Setting Rain on Fire 2/?
Chapter Two: Echoing Silence
“No one dared disturb the sound of silence.”
The Sound of Silence, Simon and Garfunkel
Rachel Berry is so stupid.
It’s the only thought my pounding head manages to hold on to as Brittany and I sit in the darkened bar belonging to some friend of Puck - some guy named Mark or Harry - drinking out hearts out with all the alcoholic beverages we could get our unsteady hands on.
It’s a few hours after the funeral. In retrospect, I have no idea how I managed to survive the painful monotony of it all: the people coming up to me wearing those sad looks in their faces, their voices dripping with sympathy as they gave their condolences. “It will be alright.” How do you know? Have you ever lost a child? “You must be in so much pain.” Go figure. I just lost my son, idiot. “I can’t even begin to fathom how much agony you must be in.” No shit, Sherlock. “I’m so sorry.” What for? Did you kill my son?
I would take their words with a quiet face and acknowledge their presence with a slight nod. They would in turn grasp my arm, or shoulder. It was Brittany who would say, “Thank you,” over and over. It was Brittany they would wrap their arms around, before moving off to make small talk with strangers they would never meet again.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew that after the service, these people would leave in their cars and drive back into their lives, until the memory of my wife and I - along with ‘our pain’ - would be nothing but a speck of dust on their rearview mirrors.
Funerals are such lonely things.
There was only one point in the event when I opened my mouth: when Berry had unwittingly declared, “Well, everything happens for a reason.”
Quinn had shot her a glare that would have silenced Zeus. Puck had gnashed his teeth at her like a mad dog, and Brittany had burst into another shower of relentless tears, and I had responded with a cool, “Shut up, you bitch. Don’t you even dare try to justify this.”
Shaking my head to remove the memory of Rachel’s stunned face, I take the glass in front of me and swallow its contents in one gulp. My throat burns at the contact, but my tongue can no longer distinguish one taste from another. Somewhere along my fifteenth drink I swallowed my sense of taste, and now it resides somewhere in the pit of my liver.
In a small corner of my mind where I’m still sober and lucid, I tell myself off for drinking so much. I was dimly aware that this would all lead up to a killer hang-over that would hurt like hell in the morning. But I don’t care. Physical pain would be a great distraction from the emotional torment.
Beside me, I feel more than I see Brittany down another drink. For a moment I feel worried. Brittany has never drank this much alcohol in her life. She didn’t even go through her normal stripper-drunk reaction, wrapping herself instead in a web of silence that no one could seem to unravel.
In front of us, behind the bar, Quinn and Puck sit patiently. For the past half hour Quinn had tried to convince us to stop drinking, but her pleas had fallen flat on deaf ears. Puck, on the other hand, had resolved to remain silent, choosing to express his disapproval by reducing the amount of alcohol he would serve in our glasses.
Around an hour ago, Kurt, Blaine, Mike and Tina were drinking along with us, trying to decrease the strain that was palpable in the air. They talked about all the things they’d managed to do - and not do - since we graduated high school, almost a decade ago. But nothing they said would record in my mind, and Brittany refused to participate in any form of conversation, so they eventually gave up and left. As I expected them to.
Back in the present, Quinn moves forward and takes my hand gently in hers.
“Guys,” she says slowly, “we’ve got to go.”
“’Kay,” I slur. “G’bye.”
“No,” Puck speaks up for the first time that night. “You’ve got to come with us.”
I shake my hand as I reach for another shot. But my reflexes have been inhibited, and Puck makes it to the glass before I do.
“You’ve had enough.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Brittany cuts in.
“S.”
I turn to Brittany, trying to clear my head and focus. From the corner of my eye, I see Puck and Quinn exchange an alarmed glance. Brittany hasn’t said a word since we left the graveyard.
“Ya?” I manage, trying to sound coherent.
“’M drunk.” Her voice is dangerously low, her eyes are downcast.
“I know, babe.” I whisper, reaching out to lightly graze her cheeks.
She shakes her head sluggishly.
“S’not enough.”
I frown in confusion, before replying, “Huh?”
“’M not drunk enough.” Pause. “I can still remember.”
* * *
I love my friends, but sometimes I wish they could just go away.
I know they’re just trying to help. Puck had practically done every method in the book - negotiating, arguing, threatening, begging - just to get his friend (Cory? Or maybe it was Kevin) to lend him this place for the night. Quinn had left her precious daughters to the care of her mother, a woman for whom she didn’t have the slightest sliver of trust, a woman who still disapproved of her daughter’s marriage to that-mohawked-Jewish-boy. Kurt had cancelled his meetings with some of LA’s most prominent gay support groups, while Blaine had postponed a promotional event for his latest tour. Mike had skipped a negotiation for a huge choreography gig. Tina was supposed to have a screening for a TV series.
They’re making sacrifices to try to make things better. But they don’t understand one crucial thing: they can’t make things better. They could all jump from a cloud and paint rainbows in the sky and that still wouldn’t distract me from how
this all feels, not in the slightest.
Even the alcohol fails to make things better. I came here in the hopes that I would puke out all the emotions bottled up inside me and replace them with alcohol, but even now as I’m more wasted than I’ve ever been in my entire life, I know it isn’t working.
And I can tell it isn’t working for Santana either.
So when Quinn continues to insist that it’s time to go, I feel a wave of panic crash through me. Neither Santana nor I are even faintly prepared to go home in this state. Going home to a house filled with memories would only serve to aggravate all the feelings I’ve been trying so hard to suppress.
“Stay with us.” Puck says in a firm voice. “At least for tonight. Neither of you are fit to drive anyway.” Santana looks at me, her eyebrow raised in a silent question. After a moment of hesitation, I nod imperceptibly.
“A’right.” I lay my hands on the flat surface of the bar as I try to raise myself into my shaking legs. I stumble slightly, but Santana’s hand catches me and steadies me. Her hand is warm on my arm, but she lets go of me almost immediately, and I feel bitter disappointment coursing through my veins.
It’s only much later, as I stare at the unfamiliar sight of her back turned to me in the unlit guest bedroom in the Puckerman household, that I wonder if she’s trying to avoid touching me.
“No one dared disturb the sound of silence.”
The Sound of Silence, Simon and Garfunkel
Rachel Berry is so stupid.
It’s the only thought my pounding head manages to hold on to as Brittany and I sit in the darkened bar belonging to some friend of Puck - some guy named Mark or Harry - drinking out hearts out with all the alcoholic beverages we could get our unsteady hands on.
It’s a few hours after the funeral. In retrospect, I have no idea how I managed to survive the painful monotony of it all: the people coming up to me wearing those sad looks in their faces, their voices dripping with sympathy as they gave their condolences. “It will be alright.” How do you know? Have you ever lost a child? “You must be in so much pain.” Go figure. I just lost my son, idiot. “I can’t even begin to fathom how much agony you must be in.” No shit, Sherlock. “I’m so sorry.” What for? Did you kill my son?
I would take their words with a quiet face and acknowledge their presence with a slight nod. They would in turn grasp my arm, or shoulder. It was Brittany who would say, “Thank you,” over and over. It was Brittany they would wrap their arms around, before moving off to make small talk with strangers they would never meet again.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew that after the service, these people would leave in their cars and drive back into their lives, until the memory of my wife and I - along with ‘our pain’ - would be nothing but a speck of dust on their rearview mirrors.
Funerals are such lonely things.
There was only one point in the event when I opened my mouth: when Berry had unwittingly declared, “Well, everything happens for a reason.”
Quinn had shot her a glare that would have silenced Zeus. Puck had gnashed his teeth at her like a mad dog, and Brittany had burst into another shower of relentless tears, and I had responded with a cool, “Shut up, you bitch. Don’t you even dare try to justify this.”
Shaking my head to remove the memory of Rachel’s stunned face, I take the glass in front of me and swallow its contents in one gulp. My throat burns at the contact, but my tongue can no longer distinguish one taste from another. Somewhere along my fifteenth drink I swallowed my sense of taste, and now it resides somewhere in the pit of my liver.
In a small corner of my mind where I’m still sober and lucid, I tell myself off for drinking so much. I was dimly aware that this would all lead up to a killer hang-over that would hurt like hell in the morning. But I don’t care. Physical pain would be a great distraction from the emotional torment.
Beside me, I feel more than I see Brittany down another drink. For a moment I feel worried. Brittany has never drank this much alcohol in her life. She didn’t even go through her normal stripper-drunk reaction, wrapping herself instead in a web of silence that no one could seem to unravel.
In front of us, behind the bar, Quinn and Puck sit patiently. For the past half hour Quinn had tried to convince us to stop drinking, but her pleas had fallen flat on deaf ears. Puck, on the other hand, had resolved to remain silent, choosing to express his disapproval by reducing the amount of alcohol he would serve in our glasses.
Around an hour ago, Kurt, Blaine, Mike and Tina were drinking along with us, trying to decrease the strain that was palpable in the air. They talked about all the things they’d managed to do - and not do - since we graduated high school, almost a decade ago. But nothing they said would record in my mind, and Brittany refused to participate in any form of conversation, so they eventually gave up and left. As I expected them to.
Back in the present, Quinn moves forward and takes my hand gently in hers.
“Guys,” she says slowly, “we’ve got to go.”
“’Kay,” I slur. “G’bye.”
“No,” Puck speaks up for the first time that night. “You’ve got to come with us.”
I shake my hand as I reach for another shot. But my reflexes have been inhibited, and Puck makes it to the glass before I do.
“You’ve had enough.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Brittany cuts in.
“S.”
I turn to Brittany, trying to clear my head and focus. From the corner of my eye, I see Puck and Quinn exchange an alarmed glance. Brittany hasn’t said a word since we left the graveyard.
“Ya?” I manage, trying to sound coherent.
“’M drunk.” Her voice is dangerously low, her eyes are downcast.
“I know, babe.” I whisper, reaching out to lightly graze her cheeks.
She shakes her head sluggishly.
“S’not enough.”
I frown in confusion, before replying, “Huh?”
“’M not drunk enough.” Pause. “I can still remember.”
* * *
I love my friends, but sometimes I wish they could just go away.
I know they’re just trying to help. Puck had practically done every method in the book - negotiating, arguing, threatening, begging - just to get his friend (Cory? Or maybe it was Kevin) to lend him this place for the night. Quinn had left her precious daughters to the care of her mother, a woman for whom she didn’t have the slightest sliver of trust, a woman who still disapproved of her daughter’s marriage to that-mohawked-Jewish-boy. Kurt had cancelled his meetings with some of LA’s most prominent gay support groups, while Blaine had postponed a promotional event for his latest tour. Mike had skipped a negotiation for a huge choreography gig. Tina was supposed to have a screening for a TV series.
They’re making sacrifices to try to make things better. But they don’t understand one crucial thing: they can’t make things better. They could all jump from a cloud and paint rainbows in the sky and that still wouldn’t distract me from how
this all feels, not in the slightest.
Even the alcohol fails to make things better. I came here in the hopes that I would puke out all the emotions bottled up inside me and replace them with alcohol, but even now as I’m more wasted than I’ve ever been in my entire life, I know it isn’t working.
And I can tell it isn’t working for Santana either.
So when Quinn continues to insist that it’s time to go, I feel a wave of panic crash through me. Neither Santana nor I are even faintly prepared to go home in this state. Going home to a house filled with memories would only serve to aggravate all the feelings I’ve been trying so hard to suppress.
“Stay with us.” Puck says in a firm voice. “At least for tonight. Neither of you are fit to drive anyway.” Santana looks at me, her eyebrow raised in a silent question. After a moment of hesitation, I nod imperceptibly.
“A’right.” I lay my hands on the flat surface of the bar as I try to raise myself into my shaking legs. I stumble slightly, but Santana’s hand catches me and steadies me. Her hand is warm on my arm, but she lets go of me almost immediately, and I feel bitter disappointment coursing through my veins.
It’s only much later, as I stare at the unfamiliar sight of her back turned to me in the unlit guest bedroom in the Puckerman household, that I wonder if she’s trying to avoid touching me.