Chapter Text
NEW HAVEN (State Street) to NEW YORK CITY (Penn Station) 3:05 PM - 5:11 PM
Regrettably, Rachel Berry would have to miss Quinn’s first time coming into the train station, something she would not have abided by were it not for the most important business of all: show business. As it stood, she scrambled for her cell phone, careful not to rip out the tiny adjustments in her costume, and called Kurt.
“What? ” he snapped from the other end.
“You need to go meet Quinn at the train station.”
“Why? You know she’s been there before. And despite my gripes in high school, she does have two brain cells to rub together.”
“It’s her first time coming to see me,” insisted Rachel. The distinction—Quinn’s coming to see me—burned in the center of her chest, an odd, fierce pleasure. Probably because it was a step in the direction of her real destiny: to be the person everyone came to New York for. “It’s only polite, Kurt.”
“Be polite yourself,” he grumbled. But Rachel could hear him putting on his shoes and whispering something to Blaine. “You didn’t have to go in five hours before your call time, you know.”
This coming from the man who’d once slept outside the auditorium the night before the opening of the spring musical. If Rachel recalled correctly—and who was anyone kidding?--they’d finally convinced the faculty to put on Wicked, until Sue got wind of the flying monkeys and decided that it threatened the secrecy of that year’s nationals routine.
The school never got the insurance back on those fog machines.
“Okay, but that was Wicked,” Kurt said, and Rachel cursed internally. Her Daddy had always warned her about her bad habit of saying the quiet part out loud, and apparently that hadn’t changed at freshly twenty years of age. “This is not Wicked. This is, um...”
“A starring role in an original play by an up-and-coming playwright?” Rachel offered.
“It’s shit, Rachel,” Kurt said bluntly.
Rachel flinched, and Kurt sighed, softening. He’d gotten better at accepting they were small fish in a very large pond now, had even started looking for part-time jobs around their apartment. But his uncompromising sense of taste proved hard to shake.
And the worst part? Rachel’s own uncompromising sense of taste, put in a box somewhere between Glee nationals and Ms. July’s relentless critiques of her form, agreed with Kurt.
In fact, a person with no taste at all would agree with Kurt. The play was absolute, utter shit.
“There are no small parts, Kurt,” she said, but she knew he could see right through her. “I just—”
Needed to prove that—
Wasn’t ready to—
What if this is—
“I know,” said Kurt. “Look, I’ll get your girl. You get ready to wring whatever gold you can out of that thing.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, and hung up.
Dylan’s Muse: A New Play for a New Century (2011), according to the programs their stage manager Gina had hurriedly Xeroxed off in the library on her lunch break, tells the story of a man named Dylan. A sculptor of rising prominence in New York City, he finds himself desperately lonely—until one day, two of his statues come to life. They both fall in love with him, and as he struggles to decide which one is most deserving of his heart, they begin to fight. The play ends when they’ve shattered each other, with Dylan dying, too, among the shards of his heart.
“Wow,” said Francesca, “it almost sounds good when you put it like that.”
Francesca played the other statue opposite Rachel, and Rachel honestly had no idea why. She had talent, yes, but even more than talent, she had about as much tolerance for bullshit as Santana Lopez. Maybe she’d done it as a favor to Gina.
“It is good—” Rachel attempted from her dressing station, and both Gina and Francesca shot her a look.
“Nope,” said Francesca. “Dylan’s not here. We can bitch all we want.”
Dylan was the playwright. And the male lead. Which explained a lot of things, maybe in the same way that Mr. Schue’s resurrection of the Glee club also explained a lot of things.
But if Rachel thought about those implications too much she would explode, and that would be a severe blow to her chances of an EGOT. So she didn’t.
“Who even is going to be here?” Francesca wondered aloud. “It’s running right in the middle of finals week. And it’s shit.”
“My grandma,” said Gina, “because I’m driving her to the doctor’s after.”
“Do you think Dylan’s bringing anybody?”
Gina shrugged.
“My friend Quinn’s coming,” Rachel said, and their eyes turned to her. “She’s taking the train from New Haven.”
Francesca smiled lazily. “Nothing better to do in good old Connecticut?”
“Oh, no,” Rachel replied, the old defensiveness rising within her, “she goes to Yale.”
Franscesca raised her eyebrows, and the light in her eyes felt more than politely interested. It felt dangerous, the way that Santana’s did whenever someone threatened her breadsticks, the way that Sue Sylvester’s had before she unveiled her plan to send the Cheerios on a week-long wilderness survival course in Africa. (Principal Figgins had vetoed, mostly for budgetary reasons.)
“A Yale kid is coming to our play?”
“Quinn is very supportive,” Rachel said. “She’s one of my best friends.”
There—the little swell of warmth that bloomed in her stomach whenever she got to say that. How long had she wanted it? Even now, parts of it still felt more dream than real: Quinn Fabray is one of my best friends.
“Some friend,” Franscesca murmured.
A slyness touched her voice that made Rachel bristle. Made her want to sit Francesca down and lecture her on everything it had taken just to get her and Quinn to this point. But then Dylan was arriving—late as always—and that haggard look had fallen permanently on Gina’s face, and the conversation evaporated in the face of an opening show.
The list of things that had gone wrong, in Rachel’s estimation:
- The sound packs had died mid-show. Gina had pointed out this problem in the dress rehearsal—Dylan had clearly bought twenty-dollar mics on Amazon—but no one had had the time or inclination to fix it. Nothing for it: Rachel would just have to drink lots and lots of lemon tea before tomorrow’s matinee.
- Dylan was still hazy on the blocking in Scene 3.
- Dylan had forgotten the blocking entirely in Scene 4.
- The tech was fifteen seconds slow on a light cue, forcing Francesca to vamp. Or possibly allowing her the opportunity.
- Dylan had forgotten most of his lines in Act 2.
- The curtains had made a concerning noise in the middle of Rachel’s dramatic monologue about always loving Dylan, making her wonder whether the high school they were performing in was OSHA-compliant or not—or whether buildings themselves could take offense to monologues.
- Francesca missed a cue in the same scene, likely from trying not to corpse at said monologue.
- Quinn was sitting too far back for Rachel to see her.
All in all, it could have gone worse.
“Yeah,” Francesca agreed. “Dylan could have died.”
Gina whacked her in the shoulder. “Don’t say that!” They shuddered: “So much paperwork.”
Francesca laughed brightly, but not half as bright as the feeling in Rachel’s stomach when a knock sounded quietly at the door.
Quinn had a soft smile and a bouquet of roses—for her, the feeling in Rachel’s stomach insisted on clarifying, just as Quinn had come for her. It was important to be clear. Although nothing, right now, seemed as important as Quinn, smoothly offering the bouquet to her.
“Congratulations to the star, I suppose,” Quinn murmured. Those lovely eyes, even lovelier with the twinkle of the dressing room lights caught in them.
“Was it really that bad?” Rachel winced. “Because I happen to think the Imelda-Christine conversation in Act 2 has merit, even if the delivery is awkward—”
“You were amazing, Rachel,” said Quinn. “You—” she cut herself off, and Rachel leaned forward almost pathetically to hear the end of the sentence. Her lips quirked. “Even if I have serious reservations about this adaptation of Pygmalion.”
“At least they weren’t pushing me to go topless.”
Quinn’s eyes widened, and she made a funny noise in her throat. Behind them, Francesca made a similar noise, though much less restrained.
Rachel heard the thud of an elbow in Francesca’s stomach, a hissed Be quiet, doofus.
“Just take the roses, Berry,” Quinn finally said. She seemed to have turned a concerning shade of red. Perhaps she’d gotten tired from traveling. Rachel made a mental reminder to email her information about self-care and the dangers of New York City heat exhaustion.
"Unless you don't want them?" Quinn asked, the question as soft as a bruise.
Rachel shook her head vehemently: "No! I want them!" Then, more calmly: "I want them, Quinn."
Rachel took the roses—a deep, dark red, the color of red carpets and dresses at the Tony awards—and breathed in. They indeed smelled like roses, but also like the leather of the train seats coming down from New Haven, and Quinn’s light perfume. It only enhanced the sensation, in Rachel’s opinion.
“Will you be coming to the matinee?” she asked.
Quinn smiled again and ran a hand through her hair. “I will,” she said. “I’ve got a three-day pass.”
“Of course, it’s efficient; you need to ride at least four times to break even on the expense of a three-day pass—”
“—I know how to handle money, Rachel,” said Quinn. She didn’t sound annoyed so much as fondly exasperated. “And yes, it’s efficient.”
“Efficiency is very important, Quinn.”
“And speaking of efficiency,” Quinn shook her head. The gold of her hair glinted, like the glittering crystals of Phantom’s chandelier before it fell to signify the beginning of Act One, and something in Rachel’s chest swooped dizzily. “I’ve got to catch my train. The Comparative Lit exam starts at eight tomorrow.”
She waved and left the dressing room, leaving Rachel clutching the bouquet of roses. The first bouquet of roses she had received post-performance in a real (if in areas objectionable) New York play. Sweet success! Ambition for more! That had to be the dizzy feeling in Rachel’s stomach, slowly fading back into yearning.
The tissue paper crinkled around the stems, as delicate as Rachel imagined Quinn’s hand would be, if she touched her.
Behind her, Francesca snickered, and Gina released a long-suffering sigh.