Glee fic: Animum Rege
Title: Animum Rege
Pairing: Jesse/Rachel (sort of)
Rating: PG
Word count: 1,449
Summary: Sometimes, she can’t tell what she’s feeling, herself, only that she feels, with passion and aggression and intensity. In his eyes, this sensation looks feral.
post-Regionals: Jesse tries, in his own proud way, to apologize for what he's done.
Title is Latin for Rule thy passion.
I may continue this, seeing as how the ending makes even me sad (and I wrote it!).
Rachel sits in front of her dressing room mirror. She imagines it surrounded by light bulbs like a true star’s, but instead she had to bring two desktop lamps and direct them at her face: the lighting in the room had been woefully inadequate - fluorescent, for heaven’s sake, and it lit her from above, casting gruesome shadows on her face and making it impossible for her to properly apply any makeup.
She touches up her still-perfect lipstick, smoothes down her straightened hair, runs a finger over her jawline to smooth out any lines between foundation and skin. She isn’t used to wearing so much makeup, but going on stage is different. She will shine, out of everyone in the scene, they will see her amongst dozens. She is determined. She takes a moment to breathe deeply and stare at her reflection intently, willing her heart to slow down. She is thankful the other girls have already made their entrances: it is opening night, and she has yet to rid herself of performance anxiety.
“Community theatre, Rachel? It’s so beneath you.”
She jumps at the sound of his voice, and then he steps sideways into the mirror’s reflection, and she can feel him at her back. She doesn’t know how he got in or why he’s here, but she refuses to care. Nothing will take away from her focus tonight.
“If you’re here to grovel, don’t bother,” she says. “Someday I may forgive you, but tonight is my night. I won’t allow you to distract me.”
“I’m not here to grovel,” he says calmly, and she is offended by his nerve.
“Then you really should leave,” she says. “Unless you’re here to cover me in more unborn baby animals or otherwise attempt to funkify me.”
“I’m not here to funkify you, either,” he replies, still unreadable. His face is blank, but his eyes burn with something, something that she can’t decipher. It could be lust or triumph or hatred or fury. She understands this: like her, Jesse feels everything too much, but the difference between them is that he has learned an enviable control over how much emotions he shows. Sometimes, she can’t tell what she’s feeling, herself, only that she feels, with passion and aggression and intensity. In his eyes, this sensation looks feral. His hand rests on the back of her chair, and as she watches, his knuckles whiten. That burning in his eyes makes her heart clench, the kind of pain that can mean fear or excitement or lust. When she’s around Jesse, the three tend to blend together until she trembles, and oh, she’s trembling now. She grips her knees to steady her hands. He’s staring at her in the mirror, and she can hear his shaky breathing.
“What are you here for, then?” she asks, her voice small.
“I’m… what are you doing in community theatre?” He sounds angry. “You’re better than this. You had to bring your own lights, for Christ’s sake.”
She sighs. “Mr. Schuester insisted we take a break from Glee over the summer. I was so bored, and I thought this would be good practise.”
“But you’re supporting.”
“It’s a small role,” she agrees. “But it’s a rule that only those over eighteen can take the starring roles. And it’s my first time here. It’s only natural that I have to work my way up.” In truth, she’d been horrified to see her name listed so far down. She’d resented her talent being wasted on a role with only chorus singing and a dozen lines. But she took her defeat more gracefully than she would have in the fall: she is among adults, now, and must rise to the occasion. She will not throw a tantrum or storm out.
Jesse looks like he might do it for her.
“What do you care?” she demands. “You did your level best to ensure my talents would remain unrecognized.”
“That was… different,” he says, his voice strained.
“Because we were in competition, and I worried you,” Rachel answers, the scarlet lipstick giving her the courage to attempt one of Jesse’s patented smug little smirks, one side of her mouth curled up further than the other. She studies it in the mirror. It’s passable.
Jesse ducks his head and then looks up from under his frown. It’s a very dramatic pose. He looks gutted with emotion, but Rachel looks at his eyes. Jesse, as she had discovered the hard way, is a brilliant actor. All his eyes show is more anger, and she can’t tell if it’s with himself, or with her for what she said, or simply more indignation on her behalf.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally.
“That’s the first time you’ve apologized,” she tells him, in case he doesn’t realize. “It’s a start. What are you sorry for?”
“For what I did to you,” he goes on, no hesitation now. “For playing you like I did. For the eggs. For being weak enough to give in to Vocal Adrenaline. It was mutiny, you have to understand that. All of a sudden my choices were to egg you, or walk the plank and drown in obscurity.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “They used to worship me, you know.”
“I believe that,” Rachel says softly, thinking of her own private idolatry of Jesse St. James: the mental catalogue she still had of the sensation of his thick, curly hair between her fingers; the perpetual tilt of his smile; every expression he’d ever worn - mostly smug, haughty, derisive, and variations thereupon but occasionally fond and warm, affectionate, and she clung to these like lifelines; the way he’d covered her with his body when they made out, half-protective and half-aggressive, so she never knew what to make of it. The graceful line of his throat, the spread of his shoulders, the hollow in his collarbone. How his lips were the softest of any boy she’d ever kissed, because he wasn’t embarrassed to use Chapstick. The different sounds of his voice: smooth as butter and a little breathy, like when they’d sung Hello, or raw and vicious when he sang Queen, or rich and full when he dipped into his lower register. His phone number, deleted from her cell but still ready in her mind in a moment.
“I’m not like you,” he says just as quietly, a note of desperation in his voice. She wonders if she’s imagining that because it’s what she wants to hear. “I can’t deal with ninety-eight per cent of the student body hating me.”
Rachel rolls her eyes, because she knows he means it as a compliment.
“If you came to Carmel, you’d be a star.”
“They hate me, too,” she says bitterly. “They egged me.”
“They love talent,” he says. “They only hate you because you're their competition. They’d egg Andrew Lloyd Webber if he was trying to take away their trophy.” He reaches out, puts a hand on her bare shoulder, warm and smooth, and her toes curl in her ballet flats. It’s much nicer than the roughness of Finn’s dry, calloused hands. “We’d be the power couple of the school, you know. King and queen.”
She takes a moment to imagine it, striding down the halls of Carmel with Jesse's arm around her shoulders protectively, her hand curled around his opposite hip to show every girl they passed that he was hers alone. They would be gods.
It takes too much effort to do so, but she shrugs off his hand and stands up in one motion, gathering her makeup into her bag and tidying her station. “You’re right,” she says, refusing to meet his eyes again. “You’re not like me. I have loyalty.”
“Rachel-”
But he stops, out of arguments.
Her problem, Rachel has realized since summer began, is her desire for a love life. She can’t be Christine Daae, allowing herself to be swept up in the rapids of romance and lust. She must be Sally Bowles, independent and strong-willed, casting off the shackles of the men holding her back from her full potential. Stardom is worth any sacrifice. It has to be.
She listens to the sounds of the play just beyond her room. Her cue is barely a minute away.
“Rachel,” Jesse says, “I’m sorry,” and she knows she isn’t imagining the desperation this time. She relishes it.
“Good,” she says, and tosses her shining hair over her shoulder and turning away. She’s dying, aching to look back to see the expression on his face, but she refuses to give him the satisfaction. She walks out in long, sure strides, taking deep breaths, and steps out into the blinding, welcoming warmth of the spotlight.