one face you can imagine singing that line in a breathy, sultry voice.
And you can’t take it anymore.
You scramble to get your laptop from your desk, bring it over to your bed, and turn it on.
You click on Firefox, go to one of your favorite websites, type: how do you know if you have a crush, and press Enter.
You scroll down the search results and “How to Tell a Girl You Have a Crush on Her” catches your eye. You open the link in a new tab.
It says, “Regardless of how old you are, telling a girl that you like her can be one of the most difficult things to do.”
“Difficulty: Moderately Challenging”
You read the instructions and nod your head every once in a while as if the words truly resonate in you. You reach Step 6 and you immediately close the tab.
You switch to “How to talk to a crush when you’re shy.” But you don’t get past the introduction.
You click on the second page and you roll your eyes at the first article that you see: “How to know if you’re Gay.”
“You don't simply decide to be gay, but you have to decide to accept it. First, however, you have to know for sure that you’re really…”
Pathetic!
You slam your laptop shut and flop backwards down your bed.
I’m the one who ought to be wooed…romanced on a balcony…not the one who is wondering what to do…the one hiding behind the shadows of a second floor window like a stalker.
This has to stop.
You are a woman of action. You are not content to sit idly by watching things unfold without doing anything. You are not about to take this lying down.
You sit up, straighten your back, and hold your head high.
You always grab the bull by its horns.
You are now fully aware that everything outside your window is visible, which usually signifies that it’s daytime.
You take matters into your hands every time, all the time.
You glance at your clock.
From time to time, however, you do take leave of your senses…
It’s 5:58 AM.
…like right now.
You spring from your bed, tear your door open, step loudly down your staircase, and charge towards your main door like you’re on a mission from God.
If you can do it once, you can do it again. There is no obstacle that you can’t tackle.
How hard can it be to march up to Quinn Fabray and say, “Hello, I’ve noticed that you’ve been jogging past my house every morning for the past ten days at exactly 5:59 AM in your very tight outfits and I’ve been watching you from afar and you’ve damaged my concentration-can you please not do it again?”
Your steps never falter as you move closer and closer to your main door.
You get there, unrelenting, and you forcefully turn the knob, thrust your body out the door, take two very stout strides, catch a glimpse of her, go into reverse, lock the door in a hurry, and slam your back against it with your chest heaving as if all the oxygen got sucked out from the atmosphere.
You are more cowardly than you think.
You tilt your head back and close your eyes and words start flooding your consciousness instantly-words like yearning and longing and hankering and pining, want, rapture, enchantment, excitement, attachment, fixation, affection, attraction, ardor, fervor, fancy, hunger, thirst, craving, fascination, infatuation, or simply put, a crush.
Quinn Fabray is ruining my vocabulary.
You slump to the floor, still leaning on your door.
What was I thinking? Attempting to come out like that-and in my favorite pajamas?
You groan at the thought.
I don’t want a repeat of what happened before-when I piteously arranged a picnic in the auditorium for Finn or impulsively made out in my room with Puck or desperately cleaned Mr. Schuester’s house without his consent or tastelessly swooned over Jesse to the tune of Lionel Richie.
I have to be certain.
You must find a way to interact with Quinn Fabray.
And you recover easily with the prospect of brainstorming the whole day.
Oh, no.
Oh, yes!
You have a lot to learn.
The twelfth morning