Fic: We're Not So Different, You and I
Title: We're Not So Different, You and I
Rating: G
Word Count: ~1500
Author: noahjz
Pairings: unrequited Quinn/Rachel, unrequited Sam/Kurt
Spoilers: For a scene from Duets.
Summary: A different take on how the Sam/Quinn classroom scene could have gone.
Sam was impressed by Quinn's knowledge of astronomy, not taken aback or insulted like most guys would be. He liked how she didn't play dumb in order to make him feel better; he'd never met a girl like that before. Plus she looked cute (Maybe? Yeah, OK, he guessed she did.) when she rolled her eyes at him while he tried to get her to put her hands on his hips; eventually she settled for holding onto his shoulder.
“Give me your hand,” he said with a smile, trying hard not to seem forceful or nervous. She complied but with a raised eyebrow that told him his intentions had better be honorable. He noticed her hands felt softer than a fleece blanket in the dead of winter. (That's...nice, right? Yeah.) His mind flitted to those hands wandering all over his body, exploring, urgent. (Right. He thought it went a little something like that.) “Do you play?”
“No.” She shook her head, blushing. In order to keep some of the control of the situation, she didn't bother to tell him she'd always wanted to know, but her father wouldn't have liked the noise. (Shouldn't she be telling him that, to bond with him? Maybe not; it's too early.)
“It's easy.” Very slowly he showed her where to put her fingers and how to move them between the appropriate chords as he strummed. The strength of her fingers surprised him: usually people who have never played run into trouble keeping the strings down. (Was that hot? Or not; he was having a hard time keeping track.)
They went on like that for a few bars, and she smiled this kind of mellow smile (He was nice, and she always liked acoustic guitars) while he focused on her fingers to make sure she kept them in the right place. (The perfect time for a kiss, right?) She looked so pretty when she smiled (no corollary). He looked so sweet when he smiled (no corollary). They looked so good together (no corollary). They looked like would make a good couple (Right? She looks pretty, he looks sweet; that should make them want to kiss).
Quinn took her hand off the fretboard and leaned in just the slightest bit (He didn't smell like Finn's Cheetos or Puck's Old Spice.), waiting for a response.
Sam flicked his eyes down to her lips (They were...shiny.), conveying that he wanted it as much as she did. (Which was exactly how much?)
They moved close enough for their foreheads to touch, and then ever so suddenly she jumped away from him like he'd started smelling like Finn and Puck at the same time. He tried not to take it as an insult: he'd learned a bit about her traumatizing past year from Puck. (He tried not to feel relieved)
“I'm sorry,” she said, eyes on the floor. “I can't do this. I don't...I've been here before.”
He saw it in her eyes, exactly the same thing he always saw in his: sorrow, fear, fatigue. (From hiding, of course.) He knew; she must have known as well. (She didn't.) “Me, too.”
“What?” She quirked her eyebrow again. “You've been pregnant and kicked out and dumped on and told, 'You can count on me, babe?'” She didn't know how to react to him, other than to raise her voice like her proud papa had taught her. (Because she obviously didn't want to hope beyond a glimmer of hope that he really understood. Nope. Besides, she wasn't even that way. Nope. Not her.)
He began to fiddle around on his guitar strings. (It wasn't that he was nervous; he just never said it aloud before.) “No. But I'm used to...pretending.” (Chicken. Just say it.)
“Pretending about what?” she probed, inquisitive. (But not really; she knew where he was going, and she wanted him to stop. Or did she mean get there?)
“It's hard for both of us. I mean, we're supposed to have one image and we're supposed to keep that up no matter what we really want or who we really are,” he rambled. (OK. Here goes.) “I guess what I'm saying is, I get how you feel.” (Really, this time, he swore.) “It's not easy to grow up here, like this. It's not easy to be...” (Deep breath) “...gay.” (There; he said it; it was out there.)
Quinn backed away even further, a horrified shock on her face. She knew what he was getting at, sure, but it still seemed surprising when he eventually said it. “I am not gay.” (She thought it might be nice to have a best friend like Sam.)
“Oh. Sorry.” His voice cracked a little bit, puzzled. (He'd been damn sure she was before saying that, so something stupidly embarrassing like this wouldn't happen.) “I just thought...I mean, you're always making fun of Rachel way more than anyone else, and you call her, um, de-girlifying names instead of something like slut or whatever. And I saw you in English drawing a caricature of her, only you made hearts around it. And...” He hesitated, not terribly sure whether he was receiving an “I'm about to annihilate you” or a “You have discovered my secret” glare. “Whenever she sings...you always look at her, and you always smile. You don't do that with me. Or Puck. Or Finn. Or Kurt. Or Artie. Or anyone else but Rachel. I just thought...”
“You don't know a damn thing about me,” Quinn spat poisonously. (Except for everything she never wanted anybody else to know.)
Sam awkwardly shrugged. (He couldn't have possibly imagined all that. No way.) “I guess maybe I don't.” (Courage here, he needed it. She needed someone. He had to be it.) “But maybe you don't either.”
He had shocked her too much to provoke even a “How dare you!” or a threat to his manhood. He had shocked her into silence. (She was not going to cry.) He had shocked her into tears. (Shit. What did he do now?) “Quinn...?”
“Can you just...go away?” she pleaded. When she didn't hear movement, she grew confused. People left when Quinn Fabray asked them to. People did what she wanted them to. (And so did Sam: he stayed. He stayed like Rachel hadn't when she'd asked her to go, like Puck hadn't, like her parents hadn't, like Finn hadn't, like nobody had. He stayed.)
Instead of vocalizing a response, he played the opening of “Iris” by the Goo-Goo Dolls. “This is my favorite song.” He didn't explain why. (They both knew.) He didn't leave. (Somehow he knew that was best.) He didn't sing. (She should first.)
She didn't sing either. She just talked out the words. “And I'd give up forever to touch you/Just to know that you feel me somehow.”
“You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be/And I don't want to go home right now,” he muttered in response.
Slowly, face still shining like a rain-streaked street, she stood up and walked over to him, eyes staring pointedly at his hand working the chords. He moved it, positioning her fingers properly on the frets. With each change he maneuvered them onto the right strings, the right notes. (It felt nice, like a real friendship.)
“All I can taste is this moment/All I can breathe is your life/Sooner or later it's over/I just don't wanna miss you tonight,” they harmonized, their voices bouncing off the Styrofoam Mars and Venus floating above them. (It hurt how true that song felt.)
Sam guided her through the first chorus and then invented an ending chord that rang out against the blackboard. “I like Kurt,” he confessed after a moment of silence.
“You could have him, you know,” Quinn lamented. (She could never have Rachel.)
“I couldn't. I'm not brave enough,” he admitted. (You're brave enough for this, said the voice in his head.)
Quinn sat down on the desk next to him, eyes on her hands. “I think one day you will be.” (One day so would she.)
“It's not just school...it's home and it's everyone and everything and - ”
“You don't have to tell me,” she said. “I know.” (She knew probably better than he did.)
He took his hand off the guitar and offered it to her. (It felt better this time, when he wasn't imagining it across his body.) She accepted, led them up and out of the room into the hallway, his guitar upside-down slung across his back. People whispered, but they thought nothing of it. (They were brave enough for this.)
She looked so pretty when she smiled (no corollary). He looked so sweet when he smiled (no corollary).
They looked so good together (no corollary).
Rating: G
Word Count: ~1500
Author: noahjz
Pairings: unrequited Quinn/Rachel, unrequited Sam/Kurt
Spoilers: For a scene from Duets.
Summary: A different take on how the Sam/Quinn classroom scene could have gone.
Sam was impressed by Quinn's knowledge of astronomy, not taken aback or insulted like most guys would be. He liked how she didn't play dumb in order to make him feel better; he'd never met a girl like that before. Plus she looked cute (Maybe? Yeah, OK, he guessed she did.) when she rolled her eyes at him while he tried to get her to put her hands on his hips; eventually she settled for holding onto his shoulder.
“Give me your hand,” he said with a smile, trying hard not to seem forceful or nervous. She complied but with a raised eyebrow that told him his intentions had better be honorable. He noticed her hands felt softer than a fleece blanket in the dead of winter. (That's...nice, right? Yeah.) His mind flitted to those hands wandering all over his body, exploring, urgent. (Right. He thought it went a little something like that.) “Do you play?”
“No.” She shook her head, blushing. In order to keep some of the control of the situation, she didn't bother to tell him she'd always wanted to know, but her father wouldn't have liked the noise. (Shouldn't she be telling him that, to bond with him? Maybe not; it's too early.)
“It's easy.” Very slowly he showed her where to put her fingers and how to move them between the appropriate chords as he strummed. The strength of her fingers surprised him: usually people who have never played run into trouble keeping the strings down. (Was that hot? Or not; he was having a hard time keeping track.)
They went on like that for a few bars, and she smiled this kind of mellow smile (He was nice, and she always liked acoustic guitars) while he focused on her fingers to make sure she kept them in the right place. (The perfect time for a kiss, right?) She looked so pretty when she smiled (no corollary). He looked so sweet when he smiled (no corollary). They looked so good together (no corollary). They looked like would make a good couple (Right? She looks pretty, he looks sweet; that should make them want to kiss).
Quinn took her hand off the fretboard and leaned in just the slightest bit (He didn't smell like Finn's Cheetos or Puck's Old Spice.), waiting for a response.
Sam flicked his eyes down to her lips (They were...shiny.), conveying that he wanted it as much as she did. (Which was exactly how much?)
They moved close enough for their foreheads to touch, and then ever so suddenly she jumped away from him like he'd started smelling like Finn and Puck at the same time. He tried not to take it as an insult: he'd learned a bit about her traumatizing past year from Puck. (He tried not to feel relieved)
“I'm sorry,” she said, eyes on the floor. “I can't do this. I don't...I've been here before.”
He saw it in her eyes, exactly the same thing he always saw in his: sorrow, fear, fatigue. (From hiding, of course.) He knew; she must have known as well. (She didn't.) “Me, too.”
“What?” She quirked her eyebrow again. “You've been pregnant and kicked out and dumped on and told, 'You can count on me, babe?'” She didn't know how to react to him, other than to raise her voice like her proud papa had taught her. (Because she obviously didn't want to hope beyond a glimmer of hope that he really understood. Nope. Besides, she wasn't even that way. Nope. Not her.)
He began to fiddle around on his guitar strings. (It wasn't that he was nervous; he just never said it aloud before.) “No. But I'm used to...pretending.” (Chicken. Just say it.)
“Pretending about what?” she probed, inquisitive. (But not really; she knew where he was going, and she wanted him to stop. Or did she mean get there?)
“It's hard for both of us. I mean, we're supposed to have one image and we're supposed to keep that up no matter what we really want or who we really are,” he rambled. (OK. Here goes.) “I guess what I'm saying is, I get how you feel.” (Really, this time, he swore.) “It's not easy to grow up here, like this. It's not easy to be...” (Deep breath) “...gay.” (There; he said it; it was out there.)
Quinn backed away even further, a horrified shock on her face. She knew what he was getting at, sure, but it still seemed surprising when he eventually said it. “I am not gay.” (She thought it might be nice to have a best friend like Sam.)
“Oh. Sorry.” His voice cracked a little bit, puzzled. (He'd been damn sure she was before saying that, so something stupidly embarrassing like this wouldn't happen.) “I just thought...I mean, you're always making fun of Rachel way more than anyone else, and you call her, um, de-girlifying names instead of something like slut or whatever. And I saw you in English drawing a caricature of her, only you made hearts around it. And...” He hesitated, not terribly sure whether he was receiving an “I'm about to annihilate you” or a “You have discovered my secret” glare. “Whenever she sings...you always look at her, and you always smile. You don't do that with me. Or Puck. Or Finn. Or Kurt. Or Artie. Or anyone else but Rachel. I just thought...”
“You don't know a damn thing about me,” Quinn spat poisonously. (Except for everything she never wanted anybody else to know.)
Sam awkwardly shrugged. (He couldn't have possibly imagined all that. No way.) “I guess maybe I don't.” (Courage here, he needed it. She needed someone. He had to be it.) “But maybe you don't either.”
He had shocked her too much to provoke even a “How dare you!” or a threat to his manhood. He had shocked her into silence. (She was not going to cry.) He had shocked her into tears. (Shit. What did he do now?) “Quinn...?”
“Can you just...go away?” she pleaded. When she didn't hear movement, she grew confused. People left when Quinn Fabray asked them to. People did what she wanted them to. (And so did Sam: he stayed. He stayed like Rachel hadn't when she'd asked her to go, like Puck hadn't, like her parents hadn't, like Finn hadn't, like nobody had. He stayed.)
Instead of vocalizing a response, he played the opening of “Iris” by the Goo-Goo Dolls. “This is my favorite song.” He didn't explain why. (They both knew.) He didn't leave. (Somehow he knew that was best.) He didn't sing. (She should first.)
She didn't sing either. She just talked out the words. “And I'd give up forever to touch you/Just to know that you feel me somehow.”
“You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be/And I don't want to go home right now,” he muttered in response.
Slowly, face still shining like a rain-streaked street, she stood up and walked over to him, eyes staring pointedly at his hand working the chords. He moved it, positioning her fingers properly on the frets. With each change he maneuvered them onto the right strings, the right notes. (It felt nice, like a real friendship.)
“All I can taste is this moment/All I can breathe is your life/Sooner or later it's over/I just don't wanna miss you tonight,” they harmonized, their voices bouncing off the Styrofoam Mars and Venus floating above them. (It hurt how true that song felt.)
Sam guided her through the first chorus and then invented an ending chord that rang out against the blackboard. “I like Kurt,” he confessed after a moment of silence.
“You could have him, you know,” Quinn lamented. (She could never have Rachel.)
“I couldn't. I'm not brave enough,” he admitted. (You're brave enough for this, said the voice in his head.)
Quinn sat down on the desk next to him, eyes on her hands. “I think one day you will be.” (One day so would she.)
“It's not just school...it's home and it's everyone and everything and - ”
“You don't have to tell me,” she said. “I know.” (She knew probably better than he did.)
He took his hand off the guitar and offered it to her. (It felt better this time, when he wasn't imagining it across his body.) She accepted, led them up and out of the room into the hallway, his guitar upside-down slung across his back. People whispered, but they thought nothing of it. (They were brave enough for this.)
She looked so pretty when she smiled (no corollary). He looked so sweet when he smiled (no corollary).
They looked so good together (no corollary).