morning always looked like you

and from my window the only view

is you walk away not looking

- all my trains / Robert Francis

Walking up that platform is about as memorable as the day she first stepped into her dream school. Julliard—home of artists who will never be forgotten. And now Rachel Berry walks among these proud alumni, carrying a badge of excellence that won't ever be taken away from her. Hearing her name being announced almost truncates her slight disappointment of not having her fathers to share her accomplishment with. But she's been bargaining with life for as long as she can remember that if she's learned anything, then it's the reality that she can't have and want everything too much.

In her mind, she recites her own speech, while listening to someone else give them.

But at the least, there's one other person who has heard it before—

"Rach!"

It happens so fast, like a sandstorm in the middle of the desert. Rachel suddenly finds herself wrapped up in warmth, in sunlight and Quinn, and all of it makes her feel as light as air.

"Quinn, what are you doing here? I thought you still have your finals." Rachel says as soon as Quinn releases her back on the ground.

"Took them in advance," Quinn explains proudly. "You're too important to miss."

The thing is she forgot to include Quinn's name in the guest list. Rachel can't miss this party—rumor has it, that a handful of important Broadway figures are expected to make an appearance. More than anything, Rachel's ready to jump into that ocean and be caught.

It's just not clever to sacrifice all of that to be with Quinn.

It turns out to be considerably less formal than Rachel's assumed. Understandably, none of those important people came and by midnight, it's free flowing beer and the whole place is heaving with smoke and sweating bodies.

Rachel's nursing her fifth glass of Absolut, leaning against the bar for support.

"How come you didn't bring Quinn with you?" It's the umpteenth time she's gotten this question. Rachel tightens her fingers around the cool crystal to keep herself from hurling it at somebody's face. She shrugs it off and downs what remains of her drink.

Her skin tingles as she feels the music prodding her to go back to the dance floor. Rachel gives into its bidding and soon, she's closing her eyes, swaying to the beat, thrashing her head gorgeously in every direction. A pair of hands finds purchase of her hips, a hot breath ghosts against her ear.

And just for tonight—she tells to herself—she'll lean into it.

The hands abruptly spins her around, making her eyes snap open. In her haze, she thinks she sees an all too familiar face, standing 6-feet tall, looking at her with pure lust in his eyes.

"Finn?"

She blinks—once—and the image is gone.

In the morning, Rachel exhales in relief to find Quinn sleeping peacefully next to her.

Her mistake is bringing it up one night. Though it's not like she can be anyone but herself, and being Rachel Berry meant saying the wrong things at the wrong time. Her thought are always out there, bound to reach out to someone else's and Quinn always happens to be there. It happens that she always looks at Rachel with unerring want.

"Who do you see yourself marrying?" Rachel's voice cracks a little. God, she might already know the answer and maybe she's being utterly selfish for wanting to hear it, but what Rachel really needs right now is to have someone tell her—

"You, mostly."

Mostly—Quinn's way of telling Rachel she can have other options if Rachel wishes for her to.

Rachel merely wishes to give her back something.

There are two bottles of red wine resting on the bed, which is romantically furnished with hundreds of rose petals. Quinn came half an hour late to their court wedding, so she can't help but ask if this is what kept her so preoccupied. She didn't even thought of buying a gift for Quinn. Maybe tomorrow she'll think of something.

Hesitantly, she looks over her shoulder and sees her wife's face flushed, her hazel eyes set golden by the candle lights- and Rachel feels her knees go weak, because they've never done this before.

She hasn't done it with anyone in a long time. Make love.

Quinn's breath is warm as it skims along her bare shoulder, before lips descend delicately onto her flushed skin. Her head tilts involuntarily when an even warmer tongue replaces the soft kisses peppered generously on her neck. Fingers trace an invisible circle on her hip, while another set works the zipper of her dress, until they're impatiently pulling the garment above her head, and in a second, they're skin to skin.

And Rachel's still thinking that she's making love to Quinn for the first time, and not fucking her. It is unusual in a way that scares Rachel. She used sex to build walls around her, so as long as she can separate physical sensations from feelings— then she won't get hurt.

Not for the second time around.

It frightens her because she's not the one setting the pace this time. It's not her hands roughly, and hurriedly all over the planes of a body she once wished she had herself. She doesn't have control over the ripples of pleasure taking over her body. Tonight she's allowing Quinn to take her the way she wants to—and it's eager, but gentle. Slow, yet passionate. For a while she wonders how Quinn can be completely dominating and yet still be so vulnerable above her.

Her back arches. A deep moan escapes her lips at the brand new way Quinn's touching her. And when the blonde starts thrusting her hips, rubbing their wet centers together, she's unable to stop the tears from brimming. Quinn immediately stops her ministrations, asking if she did something wrong. Rachel can't bear to look at Quinn—Quinn who is now anxious to touch, to comfort and seeking a comfort of her own.

"Rach?" Quinn calls out, fear evident in her voice.

The sheets shuffle beside her, and she feels the warmth radiating from Quinn's hand as it hovers tentatively over her shoulder.

"D-Did I hurt you?"

Rachel shakes her head and rolls onto her side, retreating from Quinn, from the look on her face that screams desperation and worry and heartbreak.

It's difficult to explain, but right now Quinn's ridiculously breaking her heart too.

Pleading her way through every insignificant role off-off Broadway is a more than humiliating scenario Rachel attempts hard to keep hidden among people from her past.

And that, ironically, includes the woman she has recently married in court.

She leaves the function room in tears, but still holding her dignity together. It appears they happen in real life. Some offers do cross the boundaries, and Rachel can't seem to shake the temptation to give everything she has for an opportunity she very much deserves.

But what's holding her back is Quinn Fabray-Berry—more beautiful than ever, on the fast track to a successful career as a drama director, and earnestly faithful to Rachel.

So she begins putting together videos of her old performances, and sending them to various companies outside the country.

To Rachel's surprise, the response is immediate.

There is balance, because while chance is being cruel, Quinn is being the perfect wife.

She prepares Rachel vegan meals everyday (equally satisfying when compared to nearby restaurants), and calls her at least once a day (to say 'I love you'), and picks her up every night even though she works longer hours than the brunette.

It's easy to love Quinn, and maybe Rachel does, even it's far from the kind Quinn offers with an unbreakable smile.

It keeps holding her back from telling Quinn she has plans to leave for London.

"Flight 6138 to London, England please proceed to section 19A…"

She leaves Quinn with a side-hug. "Don't forget to drink your vitamins," is what she answers to her wife's unreadable expression before she proceeds to check-point area.

But at the last minute, Quinn calls out, "Rachel, please, I'll do anything."

There isn't much she can do, but curl her lips into a regretful smile.

Fans await her eagerly outside the theater. It's everything she's ever wanted—to be recognized for her talent and her efforts. To be followed like a star in a cold evening.

Rachel! They scream. Rachel Berry! On their lips, her name sounds like a deity.

Will you please sign this? Can we take a picture? They struggle desperately to catch up with her, but she's already being guided inside her limousine.

Later when the flashing lights are gone, when all she hears is the small drip drip coming from the faucet, all she's left with is the noise of her own thoughts. It wails inside her head, as she strives to remember who she is, and what she always dreamed of being. It echoes Quinn Fabray's name, the woman she left behind in New York.

Rachel discovers that the love and adoration of people whose names she doesn't even know is forgettable, when there's no one at home waiting for her.

The tickets get sold out every night. A local TV station interviews her, wanting to know how and where she started, her future projects, her favorite color, if she sleeps on her back or if she likes pineapple in her pizza.

Yet bit by bit, the thrill seems to evaporate from Rachel's veins. She has accomplished enough to demand little things from the company, but ultimately she only asks for one thing.

Philip, her producer, isn't too happy about it. But the show's earned enough to go on a hiatus for three weeks.

"I worry about Quinn. I have to see her."

Philip nods, and it's both amusing and irritating how fast his admiration of her morphs into pity.

Good luck with finding out if you still have a wife back home, Rachel is whathis eyes seem to say, as he responds with, "I understand."

Rachel smiles gratefully. "See you soon, Phil."

"Rachel, will you let me give you an advice?"

"Sure."

"Stop feeling sorry for her. It's not going to solve anything. For all I know, you're just making both of your lives miserable. I don't see what's wrong with having to receive so much and giving little in return. Sometimes, that's just how relationships work, and you've got to accept it as it is."

The house is empty when Rachel walks inside, but the fact that Quinn hasn't changed the locks yet is a good enough welcome. What she notices immediately is the living room's been slightly altered- their black leather sofa's pressed up against the wall where the television is previously positioned.

Now, she doesn't see the 36-inch LED anywhere. Quinn must have transferred it to their bedroom, or pulled it out permanently. She doesn't watch often like Rachel anyway.

Rachel moves on to the kitchen, and her eyes immediately drop to the dirty sink, before they scans the whole section for more changes she should be aware of. A heavy weight settles on Rachel's chest, as the feeling of being out of place in her home slowly engulfs her.

But then, she reminds herself that Quinn might no longer even refer to this place as 'theirs'.

For the remainder of the night, she unpacks her belongings. Not all of it—she's not staying for long.

Rachel doesn't realize she's fallen asleep on the couch, until she wakens to a loud thud on the door, followed by the steel knob frantically twisting. For a while she's motionless, weighing the odds of a burglar breaking into her apartment on a Tuesday. She regrets glancing at the clock, confirming her suspicions that it's well past midnight and all of the people in the neighboring units are probably asleep if not home. Rachel comforts herself with the knowledge of having a police station just across the street, but her throat would probably be slit before she can even call for help.

"Where the fuck did you put your keys, Fabray?"

By now, the loud hammering of Rachel's heart should be frittering away but instead, it spikes up a notch at the awareness of Quinn, being behind that door.

And apparently, she's not alone.

The door swings opens to her wife— half-curled into a stranger, and the smell of cigarettes which seems to emanate from the blonde's body. She doesn't recall ever seeing Quinn drunk off her ass.

"Are you her roommate?" Rachel blinks at the question, and forces her gaze away from Quinn's messy appearance to acknowledge her companion. But she fails to look directly at his face when her eyes immediately notices his hand tightly clutching Quinn's waist to keep her upright.

"No, I'm her wife." Rachel answers distantly.

"Oh," The man hesitates for a moment, taken aback as if he's only discovering the information right that second, before untangling himself from Quinn and letting her gently slump against the wall. "You better take care of her then."

After a few failed attempts, Rachel manages hurl Quinn onto her back, taking small steps towards their bedroom.

"You're not sleeping in the same bed with me." Even in her intoxicated state, Quinn knows how to remain angry and distant.

"I- I don't intend to."

Quinn's eyes burn into her for a moment, as if hurt, before she passes out on their bed. Rachel removes her shoes, undresses Quinn with practiced ease, before pulling the covers over her shivering body. Rachel retrieves a basin of water from the bathroom, and starts gently washing Quinn's face gently with a wet cloth.

Being vegan for years, it still feels remarkably odd to her every time she fries bacon in her own kitchen. But of course she's married to Quinn, so it's sort of something she should be used to, but she's not.

The smell of cooking meat still makes her want to throw up.

"Leave it there. I can take care of my own breakfast." It makes Rachel actually jump, because she's been so keen to finish breakfast and shower before Quinn wakes up.

Rachel nods, and turns off the stove. Quinn waits for her to move a couple of distance away before resuming the work herself, idly rolling the strips side-to-side until they're crisp the way the blonde wants them.

Rachel doesn't know what she's waiting for when she remains unmoving in her position and trying to keep a steady breath. In the light of everything that has happened in the past few months, it's very conceivable for the other shoe to drop now, and for Quinn to tell her that their marriage is over.

But it never comes. Rachel has no clue on what to feel about it. Quinn informs her instead about Brittany and Santana, and it's just as bittersweet to Rachel's ears.

"They're getting married this Saturday."

At the mention of marriage, her mouth goes completely dry. "Oh."

"Brittany asked for you." Rachel can only imagine Santana's distaste.

"Okay."

And again, they fall into stillness thick with tension.

"Quinn, I'm—"

"Save it." Quinn interrupts sharply.

Brittany and Santana's wedding ceremony is by far, the best Rachel's ever been to. It's not the decorations, or Brittany's striking white gown (well, partly), or how it's achingly like her own dream wedding.

It's the atmosphere of two people coming together as one. Love, in its purest essence. In full circle. She has no special participation in the event unlike Quinn, who is standing beside Santana and looking absolutely exquisite in a red dress.

But she can't help but notice how much Quinn refuses to look at her.

Santana finally comes around after ignoring her for most part of the evening.

"Congra-"

"You were never good for her, Berry," Its venom comes more from the truth, rather than Santana herself. "And I don't know what sort of voodoo spell you did on her, but she loves you. She's not going to simply move on from you. So make a decision. It's either you want her, or you don't. It's that simple."

But it's not.

In the middle of the celebration, a young man approaches her for a dance. Rachel good-naturedly declines, lifting her hand to reveal the wedding band she's been wearing for two years now. He apologizes with a smile, commenting how lovely her ring is.

"It's only fair for me to assume you're not wearing it anymore." Once she meets Quinn's calculated gaze, Rachel's certain the blonde has seen everything.

"I suppose." Rachel mutters hesitantly.

"Get up." Quinn says, hoisting Rachel up to her feet and pulling them to join the pairs of guests swaying to the band's version of Johnny Mathis' "Chances Are".

It doesn't register quickly what they're about to do, until Quinn places both hands on her hip. In turn, she timidly places hers on Quinn's shoulders.

She watches Quinn for a short time, searching her brain for something to say.

"What?" Quinn mumbles cagily upon catching the subtle intrusions of Rachel's brown orbs.

"Nothing…"

Quinn nods. There had been a time she'd ask Rachel what's bothering her until Rachel yields or they end up in an argument. But now Quinn just steps back without hesitation.

"I... I suddenly realized that we've never done this before."

"Yeah," Quinn nods. "I've always wanted to though. I thought about it during senior prom, but I was stupid and too confident to get another chance on our—"

"Quinn."

"—on our wedding day."

"We didn't have a reception."

"Because it's what you wanted. We married by law, in a considerably old building in Manhattan. We had dinner in a poorly lit restaurant after the whole thing was done."

"You make it sound so cheap."

"Look, I'm just digging from memory here. If it hurts for you to hear it, then maybe it's because it's true."

When Rachel ducks her head and doesn't respond, Quinn just pulls her closer, murmuring, "Let's just dance, okay?"

Rachel presses her lips against the blonde's shoulder, leaning onto Quinn half-heartedly. She can see their newly-wed friends, holding each other intimately. For a moment she feels a pang of jealousy, wondering why some people just slid into each other so perfectly easy.

"Tell me, tell me honestly, why did you agree to all this? I gave you an out, Rachel. Even on the day of our legal bonding I asked you—twice—if you really want to be with me. You wore a black dress, for god's sake."

Frankly, she has no answer left in her. What Rachel are questions that she can't also seem to get rid off.

"Why did you? Why did you still choose me?"

Rachel's body quivers along with Quinn's unmeasured sobs.

They leave the reception as soon as Quinn's cries momentarily subside. Rachel's been holding back, but at the very second they reach the front door of their apartment, she lets herself go. They slide down the floor together, with more than enough distance between them, glancing at each other with unfamiliarity.

"I honestly don't know what upsets me more—getting left behind by you or being exactly like Finn Hudson." Quinn swallows hard, exhaustion visible in her voice and her hazel eyes void of warmth.

Quinn's appearance at this moment is possibly the worst sight Rachel's ever seen in her entire life. To think that she caused it is—

"Quinn…"

"I shouldn't have asked you to marry me." Quinn continues ruefully.

"You want to take it back?"

"I love you, but—" Quinn's face crumples.

But?

"But it's the right thing to do."

Rachel nods with finality, swiping a tear that has escaped down her cheek. "You're going to find someone who will…" She recites every detail of what she can't give to Quinn.

"Or I'm going to find that person for you." She adds quietly, her eyes daring to meet the watery depths of Quinn's eyes. And she's glad that she did, because Quinn Fabray's the strongest person she knows, and that meant she's not one to give up on something she wants with all her heart. Yet at the same time, it feels like she's looking into goodbye.

"We're going to be okay," Quinn tells her, but she doesn't promise. "I forgive you."

And with that, Rachel breaks down completely.

Rachel moves out of their apartment right after her show's final run. They're bringing it to Broadway, and she's still in the front lines, while some of the cast have been replaced by Broadway veterans. Her dreams are finally coming true.

She's happy, but not as happy as she always thought she'd be.

Quinn still opens her arms to her when they say goodbye, promising to keep in touch when they're ready.

Six months, and everything still feels new. Rachel still hasn't quite fit in her new home. She's still a stranger to person she sees when she looks in the mirror. But the rawness of it all is exactly what she needs. A ground start—where every thing does or doesn't do isn't a fruition of what went before. Above all, she's still figuring out how to be ready.

"Hello?" Rachel greets tentatively, having accepted the call of an unknown number.

"Yes, good morning. May I speak to Ms. Rachel Berry?"

It's a voice she'll recognize anywhere, in her sleep, when it's bouncing off telephone wires or right next to her ear.

"If you're trying to fool me, then I'm telling you as early as now that you've failed."

She hears a soft chuckle in return, causing a smile to work its way to her lips.

God, even listening to Quinn's breathing feels new.

"Not exactly. I'm trying to—I'm trying to be—"

After a minute of Quinn stammering and failing to find the right term, they burst into a fit of laughter. It quickly registers to both of them that in five years of being together, they've never been in such an awkward conversation.

"It's been a while." Quinn says quietly.

"It is."

"Listen uhm," Quinn clears her throat. "I was hoping if you'd like to get some breakfast with me—"

They still have a long way to go but—

But she misses Quinn, the girl who used to hate her with fervor, who became her friend, who loved her. Quinn— who became just a bit more than everything.

"Sure."

"—because I just heard about this new place that, uhm— wait, what?"

Rachel resists the urge to giggle. "I'd love to, Quinn. Meet you at GiftTree?"

"I'll be there in thirty."

"Gardenias. It means—"

"I know what it means." Rachel interrupts softly, beaming at the florist who just handed her a bouquet of Gardenias.

"You certainly know what you're doing. Usually my customers just take whatever looks grand but not much pricey. Most people don't see it, but the act of offering someone flowers is an art."

Rachel nods wistfully. "It is."

She thinks Quinn will love it. After all, it matches her eyes.

-End-

For those who commented on how much this story hurts, this passage speaks for me:

"We must constantly give birth to our thoughts out of our pain, and nurture them with everything we have in us of blood, heart, fire, pleasure, passion, agony, conscience, fate, and catastrophe. Life to us — that means constantly transforming everything we are into light and flame, as well as everything that happens to us… ."

— Friedrich Nietzsche.

Thank you very much for following this story. Until my next story :) -biggerthanwhales