Okay, this'll be enough "Swan Song" feels. At least for today.

Jake was almost ninety percent sure that Finn took the idea to spam a message out to all the Glee clubbers from a cheesy eighties movie. (A good one, sure, but still, he wonders what kind of dude would actually take advice from a movie. Then he remembers that this is Finn they're talking about, and while he's still a bit weirded out, at least he isn't confused.)

He had been sitting on the gym bleachers covered in sweat from a good workout when he got the message, and spent a good five minutes reading the words. He was almost expecting it to say something that wasn't stupid sentimental crap, but he should have known better. If Glee Club was full of loser kids who were prone to saying cheesy stuff, then the pseudo-leader, Mister "I Can't Move On With My Life After High School" Finn Hudson, had to be King Cheese or something.

The idea of skipping out and going home to play Skyrim is tempting, and he packs up his bag in the locker room and puts on his clothes, completely intent on doing so. He's shrugging into his jacket when he goes outside, suddenly grateful for the hot jacket his mom had almost forced him into.

The cold and the snow is nothing new to Jake; there used to be days where all he would do is spend time outside with his mom tossing snow at cars driving by. It's the reason he has good aim, or so his mom said when she managed to catch a few minutes of his basketball practice from the gym. After a round of shooting hoops by himself, his muscles are still warm and lean; he feels limber, fit for dancing, like that whole practice was just a warm-up for whatever is going to happen next.

Jake hears the music coming from the commons before getting close to it, and he's surprised to recognize the song. (That's the second thing he thinks. The first is, how much of a loser do you have to be to get stuck playing instruments for the damn Glee Club when it's fucking freezing outside?) There's just enough of a breeze to warp the sound, and rather than turn him off, it draws Jake in closer. Unbidden, his own voice pours out as he approaches, joining the chorus of people who are already there.

He sees Marley out of the corner of his eye, climbing up the flight of steps to join the singing parade of mostly newbies. Jake doesn't make a motion to her yet, instead looking at her as he leans over the bar. He feels hands all over him, pushing against his jacket as if to say come here, you're one of us, get in on the love man. And rather than push away from all that physical love, he embraces it, leaning in to the pats on his back and even catching Ryder in a one-armed hug.

It seems oddly synchronized, like their singing is having some mind-control effect on all of them: they come down to make one big congregation at the bottom of the steps, where Finn and Artie and Kitty are. Though he is aware of all the people around him, people who might actually not be as dumb as they look (of course how the hell should he know, it's not like he knows very many of them as well as he does Ryder and Marley) Jake only has eyes for the girl in the beret.

They circle up, each of them facing the other, so he knows everyone's eyes are on him when he settles right next to Marley. He doesn't care though, not really, because even Kitty seems to be in a strangely good mood if anything can be said about the look in her eyes. They don't have that manic gleam in them, not right now, and Jake takes that as a good thing, an opportune moment to strike.

His hand brushes against her arm and, he swears, it's like lightning the contact is so electric. She glances up at him with those big eyes of hers and that stupid smile and he can't help but smile himself. And maybe it's a part of that mind-control effect this song has—maybe it's because it feels organic and nothing's been choreographed to the point where his feet are dancing the steps two weeks later, but he somehow knows he's going to remember this performance, this night, for other reasons—but he lifts his arm and drapes it over Marley's shoulders.

She doesn't flinch away; she nuzzles closer into the touch instead, snaking her own free arm to snake around his waist.

And as the snow falls on him and as the wind nips at the back of his neck, they stand and sway and sing. Somehow Marley's head finds the crook of his neck, and though the beret sort of itches he's surprised to find how well the contact feels, and his cheek is pressed against the side of her head. Neither one of them move, finding peace in the could-be familiarity of this touch. So they keep like that, even as they all sing out the final strains of the song. It actually sounds sort of good, singing like this without the pressure of performing for stupid judges somewhere down the line; he knows it's a competition club, that they were made to beat out other groups and come out on top, but honestly, when was the last time any of them had sang in the past few months just because, without a goal in mind?

Does he miss Glee Club? It seems like a stupid question to ask, because it doesn't really feel over yet. Not now when they're standing and laughing around like chums who've known each other for years, who will be at each other's graduations and weddings and baby showers. He glances at Marley for only a quick second, and sees that she's looking at him too, which makes him grin.

Their cheeks brush and, as all the other Glee Club dorks laugh and look around, he sneaks the world's fastest peck on her cheek before looking away from her. But he doesn't need to see in order to know Marley's smiling, that her hold on him has suddenly gotten the tiniest bit tighter, and right then and there he knows he made the right choice.