AN: Just a little something off the top of my head. Also, I do not own Glee. Enjoy!
They're not good for each other. She knows it, he knows it.
Sometimes Jesse wonders how they even started this mess, and why it's lasted so long. They were never supposed to meet, never supposed to feel that spark that was missing with Rachel, never supposed to be having this...relationship, if they can even call it that. Where did it start?
It was summer, and it was brutal. He was working in –where else?– a music store, trying to save up for that classic rag-top Impala he'd had his eye on. It had been another unforgiving morning; the air conditioning was broken, and the whole place reeked of sweat and heat. He just had this summer to get over with, and then he'd be out of this hell-hole. UCLA was so close, he could taste it.
And so the tall singer continued to alphabetize and re-shelve each and every CD. It was another slow morning, just like the morning before that. (And the one before that). Jesse wiped more sweat off of his face and grimly continued in his task. Then, the tinkling of the bell alerted him to a rare visitor. He turned, and his breath caught in his throat.
It was her. The angel. An angel had entered the shop.
Then the blond girl turned, and a look of disgust filled her features. Her pretty face was turned down into a snarl, and her indescribably lovely hazel eyes seemed to see right through his soul.
Well, he couldn't really blame Quinn, could he? After all, he hadn't painted a very good image of himself during his short stay at McKinley. Plus, she had been pregnant.
Didn't look very pregnant anymore.
Jesse turned on his brightest "look-at-me-I'm-charming" grin at the disgruntled girl, approaching her carefully. Her scowl seemed to just get deeper as he drew nearer. It was a shame, really, he mused – she shouldn't mess up her pretty face like that.
"Can I help you?" Jesse inquired suavely.
"What do you want, St. James?" The blond narrowed her (admittedly breathtaking) eyes at the older boy. Undeterred, he continued to saunter towards her, before suddenly changing his stance. Now, he looked like a wildcat stalking its prey, and the former cheerleader's expression suddenly became nervous. He lowered his face close to hers, enjoying the sound of Quinn's breath hitching in her throat. Jesse pitched his voice lower, huskier, almost seductive.
"Your number, if I can manage it." By this time, his lips were mere centimeters from hers, and he grinned triumphantly. The poor, unsuspecting girl was nearly in his grasp. He just had to –
And then she slapped him.
Jesse smiled bitterly at the memory. Even their first real meeting had been violent – it should have been a warning of things to come. The two singers should have taken that first slap as an omen, presaging a turbulent, troubled union.
Sturm und Drang, you could say.
And really, should they have been surprised? They had been completely wrong for each other from the start; their personalities and flaws were too similar for them to have a peaceful relationship. Jesse and Quinn were both over-the-top, headstrong, and in need of control. There was no submitting or giving in from either side when it came to the arguments. And while Quinn may have seemed practical and grounded, her dramatic flair matched Jesse's, or even Rachel's.
The first fight reached soap-opera proportions: the stage was set at the older boy's apartment. Jesse didn't even remember what it was that started the argument, but the next second, glass was smashed, vases thrown against walls, chairs kicked, and suddenly Quinn was looking at him through a black eye.
He had lifted his hand; curled it into a fist without even realizing. How was his girlfriend injured? He couldn't have done that. No, he couldn't have. He loved her too much. She was his angel, his Saviour, his light. It couldn't be. I'm sorry, Jesse had whispered brokenly. He scooped her up and kissed her, muttering apologies over and over. You did this to me, the girl replied. And she lost it. Before he could even think, Jesse was being punched, slapped, kicked. And they lost control.
Soon, the head cheerleader and the lead singer were spiraling downwards. Every other moment was a fistfight, and then an apology. Jesse and Quinn were destroying each other, and they knew it. But the two couldn't help it, couldn't let go. They needed -no, loved- each other just as much as they couldn't stand each other. You're my drug, the older teen had told the blond once. And I can't quit you. She had merely looked at him sadly, eyes full of pain. I know, she replied.
And so Jesse would throw Quinn into a wall in a fit of rage, and then sneak into her bedroom window (she always kept it open) at three in the morning and teach her how to use stage makeup to hide the bruises. And Quinn would scratch and tear and bite at Jesse's skin, then kiss the scars at night. Being with the other was like being on drugs, and they were addicted.
If he's being honest with himself, they still are. The two are still together (secretly) and they are still at each other's throats. Sometimes, Jesse thinks that they should just kill each other quickly and get it over with, because it's so obvious that being together is killing them slowly. (He's recently taken to setting Quinn's hair on fire when he's angry with her. She has a phobia of fire.) It's like they're holding each other's heads under water and watching them struggle. (Quinn's actually started half-drowning Jesse in the bathroom sink in retaliation for the fire. He's got a pathological fear of drowning.) And it's so disgusting and wrong what they're doing, but they can't help but get a sick satisfaction from it.
It is very dangerous for two dramatic people to be in a relationship. He himself should know this.
Because when two larger-than-life artists love each other, it is unlike anything else. Nothing can compare to the dizzying height of their emotions; each touch and gaze produces an electric shock. It is surreal, extraterrestrial. Each sensation is so magnified and heightened, it's as if you must take a step back to even be able to breath. The feeling of two fires sparking together, like the splitting of an atom, or the igniting of fuel.
More beautiful and terrible than you can even imagine.
"These violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph, die, like fire and powder; which, as they kiss, consume."
AN: Definitely one of the weirder pairings I've written, but I'm gonna just put it out there."Sturm and Drang" is a genre of Germanic plays that are famous for their ominous feel and ill fate, and is also translated to "storm and stress." Can anyone guess where the quote is from? Feel free to drop a review or PM me, and if not, thanks for reading!