Chapter Text
What are you supposed to wear for your first theater night? Quinn wasn't even interested in this show; she only wanted to be a good friend to a puppy-eyed and begging Brittany S. Pierce, who claimed that going to a musical was her biggest dream ever, since the songs between dialogues "scratched her brain nicely."
Flipping through the newspaper she found tons of potential shows, but she preferred something familiar: Funny Girl. She'd heard of it before, but wasn't really understood the story or the hype around it, so when she saw the ticket prices detailed in the arts section, she almost told her friend to forget about her dream—but the thought of Santana Lopez tormenting her for breaking Brittany's heart was more powerful.
The white shirt, black skirt and the light-brown long coat made a beautiful ensemble with the waves at the ends of her blonde hair. She looked like she belonged, like she knew exactly what she was doing, or even like she had a role in the play. That was the whole point. Yeah, she didn't care about the musical, but she'd be damned if someone even thought poorly about her appearance or experience in a theater—even though they would be right.
Their seats were above everything—in the cheapest section, but with a surprisingly good view of the whole place. Quinn was looking at the theater's details when the orchestra started to play, few seconds later the red curtain opened. Brittany looked happy. She smiled, moving her head and feet to the sound of the music. For the first time in a while, she saw Brittany actually focused—on something that didn't involve Santana.
The first scene looked scattered. It wasn't capturing Quinn's attention at all, though the audience around her seemed eager from the first moment. The ages in the theater were diverse; from young adults like Quinn—more experienced in the matter than she was—to older people looking forward to revisiting a classic show. The point is, there was a common factor—everyone knew what they were coming for, except her.
Oh, she definitely didn't know. The protagonist was clearly charming, but just like anyone who's standing under theater spotlights. When "I'm The Greatest Star" started to play, she was still unaware of how her world was about to twist. Her voice, charisma and acting completely defeated her skepticism and didn't leave any other choice than to give her all of her attention.
She was unlike anyone she had ever seen. That performance made Quinn feel all the emotions her life didn't let her experience until that moment. She had never seen a woman shining so brightly on stage—although she hadn't seen many before.
The tiny bit that she could perceive of her face from the balcony was enough. She knew that she was perfect.
God, through the whole show Quinn felt like the role was made just for her, and she was glad that her first impression of the story was through the lens of this still mysterious Fanny Brice. She envied the people in the front row who were able to see that burning determination in her eyes and each detail in the way she moved across the stage, every step reflecting her self-confidence and strong character. Even when she had to share the scene with other people, she stole the spotlight. Was anyone even looking at that Nick Arnstein guy anyway?
A burst of trumpets kicked in and the audience started to cheer. "Don't tell me not to live, just sit and putter" the phrase that announced her death sentence. That red coat–red skirt ensemble gave her a whole new look. She wasn't just a charismatic girl; she was a lady. Her voice was already giving her chills, but the moment she opened her arms and hit that high note, Quinn felt like she could fall on her knees right there.
Brittany took her hand and squeezed it as the girl's voice grew stronger—and damn, Quinn felt that too. She was on the edge of her seat for a girl that she hadn't seen at all before, with hundreds of people probably looking at her in the same way. Everything that she was feeling would just get lost in a sea of theater emotions—right?
At the end of the play, Quinn asked Brittany to go down to the first floor, just to see the girl up close and listen to her speak. They stayed behind the last row and a few seconds later, Rachel appeared once again, still wearing that sparkling fringe dress from the last scene—bowing and waving to the audience.
"Well, for those who don't know me, my name is Rachel Berry. This opportunity has fulfilled one of my biggest dreams as a little girl—performing this role and being able to honor the amazing Barbra Streisand. I want to thank everyone who made this possible, including each one of you in the audience. Love you and see you soon!" She walked away, throwing a kiss to the audience between cheers. Rachel Berry—oh, Quinn will never forget that name.
"Did you like it?" Brittany asked while they walked home.
Quinn stopped walking for a second. She absolutely loved it. Her life would never be the same again. "Sure, it was fun."
"Are you sure? You cried every time the raspberry girl sang."
"W-What? No, Britt," she faked a laugh, but Brittany looked very serious. "No, you're confused. I didn't."
"I know that feeling. I cry when Santana looks too stunning. I think I'm an empath or something like that."
Quinn blushed aggressively. It wasn't the same at all; she knew Santana and Brittany had some funny business going on—something about sweet lady kisses. She didn't want sweet lady kisses from a random actress. She was just admiring good acting!
"It's not the same... I'm... I'm just happy for Rachel Berry."
• • •
Quinn woke up with those marching trumpets still echoing in her head. She walked through the house humming the starting sound of "Don't Rain On My Parade" looking completely absent-minded.
Santana sat at the table for breakfast. "Are you a broken record, Fabray?"
"Quinn has an actress girlfriend," Brittany muttered a quick, almost robotic response.
She nearly choked on her coffee "T-That's not true," she contradicted her roommates with a rushed, shaky voice "I didn't even talk to her."
"Quinn is hopelessly in love," her friend corrected herself.
Santana smiled mischievously "Jeez, fag-gay, you're blushing like you just got caught committing a crime."
Quinn rolled her eyes at the Latina and smiled sarcastically "Don't project yourself onto me, San."
Quinn grabbed her empty plate and stood up from the table. She walked to the bathroom scowling and heavy-footed, but still humming the song.
"Oh she's definitely in love," Santana said to her friend, giving her a tender look.
Quinn looked at herself in the mirror. She wasn't in love with Rachel Berry—she was a famous actress and having feelings for her would be the dumbest of teenage fantasies. She wasn't in love, and most importantly, she wasn't gay. Twenty-three-year-old women don't just discover that they're gay. She'd had boyfriends before—and they were... great.
A crush, that's it—having a little crush on an actress doesn't make you a lesbian. Besides, Rachel was special. Everyone's heart skipped a beat when they saw her... right? She was pretty, talented, had a stunning presence and her voice sent shivers down her spine—oh God, she needed to see her again. Just one more time, she promised.
She looked through her whole room trying to find the newspaper where the show was listed. There were performances for the whole month, but there was one at night, that same exact day. She checked her budget and called the theater's contact number.
"Yeah, for today... 10:00 pm, please" she unconsciously twirled the spiral phone cord around her finger "Do you have something on the E row? Great. Quinn Fabray, Q-U-I-N-N. I'll pay there, thank you"
What was she even thinking? She had already seen the show—she couldn't go just to see Rachel. Well, probably a lot of people did that too! But unlike her, they surely weren't young adults on a budget who worked as cashiers at a video store.
"You gay little creep," Santana said, leaning her back against the doorframe "Hiding and buying tickets to see a woman."
"I don't know what you're talking about..." Quinn hid the landline behind her back, as if that was going to work now.
"C'mon, I already saw you mumbling to that phone."
"Well, so what? Are you here to shame me and make fun of me for liking musicals?" She hung up the phone, now buzzing with the dial tone.
"First, you don't like musicals—you're gay; second, I'm here to tell you to stop tossing your money away."
"So now I can't spend my money the way I want? Today you're being absolutely insuffer—"
"Ugh, I'm just saying that you'd save a lot of money if you tried talking to that girl instead of stalking her at her own shows." She rolled her eyes and went to her own room.
Wait, maybe she was right—not by calling her that G-word all the time, of course. Maybe she could try and talk to her. But how?
She laid down on her bed. If only she could approach her somewhere... Quinn was perfectly aware of how pretty she was; she could get Rachel's attention with no difficulty—not that that mattered, of course, not like she was about to flirt with her... even though she was kicking her blankets over that idea.
She got up and headed to the living room. She knew who might know where to find her.
Brittany was lying on the couch, flipping through a magazine she clearly wasn't reading.
"Hey, Britt..."
"Santana says you're Lebanese," she didn't stop examining the magazine's pictures.
Quinn swallowed "Is there any chance that you know a place where these... theater artists go after their shows?"
"There's a bar close to the theater. San and I go there and pretend we're a married rich couple." She gave Quinn a one-second-look and returned to her business.
"Sure... thanks"
She was nervous for the rest of the afternoon. She took a bath, talked to the mirror for half an hour, meticulously curled her hair, found the perfect balance of a notorious-but-not-exaggerated makeup and tried for the perfect outfit every ten minutes. Her roommates saw her rushing back and forth for hours, and every time one of them spoke to her she would just yell in answer. Finally, the time had come. She knew how to be perfect and she'd done it again.
A burgundy dress, black boots and a long leather jacket. It was hard thinking of a set of clothes that could match a theater and a bar at the same time. She was heading towards the apartment door, almost an hour before the show started, when a voice stopped her.
"Hey, Fabray," she turned around when Santana called, expecting another joke or comment about her sexual orientation. "You look great... don't throw away your shot."
"Thanks, San." Quinn smiled and crossed the door, closing it behind her. Damn, her friend actually wanted her to be happy.
She took a deep breath and started walking towards the theater—it was a few minutes from the apartment. The cold air of the night wrapped around her, making her cheeks and nose slightly red. The weather didn't match the atmosphere on the streets at all—there were big warm lights everywhere and still many people around. In the box office, she asked for the ticket and handed the guy a fifty-dollar bill—painful to pay, but it was going to be worth it.
Being in the front rows was completely different from being on the balcony. You could see every tiny detail from there—of course, as soon as Rachel appeared onstage, Quinn was no longer looking at details that didn't involve Fanny Brice. Everything around her character looked like a background made to frame Rachel. There was something in her eyes, the way she used her body and facial expressions—it was hypnotic, as if she didn't know that there was a whole audience in front of the stage. Quinn was looking at her with a smile and such moved eyes, that anyone who saw her could think that she actually knew the amazing Rachel Berry.
During the second act, with Fanny Brice singing at the center of the stage, Quinn noticed something, something almost imperceptible to the rest of the people in the room. Rachel looked at her. She wasn't crazy—she absolutely did. Her eyes met Quinn's for a second. She didn't lose focus on her song, she didn't smile, she didn't do anything, she just kept going—Rachel had looked at her while she had that ridiculous expression on her face—like she was in love or something! Oh, she must've looked so dumb from up there "Look at this pathetic girl thinking she has a chance with me" Wait, a chance? She didn't expect "a chance" she just wanted to admire her, maybe talk to her—only to congratulate her for her success and nice work.
Rachel stared three more times—yes, she counted them. Not every day a future Broadway star turns her eyes to you, okay?
At the end of the show, her heart felt like it was about to burst out of her chest. She had a sensation in her stomach that could've been either deep and genuine happiness—or the overwhelming need to puke.
After the show she hurried to the bar, where some people already waited. She sat down by the bar and asked for any drink—but she just examined the place. It looked expensive by its own and the people inside matched the vibe pretty well. A soft hum of conversation was around the whole bar—the sound of laughter and clinking glasses. Everyone talked softly and the little bit of things she could hear were about theater, money and music. Clearly those who went in there frequented the place—even though she wasn't a part of that world, it felt pretty cozy. Jazz playing on the speakers, amber-toned lights. The cold of the late night outside was contrasted by people's natural warmth. It wasn't especially elegant, but no one was poorly dressed—all of them knew that at some point of the night they would have celebrities around. Actors, singers, musicians and journalists were often found there—probably there were some inside even in that moment, but Quinn had no idea.
That changed when she saw a familiar face entering the place. Many people were around her, talking to each other, but Rachel Berry was inside her own world, looking in front of her the same way she did in her shows. She gazed at her for a few seconds. Her face instantly got red. She heard some of her fellow performers telling her something about looking for a table for all of them.
"You guys go first, I'll catch up to you later" And she started walking towards the bar.
Quinn turned to the bartender, properly crossed her legs and absentmindedly started to fix her hair, sipping on her drink trying to appear casual.
Rachel sat next to her and talked to the bartender for several minutes as if he was a close friend, until he went to prepare drinks for someone else and there was nothing else to talk about. Silence. Only silence. Quinn didn't even dare to look at her.
"Ahem," Rachel cleared her throat loudly and opened her mouth a few seconds before speaking "So... you liked the show?"
Quinn almost fainted "E-Excuse me?" she said, turning to Rachel.
"I asked you if you liked the show. I saw you in the front row," she sounded serious. Quinn didn't know if she was being cocky or was just as nervous as her.
"I actually liked it a lot, you were great in there," Quinn smiled a bit, trying to recompose herself.
"As far as I was able to see, you were really focused on it" her tone still didn't soften.
She started making eye contact with Rachel "Well, it was my first time in a theater, I was pretty amazed" she felt more relaxed now.
"I think 'pretty amazed' aren't such big words for a compliment"
Quinn giggled "So you want the truth?"
"Of course, I don't perform for people to lie to me about my work."
"I also was on yesterday's show. You made me cry a lot, you know?"
Rachel finally smiled, almost imperceptibly blushing "And that's why you came back today?"
"You could say so. I felt like I needed to look at it more closely."
"Then I'm glad I did," she chuckled, tenderly looking at her "Sorry, I didn't ask you your name"
"Quinn Fabray... and you're Rachel Berry, of course"
Quinn started using all of her charms. The eyes, the smile, hair-twirling—was she flirting? no, she wasn't at all, she was just being nice.
But, was Rachel flirting? maybe she was crazy.
"Then I'm glad I did" what the hell does that mean?
"I am. I hope you'll hear that name in other shows later."
They talked until some of her colleagues called her. God, she was very pretty. Her deep brown eyes perfectly matched her hair and making her smile or laugh felt like a prize. She was full of charisma and being able to be the one entertaining someone like that was actually an accomplishment.
"Excuse me, my table is calling, but..." She took out a pencil out of her purse and wrote her number in a napkin, right beside her name and a doodle of a star. "Call me whenever you want"
"O-Of course."
Oh my goodness, she just got Rachel Berry's number. Even when she had left her side and went with her fellow cast members she sat down there for a few minutes thinking about what had just happened. Her face felt on fire and the overwhelming need to throw up was back.
She went out of the place and walked—almost ran—to the apartment. Lucky she was that her friends were already asleep, or else, they would've seen her smiling and kicking blankets like some dumb teenager. She really wasn't the composed and decent person she thought she was.