Glee fic: "Show Face" (2/3)
Title: Show Face (part 2 of 3)
Pairing: Jesse/Rachel
Rating: NC-17 (this chapter)
Word count: 3,316
Summary: This is the story of how Rachel manages to turn Jesse from the Phantom of the Opera into Raoul, and completely without intention. Jesse is dumbfounded.
From Sectionals to Journey (and beyond): this is Glee, from Jesse's point of view.
part one
Once upon a time I was falling in love, now I’m only falling apart
Vanilla Ice? Really? Jesse has to fight the disgust off his face at Mr. Schuester’s little performance (like a greying dad trying to prove to his kids that he’s totally hip). But the rest of the club, including Rachel, is clearly starting to enjoy this, so he lets himself get yanked out of his seat. And after a few seconds of studying the others, he jumps into the dance, determined to do no less than his best, even if it is bad nineties rap - and about a drive-by shooting, no less: how was this school-appropriate?
(And yet somewhere in the middle of the incessant Ice, ice, babys, Jesse realizes he’s smiling. This is the danger of New Directions and McKinley’s Degrassi attitude.)
When Rachel announces her song choice for their ‘bad reputation’ assignment, Jesse doesn’t tell her that he has doubts about its redemption - even with their combined talents. He helps her, like a good boyfriend should. He doesn’t even protest when Rachel allows the persistent Sandy Ryerson to play the father. He’s embarrassed by the whole thing, and doesn’t particularly want to watch it with the entire glee club. But he doesn’t say so, because it would crush her.
He regrets being so considerate the next day.
Jesse knows that for the sake of his cover, he shouldn’t react too strongly to the monstrosity playing larger than life on the projector screen. He shifts in his seat further away from Rachel, because withdrawing his arm from around her wasn’t enough. He doesn’t want to be in this room right now, having been made such a fool of for all of these plebeians to see. Rachel can be so thoughtless sometimes, and perhaps that is the worst part: she didn’t do this despite his inevitable humiliation, she wasn’t choosing her success over him - that at least, he could have respected. He’s quite sure that she hadn’t even thought he might be hurt by this. Perhaps she thought he’d only be upset at not being the sole star - and he is, of course, but something supersedes this indignation.
When the lights come back on, Jesse tries to get himself under control. What he should do is act appropriately wounded, and then the next day apologize for overreacting and tell her he understood completely.
He can’t bring himself to underplay this. He’s embarrassed and insulted, and it’s like she’s punched him in the stomach. He feels winded and shaky, and he can’t filter the words coming out of his mouth.
Fuck her. Fuck her, who does she think she is, triple-casting him? As if he couldn’t have carried the video on his charisma alone - all Puck had brought to it were his muscles, and Jesse wouldn’t even get started on Finn, who’d been so sharp - as if it wasn’t his right, as her boyfriend, to do so or at least to be consulted. As if she hadn’t sung enough songs with Finn in her lifetime.
Amidst his mental chorus of fuck her, I hate her, how could she do this, he almost forgets that this isn’t a real relationship. He almost forgets that if he breaks up with her, it won’t affect him - he’s not her boyfriend, not really - it will only affect his standing in Vocal Adrenaline. It will jeopardize a real relationship with his choral director, one that will get him glowing letters of recommendation and another National title. Something he can’t afford to risk.
What is Rachel Berry to his career? Nothing. She will make her own way or she won’t, but if there’s one thing Jesse’s learned in his life on the stage, it’s that your partner isn’t to be trusted, because in the end, a duet’s all about one thing: making yourself look good.
Rachel has only reminded him.
I can’t be holding on to what you got, when all you got is hurt
If Jesse were even a little less dedicated, he would skip ballet the next day. He doesn’t want to accidentally catch her gaze in the mirror, or worse, end up paired with her at any point. But he goes, because the last time he missed a class he had a broken leg - and even then, he sat on the side and watched to make sure he missed nothing.
She respects his wish for silence for the entire class, and then just as he’s breathing a sigh of relief as they're filing out the door, she grabs his arm. He tenses reflexively, but she doesn’t let go. He looks down at her coldly.
“Jesse,” she says in a small voice, and he doesn’t respond. She swallows. “Are you… are we over?”
He clenches his jaw, looking away from her again. “No,” he says, but he tears his arm out of her grip and flees before she can say another word. She was right, he reasons: she didn't stop to consider the consequences of her actions because they didn't matter. The ends justified the means.
That afternoon Anna calls him to say they have an extra ticket to San Diego, and he’s smart enough to recognize it as the olive branch it is. This is his opportunity to prove to them that he hasn’t burned any bridges, that he will be back. That he’s still loyal to them.
The girls seem to be always in their swimsuits, golden with their tans, toned and even thinner than he last saw them, thanks to a diet of smelt and raw vegetables. When they glance over for approval, Jesse checks them out like he’s supposed to, but it’s not the same. They’re not searching for his interest anymore, and he’s not really looking at them.
The second day, while the others play volleyball further down the beach, Jesse sits on the sand, leaning against a log and only half paying attention to the chemistry textbook he’s reading. It wasn’t a very good idea to miss a whole week of his senior year - for Carmel, it’s spring break, but not for McKinley. So he’s trying to keep up with the work he’s missing.
When a shadow falls over the pages of his book, he doesn’t look up to see who’s blocking his sun. “Do you mind?” he says instead, lazily. His calm has always kept them in line before: he will go on as if nothing is wrong. As if they aren’t subtly squirming out from under his thumb with every passing day.
“What are you going to do about it, St. James?”
Jesse looks up, then, knowing that voice. Andrea looms over him, hands on her hips, little more than a silhouette with the sun at her back.
“Don’t play dumb,” she says. “Don’t tell me you’re just going to let it happen.”
He looks back down at his textbook. “What do you suggest?”
“Stake your claim. Tell them what to do tonight, or steal somebody’s girlfriend, or something. Show them you're in control.”
But I’m not, he almost says. I’m not in control of anything anymore.
“Are you really going to make me look for a new male lead this late in the season?” she demands.
So that night at the hotel he rents the ballroom till ten and makes them run through some of their old numbers. They are reluctant: for most of them, performing isn’t the pleasure it used to be, not after Miss Corcoran and Dakota Stanley - but after a few glances at Andrea that he pretends not to see, they obey. Even though they’re short several members - freshmen and sophomores weren’t invited - and are forced to do it all a cappella, there is little to criticize. Jesse does so anyway.
For the first time, despite their flawless technique and expertly blended harmonies, Jesse sees what Rachel meant when she said they were robotic. This isn't usually a problem when it comes to competition: it is an asset. But Jesse can see that they don’t love what they’re doing, and all he can hope is that the judges at Nationals will not.
For the first time, he finds himself sort of missing the enthusiasm of New Directions, unpolished as they are. He had forgotten how cold a performance could be without passion.
But there are dreams that cannot be, and there are storms we cannot weather
Jesse stands in the doorway of the studio for a long time, watching her perform a routine that is vaguely familiar somehow, though he can’t place it. When she finally notices him, he resists the urge to tell her that her ninety degree arabesque is closer to eighty. She looks so anxious that he might still be angry with her: she’s almost curled in on herself like she’s expecting a blow. He has mostly forgiven her by now - at least, he's over the hurt and has realized that the anger is pointless. The guilt evident in her face and posture softens the last of his resentment. He takes her into his arms, and he doesn’t know why he smiles over the top of her head - perhaps because she’s obviously entirely his and so desperate for his forgiveness; perhaps because he’s close to being able to give up the entire charade and go back to Carmel. But none of this is at the forefront of his mind. All that he’s thinking, with her head tucked under his chin, is that their heights are perfectly matched to embrace: like puzzle pieces slotting together.
The next day after school, he drives them to her house to sift through the extensive records she mentioned. As soon as they walk in she offers him food or drink, a reflexive courtesy she hasn’t given since they first started dating. These days when he wants something from her fridge he goes and gets it.
“It’s okay, you know,” he says, touching her arm. “I’ve forgiven you. You don’t need to be so nervous.”
“I haven’t forgiven myself,” she says, looking down at her feet. “It took me a while to understand, but… I feel awful, Jesse.”
He takes her hand and leads her up the stairs to her bedroom. They still have almost two hours till her dads get home, and his intention is to talk, to reassure her that it’s in the past. It doesn’t matter. (And it doesn’t: after today, it will be her forgiveness he will have to ask.) She kisses him, instead, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and leaning up to him, as wanton as any corseted heroine in a romance novel. He can’t fight it - he might not be as broad as Fabio, but he has much better hair. He settles a hand in the small of her back and runs the other through her hair, and she sighs into his mouth, arching into him. She still lets him take the lead, surrendering to his expertise as she always does - she’d been a very enthusiastic participant in his lessons in good kissing - but he relishes it when she sometimes gathers the courage to take charge. When she tentatively slips her tongue into his mouth, he strokes a hand down her spine and makes a soft noise of approval. He’s come to realize she needs to be praised to know she’s doing something right.
Suddenly her mouth is gone, and it takes him a moment to realize she’d been on the tips of her toes the whole time. He’d been distracted, he supposes: usually he leans down to make it easier for her. He starts to bend, but she puts her hands on his chest to keep him where he is, and before he can ask why, she’s kissing his throat - lightly at first, innocent presses of her lips, and then suddenly she bites down on the junction of his neck and shoulder, her tongue pressing against his skin at the same time, and he moans. It isn’t manufactured to tell her she’s doing well. It feels like she’s pulling it out of him. She start sucking, her fingers trailing patterns on the back of his neck so lightly they raise goosebumps. Her other hand is sliding through his hair, and the pressure on his scalp perfectly balances her butterfly touches on his neck, and oh god, Rachel Berry is giving him a hickey.
“Rachel,” he breathes, his hands settling uselessly on her hips, and he feels her smiling against his skin. “Are you sure you…”Are you sure you want to do this, is what he’s going to ask, but she twists her body to press her hip between his legs, and he trails off into a wordless groan.
“Shall we take this to the bed?” Rachel asks, her voice high and trembling, belying the confidence of her body. He doesn’t know whether it’s from arousal or anxiety, and that’s what makes him step back and take a ragged breath, trying to calm his body.
“This shouldn’t be an apology,” he says. “I don’t want you to do this because you’re worried I’m going to break up with you.”
“That’s not why,” she answers, and then, without warning, she pulls off her sweater. She’s not wearing a bra. Oh, sweet Salonga, how can he be expected to resist? She climbs onto the bed. “Jesse. Come here.” She reaches out to him and he takes her hand, letting her pull him forward to stand by the bed.
“If that’s not it, then…”
“I just - I want you to know that… You said before you left that you thought you weren’t enough for me. And I want you to know you are. You’re more than enough. You’re more than I could ask for. You actually listen to all my talk about theatre and music and you have opinions of your own, and you’re incredibly talented, and you’re romantic and thoughtful and…” He stops the stream of compliments with a kiss, unable to bear hearing his virtues extolled in such a false context. She pulls at him until he joins her on the bed, sliding a hand up her leg and pushing her skirt up to her hip to test his boundaries.
“I’m ready,” she says, when he breaks the kiss to look at her face. But it’s the way her voice is still wavering and the unsteadiness of her hands that make him uncertain.
“Not for this,” he says, and she frowns, opening her mouth to protest. “But there are always other things to be done.”
She swallows, her frustration gone. “Like what?”
“You could let me taste you,” he says in a low voice, and her eyes widen. He’s sure even Rachel couldn’t misunderstand his meaning, though. He gently pushes her down onto her back.
“But that’s not fair to you-”
“I never offer anything I don’t want to give,” he says, slowly hooking his fingers into the elastic of her plain white panties, giving her time to argue.
“You’re sure?” she presses, her voice no more than a whisper now. He pulls her panties down in response.
Instinctively, she suddenly presses her thighs together as if embarrassed; he runs a hand between them, gently coaxing her to relax, dropping a kiss on the side of her knee. She lets him pull her panties all the way off and he tosses them onto the floor somewhere behind them.
“Jesse,” she says, and he doesn’t know what’s in her voice this time, but she isn’t pushing him away. She isn’t even pressing her knees together anymore. He pushes her legs further apart and feels her muscles tensing under his hands, but she lies still, her hands clenches into fists on the bedspread. Terrified. Excited. Wanting. He parts her lips with his thumbs and before she can ask him again if he’s really very sure, he licks into her.
Rachel keens, sinking her fingers into his hair as if to keep him there, but teasing is the best bit. He pulls back and kisses the soft skin of her inner thigh, bites it, kisses her hip, until finally she huffs, “Jesse, please,” and he flicks his tongue over her clit again. She cries out, just, “Oh,” in the kind of tone that impresses upon him once again just how virginal she is, because every sensation is a new and wondrous discovery. He finally presses his tongue firmly against her, kissing her, and she makes more incoherent noises, her thighs tightening under his hands and her head tossing about on the pillow. But it’s not until he begins to hum Maria that she can’t hold back any longer, and she comes, making these high-pitched, breathy noises that he finds sweet and strangely sexy.
She’s still shaking, and he keeps flicking his tongue across her clit just to prolong the sensation; she whimpers, her hands tangled in a firm grip on his hair and she can’t seem to decide whether it’s too much or not enough. He could make her come again, if he wanted, but he’s not sure she could take it right now. “Jesse,” she whispers, “Jesse, Jesse, Jesse-” The rest of it had been about her, but this, he can’t help but enjoy. She’s almost chanting his name, like a mantra, like an ecstatic fan at a concert, reverent. It is the prelude to a symphony that one day will be all his.
As long as he betrays her.
A half hour later, when he slips the tape into her box of memorabilia, it’s the beginning of the end. When she refuses to play it, he puts up only token resistance. He can’t bear to push her any further: the longer she puts off listening to it, the more time he has.
But sitting in the car with Miss Corcoran as she pours her heart out, Jesse begins to understand that it doesn’t matter what he wants Rachel to do. It doesn’t even matter what she wants to do. Miss Corcoran holds all the cards in his life, and she’s well aware. She’s too tactful to make the threat, but she knows he understands. She will manipulate him and Rachel and anyone else as much as she has to in order to achieve her goal - she can’t just wait three more years. She can’t let Rachel come to her. She has to have her way.
This is the day he realizes that Miss Corcoran is not deserving of the pedestal he has placed her on. It’s becoming clear that she doesn’t care about her students or her daughter nearly as much as herself. The feel of this realization is familiar: he recalls it from the day his parents were in London during his seventh birthday, also missing his ballet recital, and sent him a card and a hundred dollars. Every child has that moment in which they realize their parents aren’t perfect; it should have taught him to stop building pedestals for anyone other than himself. Jesse had forgotten the weight of the inevitable disappointment.
“I’m not ready,” she insists, her voice a little shaky, and for a split second he feels a rush of anger for her refusal to take this risk. She doesn’t yet know that he’s sending her into the arms of a selfish mother, into a relationship which will always be about past regrets and never about moving on. (It’s good, he thinks, that Miss Corcoran didn’t raise Rachel - any child she has will be a vessel for her lost opportunities.)
“Yes, you are,” he tells her firmly, clasping her hands and trying to push his calm certainty into her. He kisses her - a goodbye kiss, his very last one, and if his lips linger, he can blame it on the imploring way she leans into him. Without music swelling behind her, Rachel has no courage. So he presses play, and walks out of her house and out of her life.
Pairing: Jesse/Rachel
Rating: NC-17 (this chapter)
Word count: 3,316
Summary: This is the story of how Rachel manages to turn Jesse from the Phantom of the Opera into Raoul, and completely without intention. Jesse is dumbfounded.
From Sectionals to Journey (and beyond): this is Glee, from Jesse's point of view.
part one
Once upon a time I was falling in love, now I’m only falling apart
Vanilla Ice? Really? Jesse has to fight the disgust off his face at Mr. Schuester’s little performance (like a greying dad trying to prove to his kids that he’s totally hip). But the rest of the club, including Rachel, is clearly starting to enjoy this, so he lets himself get yanked out of his seat. And after a few seconds of studying the others, he jumps into the dance, determined to do no less than his best, even if it is bad nineties rap - and about a drive-by shooting, no less: how was this school-appropriate?
(And yet somewhere in the middle of the incessant Ice, ice, babys, Jesse realizes he’s smiling. This is the danger of New Directions and McKinley’s Degrassi attitude.)
When Rachel announces her song choice for their ‘bad reputation’ assignment, Jesse doesn’t tell her that he has doubts about its redemption - even with their combined talents. He helps her, like a good boyfriend should. He doesn’t even protest when Rachel allows the persistent Sandy Ryerson to play the father. He’s embarrassed by the whole thing, and doesn’t particularly want to watch it with the entire glee club. But he doesn’t say so, because it would crush her.
He regrets being so considerate the next day.
Jesse knows that for the sake of his cover, he shouldn’t react too strongly to the monstrosity playing larger than life on the projector screen. He shifts in his seat further away from Rachel, because withdrawing his arm from around her wasn’t enough. He doesn’t want to be in this room right now, having been made such a fool of for all of these plebeians to see. Rachel can be so thoughtless sometimes, and perhaps that is the worst part: she didn’t do this despite his inevitable humiliation, she wasn’t choosing her success over him - that at least, he could have respected. He’s quite sure that she hadn’t even thought he might be hurt by this. Perhaps she thought he’d only be upset at not being the sole star - and he is, of course, but something supersedes this indignation.
When the lights come back on, Jesse tries to get himself under control. What he should do is act appropriately wounded, and then the next day apologize for overreacting and tell her he understood completely.
He can’t bring himself to underplay this. He’s embarrassed and insulted, and it’s like she’s punched him in the stomach. He feels winded and shaky, and he can’t filter the words coming out of his mouth.
Fuck her. Fuck her, who does she think she is, triple-casting him? As if he couldn’t have carried the video on his charisma alone - all Puck had brought to it were his muscles, and Jesse wouldn’t even get started on Finn, who’d been so sharp - as if it wasn’t his right, as her boyfriend, to do so or at least to be consulted. As if she hadn’t sung enough songs with Finn in her lifetime.
Amidst his mental chorus of fuck her, I hate her, how could she do this, he almost forgets that this isn’t a real relationship. He almost forgets that if he breaks up with her, it won’t affect him - he’s not her boyfriend, not really - it will only affect his standing in Vocal Adrenaline. It will jeopardize a real relationship with his choral director, one that will get him glowing letters of recommendation and another National title. Something he can’t afford to risk.
What is Rachel Berry to his career? Nothing. She will make her own way or she won’t, but if there’s one thing Jesse’s learned in his life on the stage, it’s that your partner isn’t to be trusted, because in the end, a duet’s all about one thing: making yourself look good.
Rachel has only reminded him.
I can’t be holding on to what you got, when all you got is hurt
If Jesse were even a little less dedicated, he would skip ballet the next day. He doesn’t want to accidentally catch her gaze in the mirror, or worse, end up paired with her at any point. But he goes, because the last time he missed a class he had a broken leg - and even then, he sat on the side and watched to make sure he missed nothing.
She respects his wish for silence for the entire class, and then just as he’s breathing a sigh of relief as they're filing out the door, she grabs his arm. He tenses reflexively, but she doesn’t let go. He looks down at her coldly.
“Jesse,” she says in a small voice, and he doesn’t respond. She swallows. “Are you… are we over?”
He clenches his jaw, looking away from her again. “No,” he says, but he tears his arm out of her grip and flees before she can say another word. She was right, he reasons: she didn't stop to consider the consequences of her actions because they didn't matter. The ends justified the means.
That afternoon Anna calls him to say they have an extra ticket to San Diego, and he’s smart enough to recognize it as the olive branch it is. This is his opportunity to prove to them that he hasn’t burned any bridges, that he will be back. That he’s still loyal to them.
The girls seem to be always in their swimsuits, golden with their tans, toned and even thinner than he last saw them, thanks to a diet of smelt and raw vegetables. When they glance over for approval, Jesse checks them out like he’s supposed to, but it’s not the same. They’re not searching for his interest anymore, and he’s not really looking at them.
The second day, while the others play volleyball further down the beach, Jesse sits on the sand, leaning against a log and only half paying attention to the chemistry textbook he’s reading. It wasn’t a very good idea to miss a whole week of his senior year - for Carmel, it’s spring break, but not for McKinley. So he’s trying to keep up with the work he’s missing.
When a shadow falls over the pages of his book, he doesn’t look up to see who’s blocking his sun. “Do you mind?” he says instead, lazily. His calm has always kept them in line before: he will go on as if nothing is wrong. As if they aren’t subtly squirming out from under his thumb with every passing day.
“What are you going to do about it, St. James?”
Jesse looks up, then, knowing that voice. Andrea looms over him, hands on her hips, little more than a silhouette with the sun at her back.
“Don’t play dumb,” she says. “Don’t tell me you’re just going to let it happen.”
He looks back down at his textbook. “What do you suggest?”
“Stake your claim. Tell them what to do tonight, or steal somebody’s girlfriend, or something. Show them you're in control.”
But I’m not, he almost says. I’m not in control of anything anymore.
“Are you really going to make me look for a new male lead this late in the season?” she demands.
So that night at the hotel he rents the ballroom till ten and makes them run through some of their old numbers. They are reluctant: for most of them, performing isn’t the pleasure it used to be, not after Miss Corcoran and Dakota Stanley - but after a few glances at Andrea that he pretends not to see, they obey. Even though they’re short several members - freshmen and sophomores weren’t invited - and are forced to do it all a cappella, there is little to criticize. Jesse does so anyway.
For the first time, despite their flawless technique and expertly blended harmonies, Jesse sees what Rachel meant when she said they were robotic. This isn't usually a problem when it comes to competition: it is an asset. But Jesse can see that they don’t love what they’re doing, and all he can hope is that the judges at Nationals will not.
For the first time, he finds himself sort of missing the enthusiasm of New Directions, unpolished as they are. He had forgotten how cold a performance could be without passion.
But there are dreams that cannot be, and there are storms we cannot weather
Jesse stands in the doorway of the studio for a long time, watching her perform a routine that is vaguely familiar somehow, though he can’t place it. When she finally notices him, he resists the urge to tell her that her ninety degree arabesque is closer to eighty. She looks so anxious that he might still be angry with her: she’s almost curled in on herself like she’s expecting a blow. He has mostly forgiven her by now - at least, he's over the hurt and has realized that the anger is pointless. The guilt evident in her face and posture softens the last of his resentment. He takes her into his arms, and he doesn’t know why he smiles over the top of her head - perhaps because she’s obviously entirely his and so desperate for his forgiveness; perhaps because he’s close to being able to give up the entire charade and go back to Carmel. But none of this is at the forefront of his mind. All that he’s thinking, with her head tucked under his chin, is that their heights are perfectly matched to embrace: like puzzle pieces slotting together.
The next day after school, he drives them to her house to sift through the extensive records she mentioned. As soon as they walk in she offers him food or drink, a reflexive courtesy she hasn’t given since they first started dating. These days when he wants something from her fridge he goes and gets it.
“It’s okay, you know,” he says, touching her arm. “I’ve forgiven you. You don’t need to be so nervous.”
“I haven’t forgiven myself,” she says, looking down at her feet. “It took me a while to understand, but… I feel awful, Jesse.”
He takes her hand and leads her up the stairs to her bedroom. They still have almost two hours till her dads get home, and his intention is to talk, to reassure her that it’s in the past. It doesn’t matter. (And it doesn’t: after today, it will be her forgiveness he will have to ask.) She kisses him, instead, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and leaning up to him, as wanton as any corseted heroine in a romance novel. He can’t fight it - he might not be as broad as Fabio, but he has much better hair. He settles a hand in the small of her back and runs the other through her hair, and she sighs into his mouth, arching into him. She still lets him take the lead, surrendering to his expertise as she always does - she’d been a very enthusiastic participant in his lessons in good kissing - but he relishes it when she sometimes gathers the courage to take charge. When she tentatively slips her tongue into his mouth, he strokes a hand down her spine and makes a soft noise of approval. He’s come to realize she needs to be praised to know she’s doing something right.
Suddenly her mouth is gone, and it takes him a moment to realize she’d been on the tips of her toes the whole time. He’d been distracted, he supposes: usually he leans down to make it easier for her. He starts to bend, but she puts her hands on his chest to keep him where he is, and before he can ask why, she’s kissing his throat - lightly at first, innocent presses of her lips, and then suddenly she bites down on the junction of his neck and shoulder, her tongue pressing against his skin at the same time, and he moans. It isn’t manufactured to tell her she’s doing well. It feels like she’s pulling it out of him. She start sucking, her fingers trailing patterns on the back of his neck so lightly they raise goosebumps. Her other hand is sliding through his hair, and the pressure on his scalp perfectly balances her butterfly touches on his neck, and oh god, Rachel Berry is giving him a hickey.
“Rachel,” he breathes, his hands settling uselessly on her hips, and he feels her smiling against his skin. “Are you sure you…”Are you sure you want to do this, is what he’s going to ask, but she twists her body to press her hip between his legs, and he trails off into a wordless groan.
“Shall we take this to the bed?” Rachel asks, her voice high and trembling, belying the confidence of her body. He doesn’t know whether it’s from arousal or anxiety, and that’s what makes him step back and take a ragged breath, trying to calm his body.
“This shouldn’t be an apology,” he says. “I don’t want you to do this because you’re worried I’m going to break up with you.”
“That’s not why,” she answers, and then, without warning, she pulls off her sweater. She’s not wearing a bra. Oh, sweet Salonga, how can he be expected to resist? She climbs onto the bed. “Jesse. Come here.” She reaches out to him and he takes her hand, letting her pull him forward to stand by the bed.
“If that’s not it, then…”
“I just - I want you to know that… You said before you left that you thought you weren’t enough for me. And I want you to know you are. You’re more than enough. You’re more than I could ask for. You actually listen to all my talk about theatre and music and you have opinions of your own, and you’re incredibly talented, and you’re romantic and thoughtful and…” He stops the stream of compliments with a kiss, unable to bear hearing his virtues extolled in such a false context. She pulls at him until he joins her on the bed, sliding a hand up her leg and pushing her skirt up to her hip to test his boundaries.
“I’m ready,” she says, when he breaks the kiss to look at her face. But it’s the way her voice is still wavering and the unsteadiness of her hands that make him uncertain.
“Not for this,” he says, and she frowns, opening her mouth to protest. “But there are always other things to be done.”
She swallows, her frustration gone. “Like what?”
“You could let me taste you,” he says in a low voice, and her eyes widen. He’s sure even Rachel couldn’t misunderstand his meaning, though. He gently pushes her down onto her back.
“But that’s not fair to you-”
“I never offer anything I don’t want to give,” he says, slowly hooking his fingers into the elastic of her plain white panties, giving her time to argue.
“You’re sure?” she presses, her voice no more than a whisper now. He pulls her panties down in response.
Instinctively, she suddenly presses her thighs together as if embarrassed; he runs a hand between them, gently coaxing her to relax, dropping a kiss on the side of her knee. She lets him pull her panties all the way off and he tosses them onto the floor somewhere behind them.
“Jesse,” she says, and he doesn’t know what’s in her voice this time, but she isn’t pushing him away. She isn’t even pressing her knees together anymore. He pushes her legs further apart and feels her muscles tensing under his hands, but she lies still, her hands clenches into fists on the bedspread. Terrified. Excited. Wanting. He parts her lips with his thumbs and before she can ask him again if he’s really very sure, he licks into her.
Rachel keens, sinking her fingers into his hair as if to keep him there, but teasing is the best bit. He pulls back and kisses the soft skin of her inner thigh, bites it, kisses her hip, until finally she huffs, “Jesse, please,” and he flicks his tongue over her clit again. She cries out, just, “Oh,” in the kind of tone that impresses upon him once again just how virginal she is, because every sensation is a new and wondrous discovery. He finally presses his tongue firmly against her, kissing her, and she makes more incoherent noises, her thighs tightening under his hands and her head tossing about on the pillow. But it’s not until he begins to hum Maria that she can’t hold back any longer, and she comes, making these high-pitched, breathy noises that he finds sweet and strangely sexy.
She’s still shaking, and he keeps flicking his tongue across her clit just to prolong the sensation; she whimpers, her hands tangled in a firm grip on his hair and she can’t seem to decide whether it’s too much or not enough. He could make her come again, if he wanted, but he’s not sure she could take it right now. “Jesse,” she whispers, “Jesse, Jesse, Jesse-” The rest of it had been about her, but this, he can’t help but enjoy. She’s almost chanting his name, like a mantra, like an ecstatic fan at a concert, reverent. It is the prelude to a symphony that one day will be all his.
As long as he betrays her.
A half hour later, when he slips the tape into her box of memorabilia, it’s the beginning of the end. When she refuses to play it, he puts up only token resistance. He can’t bear to push her any further: the longer she puts off listening to it, the more time he has.
But sitting in the car with Miss Corcoran as she pours her heart out, Jesse begins to understand that it doesn’t matter what he wants Rachel to do. It doesn’t even matter what she wants to do. Miss Corcoran holds all the cards in his life, and she’s well aware. She’s too tactful to make the threat, but she knows he understands. She will manipulate him and Rachel and anyone else as much as she has to in order to achieve her goal - she can’t just wait three more years. She can’t let Rachel come to her. She has to have her way.
This is the day he realizes that Miss Corcoran is not deserving of the pedestal he has placed her on. It’s becoming clear that she doesn’t care about her students or her daughter nearly as much as herself. The feel of this realization is familiar: he recalls it from the day his parents were in London during his seventh birthday, also missing his ballet recital, and sent him a card and a hundred dollars. Every child has that moment in which they realize their parents aren’t perfect; it should have taught him to stop building pedestals for anyone other than himself. Jesse had forgotten the weight of the inevitable disappointment.
“I’m not ready,” she insists, her voice a little shaky, and for a split second he feels a rush of anger for her refusal to take this risk. She doesn’t yet know that he’s sending her into the arms of a selfish mother, into a relationship which will always be about past regrets and never about moving on. (It’s good, he thinks, that Miss Corcoran didn’t raise Rachel - any child she has will be a vessel for her lost opportunities.)
“Yes, you are,” he tells her firmly, clasping her hands and trying to push his calm certainty into her. He kisses her - a goodbye kiss, his very last one, and if his lips linger, he can blame it on the imploring way she leans into him. Without music swelling behind her, Rachel has no courage. So he presses play, and walks out of her house and out of her life.