Chapter Text
Opalite (Fabang's Version)
The final bell had long faded, and the halls of McKinley High were emptying after the announcement that the New Directions would be dismissed for the year. One by one, the members drifted away from the auditorium. Some hugged, some cried, some lingered as if staying could stop time.
But Mike Chang and Quinn Fabray stayed behind.
The stage lights had been dimmed, leaving the room washed in a gentle twilight glow. Quinn sat on the edge of the stage, legs dangling, tracing circles on the wood with the toe of her shoe. Mike paced in slow lines across the floor below, hands tucked into his pockets, glancing up at her every so often.
They didn’t talk about disappointment. Or failure. Or what it meant that their little club was ending, again. Instead, they talked about life.
Quinn told Mike about how strange senior year felt, how the future seemed like a wide-open map but somehow still terrifying. Mike told her about balancing dance auditions with school, and how chasing a dream sometimes felt like trying to catch fog in your hands.
Between their sentences, silence didn’t feel empty; it felt gentle, like something that held them instead of dividing them.
Then the thunderstorm began.
It started as a low murmur outside, just enough to make Quinn glance toward the back doors. Then a sudden crack split the sky, casting a flicker of white across the silent auditorium. Quinn froze. Her shoulders tightened; her breath hitched in a way she hoped Mike wouldn’t notice.
But he did.
“Hey,” he said softly, climbing up to sit beside her. “You okay?”
She nodded, but the thunder answered for her, sharp, booming, too close. Quinn shut her eyes, trying to steady her breathing.
“I know it’s silly,” she whispered, “but I’ve never liked storms.”
Mike didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. Instead, he hopped off the stage and extended a hand to her.
“Come on.”
Quinn blinked. “Where?”
He grinned, gentle, not pushy. “Down here. Trust me.”
She hesitated only for a beat before slipping her hand into his and letting him lead her down.
Another flash came. Quinn flinched. Mike stepped a little closer, not touching, just offering presence.
“You ever hear how dancers deal with fear?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“We move through it.”
Mike reached out and tapped the floor lightly with the toe of his sneaker.
“No choreography. No counts. Just try to follow the rhythm that’s already happening.”
“The… rhythm of a thunderstorm?” Quinn said with a half-laugh.
“Why not? It's dramatic. Kind of artsy.”
He shrugged. “Storms don’t have to be scary. They can be something you move with, not against.”
Another rumble rolled outside. Quinn felt her heartbeat stutter, but Mike lifted one hand, offering it openly, inviting her to take the moment, not forcing it.
Quinn exhaled and placed her hand in his.
The first few steps were small. Gentle sways. Slow turns. The kind of movement that felt more like breathing than dancing. Mike guided her lightly, letting her set her own pace.
A flash of lightning lit the room, and Quinn didn’t flinch this time.
“There,” Mike said quietly. “See? You’re doing it.”
“What?” She arched a brow.
“Dancing through the lightning strikes.”
The words landed warm in her chest, like something precious she didn’t know she needed. They kept moving, her steps steadier, his movements matching hers in quiet support. The thunder faded from something frightening into something distant, something she could move with instead of fear.
Minutes slipped by until the storm softened to a drizzle. Quinn and Mike slowed to a stop, a comfortable silence falling between them again.
“You really think storms can be… less scary?” Quinn asked.
Mike nodded, brushing a bit of hair behind his ear. “You danced through this one. And you didn’t let it stop you.”
She smiled, small, honest, almost glowing in the auditorium’s dim light.
“Thank you,” she said. “For staying. For… this.”
Mike smiled back. “Anytime.”
Outside, the rain eased. Inside, the auditorium felt warmer than before, full of the kind of quiet that stays even after the music ends.
And for the first time, storms felt a little less like endings and a little more like beginnings.
The week after the storm-in-the-auditorium moment, things at McKinley felt a little lighter for both of them, not because the problems were gone, but because something new had begun. Something neither of them had named out loud yet.
So when Mike texted Quinn, “Want to get dinner after school?” she didn’t overthink it. She just said yes.
They ended up at a small diner just outside town, the kind with red booths and a jukebox that still played songs nobody admitted they loved. Quinn ordered a milkshake and fries; Mike teased her for dipping one into the shake, before trying it and admitting it was “shockingly good.”
They talked about everything and nothing, old performances, embarrassing middle school stories, what scared them, what made them feel brave. Quinn realized that talking to Mike felt like taking a deep breath she didn’t know she needed.
By the time they stepped out of the diner, the sky was dark, but calm, dotted with stars.
On the walk back to Mike’s car, they lingered on the sidewalk, neither in a hurry. Quinn had just said something about how peaceful the night felt when a single raindrop landed on her cheek.
She froze. “Oh no.”
Mike looked up just as the clouds opened.
Rain fell fast, cold, unexpected, drenching them in seconds. Mike instinctively jumped back.
“Quick, let’s get to the car!”
But Quinn didn’t move.
She stood still for a moment, letting the rain run down her hair, her jacket, her hands. Then she looked at Mike, really looked, like she was replaying that night in the auditorium in her head.
And something in her shifted.
“Wait,” she said softly.
Mike paused halfway toward the car. “Q?”
She walked toward him, steps steady even as puddles splashed beneath her shoes.
“Last time,” she said, “you helped me dance through a storm.”
Her voice was quiet, but not afraid. More like she was discovering a new courage as she spoke.
“This time,” she continued, “I want to be the one leading.”
Mike blinked, surprise flickering across his face, followed by a slow, warm smile.
“Lead the way,” he said.
Quinn reached out, taking his hand, not tentatively, but confidently, like she’d decided that fear didn’t get to write this moment.
She tugged him toward the open space of the sidewalk, rain pouring around them. Then she moved, not a complicated routine, not anything showy. Just a simple sway, a step forward, a step back. Mike followed, letting her guide the pace.
They turned together under the rainlight, shoes splashing through puddles, hair soaked, laughter mixing with the steady drumming of the storm. The streetlamps made the falling water glow around them, and for a moment, the whole world felt like a slow-motion music video that only they could hear.
Quinn lifted her face toward the sky, rain running down her cheeks like silver threads. She wasn’t flinching now. She was glowing.
“You’re not afraid anymore,” Mike said softly, watching her.
Quinn shook her head. “Not when I remember what you taught me.”
He squeezed her hand, gentle, steady. “So, what are you teaching me now?”
“That sometimes,” she said, smiling through the rain, “storms are just another chance to dance.”
They stayed like that for a long moment, moving, laughing, letting the rain fall freely around them, until the storm eased into a drizzle and the night air grew warm again.
When they finally walked to Mike’s car, drenched from head to toe, Quinn felt something settle inside her: not fear, but something close to hope.
And Mike?
He looked at her like she had just danced him into a new beginning.
Graduation day felt unreal.
The auditorium was filled with families and camera flashes, the air buzzing with pride and nerves. Caps were tossed, gowns fluttered, and the class of McKinley High scattered into hugs and group photos that would end up in scrapbooks years later.
But when the crowd finally thinned and the rest of the New Directions headed out for celebratory dinners, Mike and Quinn found themselves drifting, not away from each other, but back toward the place where everything had begun to shift that year.
The empty auditorium.
It looked exactly the same as it had the day of the storm. Rows of seats, silent and waiting. Dust floating lazily through the warm shafts of light. The stage, worn from countless rehearsals and memories.
Quinn stepped inside first, running her fingers along the familiar rail of the aisle. “It feels like the whole year happened in this room.”
Mike joined her, gown half-unzipped, cap tucked under his arm. “A lot of it did.”
The silence wasn’t sad. It was full. Like the room was holding their memories gently.
They climbed the steps to the stage, standing center like they had a hundred times before.
“You leave in two weeks,” Quinn said quietly.
“And you in three,” Mike answered. “New York and New Haven. Not exactly walking distance.”
Quinn let out a soft laugh, tiny, trembling, but brave. “No. But that doesn’t mean we can’t make it work.”
Mike looked at her like he already knew that but needed to hear it anyway. “Long distance is hard.”
“Yeah,” she said. “But so is learning to dance through storms.”
That made him smile, warm, proud, remembering.
A soft rumble of distant summer thunder rolled outside, faint through the walls.
Quinn lifted her eyes toward the rafters. “Think the storm’s a sign?”
“Maybe,” Mike said. “But we don’t run from storms anymore.”
She stepped toward him then, offering her hand the way he had offered his months ago in the darkness of the auditorium.
“One last dance? For old times’ sake?”
Mike took her hand without hesitation. “Always.”
There was no music. Maybe they didn’t need any.
They moved slowly at first, swaying in the quiet. The stage creaked gently beneath them, familiar and forgiving. Quinn rested her head near his shoulder, not leaning, just close enough that the moment felt real, grounded.
Mike guided them into a slow turn. Quinn laughed softly when she nearly stepped on his shoe. “I thought you were the dancer,” she teased.
“Hey, I’m sentimental right now,” he countered, grinning. “It messes with my coordination.”
Another rumble of thunder came, but neither of them flinched. Instead, Quinn lifted her head, looked at him, and said, “We’re going to be okay, right?”
Mike nodded, steadily, confidently. “Yeah. We are. We’ll call. We’ll visit. We’ll make time. We’ll… dance through whatever comes next.”
Quinn breathed out, shoulders relaxing. “I like the sound of that.”
They kept dancing, the auditorium quiet except for their footsteps and the distant hum of summer rain starting to fall again. This time, the storm wasn’t scary or symbolic of an ending.
It felt like a curtain rising on something new.
When they finally stopped, Quinn squeezed his hand. “See you in New York?”
“You better,” Mike said, letting a soft laugh escape. “And you’ll send me pictures of Yale?”
“Only the embarrassing ones,” she promised.
They walked off the stage side by side, no grand goodbyes, no dramatic scenes. Just two people choosing each other even when the road ahead stretched in different directions.
Outside, the rain had already softened into warm droplets that speckled the pavement.
Quinn looked up at Mike. “One more storm before college?”
Mike smiled. “Lead the way.”
And they stepped into it together, not afraid, not uncertain, but ready.
Because some dances were never meant to end.