Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/522734.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Glee
  Relationship:
      Rachel_Berry/Will_Schuester
  Character:
      Rachel_Berry, Will_Schuester
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-27 Words: 5713
****** So Much I Need to Say ******
by wistfulwatcher
Summary
     so much that i need to say/I'm sorry that it's on her wedding day
Notes
     Spoilers for "On My Way," speculation for 3x15: "Big Brother".
When he finally works up the courage, she’s pacing in the hall outside of the
courtroom. Her white dress catches in the sunlight that inches in just a
sliver, and he realizes that, had he been asked, he would have never guessed
that the young diva he met three years ago would be willing, eager, even, to be
married in a court room.
Rachel spins on her white heel and starts toward him, her phone gripped tightly
in one hand, a slightly crushed bouquet in the other.
“Rachel,” his tone wavers but she doesn’t seem to notice, just looks up to see
him once before continuing on her route across the hall and back. He shuts the
door behind him, gently, giving them privacy in the deserted hallway.
The bouquet is bouncing against the full skirt of her Hepburn dress, and he
can’t help but appreciate the comparison, finds it somewhat fitting, the quiet
grace they both exhibit, the stunning silhouettes. “Rachel,” louder, as he
moves to follow her.
“Hmmm?” Her fingers are typing furiously, and she doesn’t look up at him again.
“You’re making a mistake marrying Finn.”
Now, she stops. His breath catches as he realizes how he’s blurted the words
he’s been carefully crafting for hours, days. “What?” Her eyes meet his and he
tightens his jaw, prepares for the anger she’ll show him at his questioning her
choices.
“This wedding is a mistake, and if you marry Finn you’ll regret it. I think you
should wait, think some more about the whole thing.”
Her brows narrow in confusion but she keeps his gaze, moves toward him. The
flowers drop further in her hand, no longer hitting against her skirt but
dangling gently from her fingers. “Where is this coming from?”
The expression of betrayal clear on her face stings, but he can’t even form his
thoughts before she’s barreling on, the flowers getting crushed beneath her
rapidly forming fist. “Kurt was the one that told our parents, I thought. Not
you, you didn’t. Where is this coming from?” She repeats.
His hands twitch at his sides, unsure of what to do, so he slides them silently
into his pockets and takes the tiniest step forward as encouragement. “I
wasn’t, Rachel,” he needs to confirm this because she’s looking at him right
now like every word he’s ever spoken to her has been a lie, there’s such
accusation in her eyes that he feels his chest tighten in fear.
The confusion is back on her brow and it’s so welcome, but he must continue,
must make her understand. “But I do agree with him. I think if you go through
with this, you’ll resent him. You won’t follow your dreams and you won’t make
it to Broadway, and—“
“I’m not you, Mr. Schue.” The words are sharp, pointed to make him stop, but
her eyes are soft like she doesn’t want to hurt him. Self-defense, he thinks
briefly. “I’m going to NYADA, and I’m going to be on Broadway. Finn knows that,
he supports that.”
He steps to the side, looking down at the floor. “Did you know I went to
Chicago for college?” He looks up at her, drops his hands from his pockets and
leans against the wall. She’s watching, wary, but she slowly takes the wall
across from him, mirrors his posture and leans against her wall, too, but her
posture is stiff, defensive but curious.
“I got a music scholarship, the only way I could afford to leave Ohio to study.
Terri came with, reluctantly, and we made a little home for ourselves in a
cheap little apartment in a terrible part of the city.”
She narrows her eyes, crosses her arms across her body, the bouquet sticking up
against her elbow. “I know this won’t be easy, alright? I’m not delusional.”
He ignores her, keeps explaining. “I planned to audition at local theatre
companies, but things got busy, fast. When I wasn’t at school I was working,
Terri was working. We saw each other maybe half of the time we were home if we
were lucky, and we were exhausted all the time.”
He looks up and she still looks angry, but there’s a little crinkle between her
brows, and he thinks it might mean he’s getting through, just a little. “It was
hard, so, so hard. Both of our parents lived in Ohio, we had little support
financially—it was all up to us to make it or fail. And we were getting by, we
were actually doing fine for a while.”
He expects her to stop him, interrupt, but she doesn’t. Just keeps watching
him, her veil fanned out around her. “Terri managed to be supportive, to work
hard to let me follow my dreams until my Junior year. She moved back to Ohio,
told me she couldn’t do it anymore, the long hours and little payoff. She
missed her family, her friends.” He exhales, looks at the ground.
The thought of Terri, of the good times with Terri, when they loved each other
so much they couldn’t even begin to imagine the presence of resentment in their
relationship was hard, harder than hating her for lying, for betrayal; far too
hard knowing that if he had just tried harder, not pushed her so, so hard for
his own dreams, they might have worked.
 “She told me that she loved me, and she’d be waiting for me in Lima when I
graduated so that we could finally start our lives together where we were meant
to be.”
He stops talking, shuffles his feet, and pushes off from the wall. He hears
laughter from behind the closed door, and when he looks at Rachel her eyes are
focused on the distorted glass of the window above the doorknob.
“Rachel,” she focuses back on him and he moves toward her, slides his hands
back in his pockets and hunches his shoulders forward, just a bit. “Do you ever
plan on leaving New York?” Her eyes harden. “Or do you expect to graduate
NYADA, get a role on Broadway and live out your dream of being a star? Will you
retire at 35 to raise a family, come back to Lima and let Finn support you?”
Her arms fall to her sides and her jaw is moving like she’s biting at the
inside of her cheek. “Finn’s going with me. He wants to be with me, and he
supports me. He knows my dream is New York, he knows I don’t plan to leave.”
Will hesitates. “Burt wants him to take over the garage. That’s no secret,
Rachel,” he adds at her shocked expression.
“He’ll decline.” Her arms cross back in front of herself like a shield and her
eyes cast downward.
He pulls his left hand from his pocket and sets it on her shoulder, over the
satiny fabric of the dress. “Rachel,” his voice is low, he can barely decide to
say his next words until they’re leaving on a whisper. “Don’t you think it says
something that he hasn’t, yet?”
At that her eyes snap back to his, and her shoulder jerks back, his hand
falling back to his side. She’s away from him in an instant, pacing again, her
bouquet jerking sharply as she talks with her hands.
“I told you, I’m not you, we’re not like you and your ex-wife, alright?” Her
voice lowers, but she continues, not looking at him and pacing furiously.
“Besides, Finn can’t decline, not yet. I might not make it.”
His jaw clenches. “NYADA has amazing talent, and New York is teeming with girls
just like me. I just need to be realistic, now. I can’t… the garage is a back-
up plan, I suppose.”
You’re wrong, he wants to say, you’re exactly like me. She’s willing to give up
on her dreams before they even have a chance to come true.
His chest is tightening, he can feel his knuckles stretch as he flexes his
hands, and he shakes his head. “Do you know why I gave you a solo for
Regionals?”
Rachel stops completely. “Because I’m the best singer you have,” it’s not quite
a question, like she’s unsure where his question is coming from, and he wonders
too, wonders why his lips are moving without his permission.
He swallows, unsteady under her sudden interest, her face open, waiting for an
answer. “Do you really believe that?” He questions her, instead.
There’s the briefest pause before she nods. It’s all the answer he needs, and
he’s shaking his head, rolling in his lips. “You used to believe that. Never
would have questioned it, not for a second.”
“I’ve learned to be humble,” her tone defensive.
“No, you’ve been taught to be self-conscious, to doubt yourself.” He thinks of
each negative comment he’s let slide, of each time he’s told her it’s not about
her, that she’s not the star. “And I’m partly to blame.”
He holds eye contact with her, watches her throat move slowly, as though
swallowing a large pill. Watches her mouth part with the effort to take in
breath, and her fingers grasp reflexively on the bouquet.
Suddenly she shakes her head, looks at her phone and types aggressively, again.
“I can’t do this,” she bites out between keys. “I’m getting married, I love
Finn and I—where is Quinn?!” She throws her phone onto a chair by the window
and sets her now free hand on her chest, as if to keep her heart from hammering
straight out of her body.
“Rachel,” he starts to step forward and she looks at him as if she hadn’t been
just seconds ago, like the last conversation hadn’t happened at all, and he’s
not sure what that means for her, for them, for the wedding.
“Finn supported you, became your best man.” Her eyes are soft when she adds,
“He went ring shopping with you.”
“I do support Finn,” it’s easy because it’s true, and he sees her shoulders
drop, like a decision’s been made. “I don’t support you.”
She grabs her phone again and is walking away, walking back toward the door
he’d closed and he adds, “You’ll self-destruct with him, Rachel. Don’t do this
to yourself.”
Her hand is on the doorknob, she’s twisting but not pushing it open. Her back
is to him and he can’t tell what she’s waiting for, but he hears a sniff and
then she’s throwing open the door, her voice so unnaturally even.
“I can’t do this without Quinn, I want her here. We’ll have to postpone for
next week.”
His eyes fall closed from his spot in the hallway, and he leans against the
wall, his body relaxing as he sighs.
Later that night.

He’s dropping his jacket onto the end of his bed when the knock comes. Slowly,
he leaves the bedroom, walking to the door, one sleeved rolled up to his elbow
when he looks through the peephole.
His fingers still on the sleeve and he steps back, opens the door and can
barely take in how tiny she looks before she’s speaking.
“It’s my fault, right?” No, not speaking, screaming. Her voice is high and
tight and he realizes that she’s shaking as she stands in front of him in a
sweatshirt and shorts. Her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and her
cheeks are red, just like her eyes. She hasn’t just been crying, she’s
been sobbing.
“Rachel, what are you talking about? Here, sit down,” he shuts the door and
tries to take her elbow, lead her to his couch but she jerks her arm back,
glares at him.
“Quinn,” she bites out, like it’s supposed to clear things up. “She was in an
accident on the way to my wedding, she got hurt, she’s paralyzed, because
of me, because of this stupid idea, because I begged her to be a part of my
wedding.”
“What? Oh my God, is she OK?” It’s the stupidest possible thing he could say,
she’s obviously not, but his attention is split between Quinn in a hospital and
Rachel in front of him and Emma gone away to her brother’s for the weekend
immediately after Regionals. It’s the last one that makes him feel a jolt of
panic and he can’t quite put his finger on why.
Rachel’s eyes narrow and she shakes her head, her bangs swaying with the
motion. “Of course she’s not OK! Because of me she’s paralyzed, Mr. Schue! She
is lying in a hospital bed right now, unable to move her legs!”
Tears are streaming down her face and Will wants to do something, to say
something to make it better, but all he can think of are the words he’d said to
her at the courthouse.
“Rachel, it’s not, no one would blame you for—“
“It’s a sign, isn’t it?” Her tone is dramatically low, flat. Then, louder,
“Right? It’s a sign! Quinn paid the price so that I would get the message!”
She’s hysterical as she drops, finally, to the couch, and Will is sitting
beside her in an instant. “Rachel,” he sets his hand on her back, her face
covered in her hands. Her sobbing increases and his hand stills as he realizes
how quickly her chest is moving.
A shot of fear grips him and he reaches for her arm, pulls her hands away from
her face. “Rachel, Rach you’ve got to breathe, OK?” She’s shaking her head and
her face is so, so red.
Now he’s panicking, not sure what to do, so he takes both of her hands in his
and squeezes until she looks at him. “Rachel, please, you’ve got to breathe,
just take a deep breath and let it out slowly, OK? Please.”
She tries to do as he says, her entire upper body moves with the effort as she
stares at a point on his chest, a button, maybe.
Her breaths are evening out and he feels his own chest loosen, the fear abating
as he lets go of her hands, lets his fingers brush her bangs back before he
drags them down her arm, back to her hands.
Beneath his they move until free, until he realizes both his hands have curled
into fists, now resting on her bare knees.
When he looks up he swallows, hard, and meets Rachel’s eyes. They’re wet, but
she’s no longer crying, just breathing, and he stands. “Would you like some
water?”
She nods, and he heads to the kitchen, quickly fills two glasses. She’s not in
his living room when he returns, but he hears water running in his bathroom and
sets the glasses on the coffee table, takes his spot on the couch again.
When she comes back out, her face is washed but still red, and her hair is
down, pulled free from its binder.
Will watches as she crosses the room, so tiny with her arms wrapped around her
waist, the sweatshirt sleeves rolled up to her wrists. He waits, wonders if
she’ll just keep walking right out the door, leave, but instead she picks up
her water as she sits down next to him.
She remains quiet, just sips her water slowly, until finally he prompts,
“Rachel?”
No response. “Rachel, look, I know that this might seem like it’s your fault,
but I guarantee you that Quinn—“
“I was over you.” Her glass is empty and her words fall into it a bit, echo.
Confused, his brows furrow and he grips his own glass tighter. “What?”
“I was over you.” Her words are slow, measured, dangerous.
“Rachel, I—“
“You stopped caring, and I could deal with that. But then you pull me aside
like you actually care about my life, my future?” She’s setting her glass down
and turning to face him, and he tries to back away but the couch is too small.
The entire room feels too small.
“That’s not fair. I’ve always—“ her laughter is sudden and forced and rings too
loudly in his ears.
“Oh, of course you have, Mr. Schue. You care about all of your students.” Her
voice is even but her eyes are dark, she’s mocking him. He realizes, suddenly,
how much it hurts that she thinks he doesn’t care.
Narrowing his eyes a bit, he reaches out again, takes her hand, and tries not
to feel hurt when her fingers fight a moment before relaxing. “I
have always cared about you, Rachel.”
Her eyes are searching his, narrowed now, too, as she studies his face. The
moment between her almost-glaring eyes and the feel of her lips on his is non-
existent, but before he can react to the taste of her subtly-sweet lips—lemon,
he thinks—she’s pulling away, standing up and pacing his living room.
His stomach is in knots, now, his head full of cotton and all he can process is
the fact that he can feel himself, breathing her in from the remnants of her
lipgloss on his mouth. His heart starts to beat faster.
“How can you say that?” she’s finally stopped in front of him, a few feet away
and across his coffee table. With her hands on her hips she looks like a child,
too-big sweatshirt and clean face and messy hair, and his stomach churns at the
memory of her kiss.
Her face searches his as though she hadn’t just brushed her tongue across his
bottom lip. For a moment he wonders if she hadn’t, if he’d created it in a sick
sudden fantasy, but the lemon lingers, too-sweet to be real—not the tart fruit
but an over sugared glass of lemonade.
“You barely tolerated me that first year, which hurt, but these last two years
I’ve been virtually invisible to you, which hurt more.” She crosses her arms in
front of her waist and the bulkiness of the fabric bunches beneath her fingers.
Her voice has dropped and he sits there, a mix of guilt and disgust as he
realizes that he can barely process the words she’s saying while he can still
taste her.
“Rachel,” and he’s not sure what he could possibly say—as her words sink in he
realizes how transparent he’s been, how determinedly he’s been avoiding her,
and the guilt takes center stage in his chest.
Any reply he would have formed dies on his lips, on her lips—they’re kissing,
again, her mouth sliding against his and he can’t help but part his lips when
her tongue swipes harshly against them, not seeking permission.
It doesn’t matter—the cotton is swelling in his head and he can’t think
past she tastes like summer. She’s speaking again, still pressed against his
mouth; “I was over you,” and it’s practically a sob, the words low and
whispered hard between their tongues.
“Rachel,” he begins, tries to stop her, to figure out what’s going on, to let
her figure out what’s going on. Instead she pushes her palms against his
shoulders and suddenly she’s in his lap, her knees on either side of his hips
and her soft, smooth thighs on top of his.
His hands find their way to the hem of her shorts, and he curls his fingers
into fists, trying to keep them from pulling at her, from sliding his hands to
her back and pushing her down against his cock, hardening beneath his jeans.
Suddenly she’s pulling her face back but not her body, so that she can look at
him. He meets her eyes, breathing too heavily, and her fingers flex rapidly
over his upper chest, his arms. Her eyes are deep, seemingly endless and she
looks so, so vulnerable, so young, that he’s flattening his palms down on her
thighs, pushing her back.
“You’re right—I can’t—“ she’s looking down suddenly, her hands falling from his
chest. What am I doing? She’s so fragile, so little, so innocent, and this is
so, so wrong, he needs to get her focus.
“Hey, Rachel, look—“ her eyes snap up, and then down to his lips, and he
thinks, for how wrong this feels, if she kisses him again he’ll be a goner.
“You were right. I can’t marry Finn. Quinn—“ her throat closes on the name as
though it pains her to say it, “got hurt, and it’s a sign. And I just, I need—“
He feels like he can’t breathe, waiting for her next words. His lips are
parted, breathing slowly, and when her fingertips brush his bottom lip it takes
everything in him not to let his tongue sweep out to them.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Then his breath does catch, and he doesn’t
know what to tell her. He doesn’t know, really, why he didn’t, doesn’t know
what stopped him.
“What made you tell me at the courthouse…Will?” And it’s all lies, so much of
what he’s told himself have been lies because he does know. He hadn’t told her
because he knew, like she knows now, what it meant, what it revealed of him.
He loves Emma, is marrying Emma, but a part of him has always been caught up in
her, in her life and her drama and the way that he knew she would fit so
perfectly against him and taste so sweet, so pure.
Will shakes his head and her fingers drop to his neck, to his pulse point there
and he prays she can’t feel how quickly it’s pounding. Her head tilts and for a
moment he thinks he’s done the right thing, staying silent, until she shifts
forward, grinds her hips down and his head falls back at the feel of her.
Each part of her body is coming into sharp focus; the pressure of her knees
bracketing his hips, the warmth of their stomachs brushing together between the
thick layers of fabric, the heaviness of her fingers against the delicate
tissue of his throat.
“Well, fine. It’s my turn, then.” The warm heat over his groin eases off, she’s
sliding back to sit firmly on his knees, but she’s not leaving him, not moving
away from his lap, from the couch. Instead she places her fingers on his hands,
still resting against her thighs.
“You’re making a mistake marrying Emma.” Her face is open, more calm than it’s
been since she’s arrived and he thinks that her tone is even, not spiteful. The
panic is back and he wants to move her, to make her get off of him because he’s
marrying Emma and this is what he’s been avoiding for years now.
“Rachel, I know you’re hurt, and upset, but I swear, I was trying to help you,
to stop you from making a mistake. It wasn’t…anything else,” he finishes
lamely, avoiding confirming her suspicion implicit in the thighs straddling his
own.
She gives a small laugh, painful to his ears as its metallic tone rings between
them. “I’m just returning the favor, Mr. Schue. Have you thought about what
your life is going to be like, together? You want children, don’t you? You want
romance and passion and everything you see in musical theatre?”
He can’t help but laugh a bit at her analysis. “Rachel, I think you might be
projecting a little, that’s not something guys really—“
“Bullshit.” He’s taken aback by the word as well as the heavy tone. Her fingers
curl over his wrist and he looks at her, freezes. “You do, don’t you? You want
them, the security of a boring family.” He swallows as her fingers slide up his
forearms, over the rolled up sleeve. “But you also want the passion,” her hips
slide forward as she speaks, and his heart starts to pound.
“You want the excitement,” her face comes closer, their stomachs press against
each other and he finds himself wishing that her sweatshirt was thinner, wants
to feel her breasts against his chest.
“The feeling of not being able to keep your hands off of each other,” her
fingers slide up further, over his chest and she starts to unbutton his shirt.
“Rachel,” his hands tighten on her thighs but he doesn’t stop her, wants to
hear what she has to say.
“You do, and you won’t find it with her.” He feels like he should defend Emma,
defend against Rachel’s claim but she’s right, she’s right about everything.
There’d been passion with Terri for a while, and he sees aspects of that
normal, stable life he craves with Emma, but he wants it all, wants everything.
“Tell me, tell me you want that.” She’s unbuttoned half of the dress shirt and
her fingers are trailing over the muscles of his chest, his upper stomach.
On a breath he sighs, “Yes,” and she’s kissing him again, slow, like she’s
savoring her victory, savoring how right she was.
The hands he’s been struggling to keep static are moving, now, up her legs and
settling on her lower back, pressing her to him, pressing the heat beneath her
denim shorts harder against his heavy cock.
“Oh!” She drops her head back and he has his lips over the dip between her
collarbones, running his tongue over the smooth skin and trying not to groan
when she rotates her hips, grinds down on him.
Will’s fingers dig into her sweatshirt, pull at it until he can’t stop himself
from dipping under it, from pushing it up to feel nothing but smooth, bare
skin.
Pulling back he looks at her, her open mouth and messy hair and the gentle
curve of her shoulder where her sweatshirt has fallen off. “This isn’t, Rachel
we can’t…” his protest dies as she lifts her sweatshirt over her head, leaving
her in a pale purple bra and her denim shorts.
Her fingers quickly finish unbuttoning his shirt and he can’t stop her, not
again, not when there’s so much confusion and doubt clouding his judgment. The
thought that her judgment, too, isn’t steady, she can’t make this decision now,
either, pops up, but crumbles when her hand slides beneath his zipper, brushes
the head of his cock through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs.
“Fuck, Rach—“ She’s pushing at his pants, trying to reach more of him and his
final shred of resolve is gone, he’s pressing his hand between her thighs, and
he can feel the heat through her denim—she’s on fire for him.
“Oh, oh please,” she’s grinding down against his hand and he feels an-almost
smile breaking across his lips, so he buries his face in the crook of her neck
and just breathes her. Rachel’s pushing his shirt off now, and he can’t take
it, he needs to touch more of her. She’s spread out on the couch beneath him,
her hair fanning out around her, and her thighs immediately fall apart, make
room for him, and he feels himself almost choking at the idea that
she wants him. She wants his touch, wants to feel him, and he hasn’t felt
wanted in years.
“Rachel, I want,” he wants her, too, and he wants to touch her and she’s
nodding her acceptance as he reaches for her fly and pushes the button free
until he can slide his hand in, against the delicate fabric, already slick with
her desire.
“Yes,” someone breathes and he’s not sure which of them it is, maybe both,
because he’s gone so long without feeling this way, and he just wants Rachel to
feel this, too. Her shorts are off after a painfully long pause, and she’s
pushing at his pants in return.
“I feel—“
“I know, Rachel, me too,” because he can feel it all, feel how right this is,
feel how much they need each other.
But she shakes her head and stops him with her hand on his shoulders. She’s not
pushing him away but she’s looking at him and her brow is furrowed like she’s
not sure how to say what she’s trying.
“I feel,” he lets his hips fall forward just a little, until he presses against
her through his boxer-briefs, and can’t stop the smile when a shudder wracks
her body. “I feel like I’d figured it out, finally.”
His smile fades and he starts to pull back, starts to think that maybe she’s
regretting this and the sting of rejection is familiar and so, so unwelcome.
“But you made me doubt it, made me doubt myself.”
His guilt is back and he tries to shake it, pulls back and sits on his heels,
Rachel splayed out before him in just her under things. Then she’s sitting up,
pulling his briefs off and his fingers grip the back of the couch, too anxious
to do anything other than try to breathe.
He lets her pull them over his hard cock, lets her fingers wrap around the
shaft even as she continues, “You always make me doubt myself.”
“Rachel—“ he looks at her and tries to still her hand, but she just pulls away,
unlatches her bra and lets it fall to the seat between them.
“I don’t want to doubt myself, anymore.” She stands in front of him and he
turns, lets her strip his briefs all the way off, finally, to the floor, and he
watches as she drags her panties off, to the floor too, and resumes her place
on his lap.
She pauses above him, their bare skin barely touching, as she leans her face in
close to his. He can taste her breath, sweet like her lips and he just wants
another taste, another chance. “I just want to trust myself,” and his wish is
granted because all he knows is lemonade and summer and sweetness before he
feels her hand guiding his cock inside her.
She’s tight, so tight, and her thinks that maybe she’s been with Finn only
once, maybe not at all, and both cause him to break away, his fingers stilling
her movement from their place on her hips. “Rach, this isn’t—“
“I know it’s not, but…what’s it like to trust yourself, Will?” She’s
misunderstanding his question but she’s waiting for an answer to hers and he
can’t think of being anything other than honest.
“I have no idea, Rachel.” Her hips move more, faster, and he can barely find
her rhythm. Her movements are jerky, almost unsure, but he just helps her
movements and thrusts up, lets his head fall back to the back of the couch. He
can’t stop looking at her, watches his hands slide from her back to her waist
to her breasts and back again.
His hand tangles in her hair at the nape of her neck and he pulls her forward,
kisses her mouth, her neck, down to her breasts before he tugs her closer, so
close that she stills, let him stretch the muscles of her pussy as he holds her
to him. There’s no space anymore, he can feel her heart pound beneath her
breast, and he pulls back, kisses her chin, her lips and then freezes when
their eyes meet again.
They say nothing, just simply exist together, until he can’t take it anymore,
and he lets her move again, move until she’s almost let him leave her
completely before she slides him back in, moaning and dropping her head back,
too.
“Will, please, touch me,” and he realizes he’s been almost still, watching her.
Her demand brings him back and he flips them back to lie on the couch, him over
her as her takes over, thrusts harder and faster as he reaches between them.
Small cries leave her mouth as he presses her clit, rubs in tight circles until
he can feel her nails digging into his back. He’s getting closer, thinks she
is, too, and he slides one hand to her hip, pulls her closer and kisses
whatever flesh he finds beneath his lips.
“Rach, so good, like summer,” and her confusion dies as he sucks at her throat,
the delicate column shifting as she swallows her own screams desperately.
With her head back, his tongue on her breast, her nipple between his teeth he
feels his release building as he moves impossibly faster. “So close, yes,” the
syllables drag as her eyebrows furrow in concentration.
He looks up to see her, can’t seem to stop as they both tumble over the edge,
his name on her lips as he drops his own to her breastbone.
They stay like that for just a moment, until Will feels delicate fingers
dragging almost lovingly up his back. The simple touch feels more intimate
than this, whatever they’ve just done, and he pulls back suddenly, the enormity
of the situation coming back to him as the panic starts to spread up his spine.
“Rachel,” and she’s spread out on his couch, the couch Emma steam cleans every
night, and he suddenly feels like he might be ill.
But Rachel just shakes her head and slides on her clothes and he looks away to
do the same, feels wrong watching her.
It feels wrong because she’s his student and barely an adult and they’re both
engaged and they’ve both tried to explain why each other’s marriage shouldn’t
happen.
“Rachel,” he starts again, because they have to discuss this, they have to
figure out what this was, but she’s shaking her head again as she pulls her
hair back into a pony tail.
“I—let’s just forget it, alright? I won’t, we won’t talk about it.” He wants to
argue because they’ve been miscommunicating all night, for the last few years
if he’s honest, and he thinks this, this, is something they need to be on the
same page about.
But she smiles, kind of, as she ducks her head and walks to the door, and he
thinks that maybe on this they are, that an understanding has passed between
them along with their barbed words about their respective engagements.
The door clicks with her absence and he thinks about her question, about
trusting himself.
He thinks about what he wants, the family and the romance and the passion. And
perhaps one cancelled wedding means no marriage for either, but he also thinks
that, maybe, she’s given them both a wedding present regardless.
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