different theres and elsewheres, a glee fanfic

A/N: This piece is inspired by Tongari's "25 Lives," and actually what "Soulmates, So To Speak" was originally intended to be like. This is a hazier, more expansive, and (a bit) sadder version of that fic. Title is taken from Bob Hicok's "Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem."

(For those who are wondering, I'm still working on the Brittana part of SSTS, and I've written some short pieces for the other SSTS-universes at my tumblr: turtleduckie.)

different theres and elsewheres

'Ah, but I don't blame you: I'll never burn as brilliantly as you. It's only fair that I should be the one to chase you across ten, twenty-five, a hundred lifetimes until I find the one where you'll return to me.'

–Tongari's "25 Lives"

'Somewhere you are actual. Happen to me there.'

–Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta's "As Far as Cho-Fu-Sa"

It is under the orange light of the streetlamp that we first see each other in this world. I can never really explain how I know it is you every single time we meet. There is no visible clue: not your physical appearance since this changes in each world, nor some song or secret code we can share. Just your mere presence that would make my heartbeat quicken and every fiber of my being scream it's you, it's you.

So even as you are bathed in the orange light, and you look nothing like I've seen you as before, I know it is you. Too stunned by this realization, I just stand there staring at you, not hearing your question about the time, until a car pulls up beside us. You touch me on the wrist and ask are you okay?

I breathed out a yeah and you smile a slow catlike smile. You say I'll see you around and you slide into the car.

You don't.

I tell you that I love you on that street corner, under the glow of the orange lamplight. I think I do this deliberately to make up for that world where I missed out on an opportunity because of my slowness.

You look at me with that soft sad look in your eyes and you shake your head. You can't, you whisper. And it surprises me, even now, that there are worlds where it is you who turns me down. It's usually me and my endless stupidity who prolongs things, who says these important words last.

It's not that surprising though. After all, I had made this deal to keep my consciousness in these worlds because of that one world where I kept on hurting you over and over again. As it turns out, I do that pretty often in many other worlds, too.

But not in this world. I guess I just thought that since we had grown up together, and have spent most of those years as best friends—much like that first world where I had made the deal—things would go the same way, more or less. And I had thought to rectify my mistake by saying these words first.

But as I look into your eyes, I remember that one important thing that I keep forgetting:

There are worlds where you do not love me.

In this world, you love me and I love you, and our circumstances permit us to love each other. I am happy that I can love you properly this time, that I can be everything I've always wanted to be for you, from that very first world.

But sometimes at night, I feel something gnawing at my heart. It doesn't really say much, does it, that I can only be good to you when I don't have so many giants to slay.

I am born as your twin in this world, and I think this is the most perfect version of ourselves and of our bond. Our thoughts flow from each other's so easily, the easiest that I can remember. I can feel immediately when you're happy, when you're sad, when you're frustrated. And I can be with you in a heartbeat, I can love you and look after you and nobody ever questions it, unlike in other worlds.

But the reason that I love this world best is that I get to be with you from the very first breath we both take.

This supposedly unsinkable ship is sinking and all around people are panicking and rushing towards the lifeboats. We have met in this ship only a few days prior, and already our time in this world is to be cut short. We surrender ourselves to our fate and I hold you close as the water steadily rises around us. But one of the officers spots us and tries to haul us out of the wreckage of the room, and a look into your eyes tells me that no, we should try to live a little longer. I urge him to take you first but of course, since I am nearest to him, I should be the one to be eased out first. But then just as I had gotten out, the room falls apart once more, trapping you inside. The officer tries to pull me away and I scream at him to save you, to save you but he wouldn't listen.

I watch in horror, with the his arms still restraining me from going back to you, as you drown.

I've flown many miles before I found you. In this world, I am a nightingale, and I remember that story you told me in one of those worlds we have met, about that nightingale who gave up his life to give the human he loved a rose.

That is overly romantic and dramatic, and I don't do anything like that.

Instead, I just sing to you every morning and evening, and the smile you greet me each time, when you look out the window, makes me feel like I've given you a million beautiful roses.

You see me first, we are at the playground and we are both seven. You greet me with a hug and I think for a moment that you remember. But when you pull back and I get to look at you in the eyes, I realize that there is no spark of recognition there. Nevertheless, I am happy because meeting this early in our lives means that we get to grow up together.

We do, but then we also slowly, painfully drift apart.

We do not grow up together in this world but when we meet, it's almost like we did. You share your thoughts with me, your fears and dreams and hopes, and you take me to your home and I join your family regularly for dinners and movie nights. We have sleepovers and we tell each other of our respective childhoods, so that we know pretty much everything about each other, and we both file away these memories in the gaps that we never knew before existed, the gaps that we realize now were reserved only for each other.

We do not take our first breath together, but being together like this makes that fact unimportant.

This is a world where I realize too late that you would have been better off without me.

I love you. I love you. I love you. But I cannot always be brave enough to be with you when I find you. The vessel that I find myself in in every world carries with it baggage that I cannot always be free of. Fear is constant, and I am not always strong enough to fight it.

And so I hurt you. And so I look on helplessly as you cry.

When you finally break away from me, I can only find consolation at the thought that this is justice. In other worlds you do not love me, and worlds like this give me the reason why.

You are not here.

The thought of just ending my life when I cannot find you is very tempting, and sometimes I do. But then what if you're just about to be born? Or what if I could have found you the next day but didn't because I let my loneliness get the best of me?

But do you know, sometimes, I just live out my life because I still dream of you. You are not here, but I still love you, and I sometimes see you in my dreams.

Living out the ninety-odd years alone seems to be worth that, at least.

I am the scrawny tabby cat that you adopted from the shelter. You always keep me close to you and you talk to me about the things that you never tell anybody else. At times I wonder if it's because you recognize me somehow. But it doesn't really matter if you do or not. Just simply being with you, and being able to provide you with some sort of comfort, the best that a cat can give, is enough.

Being a well-known actress-slash-singer has a lot of perks, but my pursuing this path has really more to do with the fact that I get to be seen and heard all over the world: in movies, television shows, commercials, songs played over the radio, etc.

I am hoping that this will make it easier for you to find me.

But then I remember that you are not always looking for me.

I try to love other people, and let other people love me. But I can never love them the way I love you, and none of them can make me feel so loved and cared for like you do, when you do.

In one world, you tell me I'm not smart enough for you.

You know that is not true at all. In each and every world I find you, you possess that unique way of viewing the world, of seeing possibilities when others think there are none. After all, it's because of you that I got the idea of crossing worlds.

See, if anyone isn't smart enough, it's me. If I was, I wouldn't be bungling up so much in so many ways in so many different worlds. If I was, I would have been able to make you happy in every place that we meet.

So in this world I try, I try so hard. But I cannot figure out a way around your self-doubt, and I cannot find the words to tell you that you're more than enough for me.

In the end, I let myself be pushed away since here, like in so many other worlds, I cannot make you happy.

I never see you in this world, but I know you are there. It's kind of funny how we still find each other in some worlds even when all the odds are against us. When I first heard about post-crossing, where complete strangers exchange postcards, I just thought what the hell, it's a long shot but whatever happens, at least I'd still get a postcard.

I didn't really expect that I'd find you through this. All this time I had thought that I can only know you when I actually meet you. As it turns out, it's not necessarily so. Your soul's essence flows into everything—into the words you use, in the gentle curve of your penmanship. I remember in that first world, you would use crayons to write, explaining that each letter has its own unique color and it was terribly unkind to not let them be their colorful selves. In this world, however, you write in black ink. This doesn't diminish your magic though, since you paint your postcards yourself and what unique worldview that used to flow out in your crayon-scribbled words now flows in your mini-paintings.

We keep on exchanging postcards for a few years, and the idea that we should meet up pops up a couple of times, but eventually we both decide not to.

We have formed a bond against all odds, and we both think that is enough.

We have just met in a party hosted by a common friend. After a few drinks and casual flirtations, I offer to drive you home. It is snowing but I do not feel the chill at all as I think that yes, this is one of those good worlds.

You are humming to yourself and I hum along with you, and I pause only for a moment to wonder about the song—it's by the Beatles—since you are resting your hand on mine over the console. I steal a glance at you and I find that you have been looking at me the entire time. I smile at you and you smile back and—

A truck rams into us, killing you instantly.

It takes me three days before I follow you.

Being a desert nomad is a choice I consciously make in this life. My mother begs me to stay, saying that the blistering hot days and chillingly cold nights out there can kill me. I tell her that I cannot stay since food and water are getting scarce. I'm just another mouth to feed and so, for their survival as well as mine, I have to go away.

All this is only a half-truth.

I cannot stay because it's clear that you aren't there in the tribe, or anywhere nearby. If I am to find you, I have to go out there and look for you.

Mother is right and the desert is unforgiving. I have seen three of my companions die, and a number of them have decided to go back. Us who remained rally on and soon we find ourselves a new settlement, where we stay for half-a-year before going forth again. Trade is our livelihood, and true to our name, we never stay still for longer than two years.

I have been to many places and yet I cannot find you.

I take solace at the thought that at least in this world, I cannot hurt you.

I see you only for a brief moment. Across the field, over at the enemy lines, I see you and you look so terrified. You were never made for this, for war and violence and bloodshed, and I curse the stupid fucked-up people in the government for drafting you into this. You are scared and I just badly want to hold you and whisper reassurances against your hair.

All these thoughts are cut short when the signal is sounded and I rush along with the rest of the soldiers to the forefront of the battle. I run and dodge and try to keep myself alive just to find you.

But when I finally did, you look at me once with your frightened blue eyes before you pull the trigger.

I feel my heart stopped by a bullet.

I've lost you far too many times, and in this world, when I find you and you let me be with you, I hold you close and never let go. I make sure that you are never apart from me for long, and to know your each and every dealing.

It didn't take long before you begin to struggle in my stifling grasp.

I should have known; you were never the type to be tied down, and my desperate clinging has worn your love thin. One day, you look at me with tired, sad eyes and say the words that haunts me in every world:

Please let me go.

This is another world where I never see you and yet I know you're there. You are a radio announcer, and I know it is you because of the words you use, words that paint the ideas I have always known to be uniquely yours. I hate waking up early in the morning, but in order to catch your program, I force myself to. You entertain calls from people expressing their views and there have been so many times I was tempted to be one of them. Not to express my opinion on the subject matter of the day, but just a chance to talk to you, hoping against hope that you'd feel something and it would lead us to meet each other in this world.

But I don't make that call.

The weight of all those other worlds is bearing down on me and it seems to me that there are more of those where it all just ends badly than those where we end up both happy.

Do I want to risk it?

I try to keep myself satisfied with just hearing your voice.

I was counting the days until I get to leave this world when I meet you here for the first time. My eyes had grown dim and I can barely make out your features. But I would have known your voice, your touch, your scent, anywhere. Your hand lands gently on my shoulder and I feel a twinge of sadness even as my heart rejoiced in finding you here at last.

In this world, you are in love with a boy with straw-blond hair. He makes you laugh and everything with him is easy. He whispers to you, in between kisses, that you are his soulmate and the anger that flares in my belly makes me want to stab him repeatedly with an ice pick. But I don't, because you are happy with him, and I can only wonder if you believe him. I wonder if in your heart of hearts, you believe that you two are soulmates.

I wonder and I wait, but your smiles when you are with him never fade.

This is just one of the many worlds where I do not have a place to be.

They have found a way to erase memories in this world, and after a tumultuous relationship that spanned ten years, you chose to erase me.

Hurt and anger made me reflect bitterly if I was wrong to have chased after you all this time. It was one thing for you to never remember me in the other worlds, but to willingly choose to forget within one lifetime—

But then I see you in the street again, and you look at me with such a bright and open expression. You hold your hand out to me and say your name, and I can see then that we are bound to repeat the same things all over again.

This is the world where I let all my bitterness coat me over until it encases me like a carapace. I let myself be led away from you, and I keep telling myself that I am tired of always running after you. Bent on making you feel the pain that I have felt in the many worlds I've been to, I snap at you and repulse your advances. I let other people fuck me and I even declare my love to some of them. I take perverse delight in seeing the hurt in your eyes when I see you afterwards.

You do not tell me you love me, but I know you do.

I do not tell you I love you, and so you never know.

As I lay dying in the hospital bed, years too soon, I can only feel regret. You have gone away and the blame is all on me. Always, always on me.

I am the stupid one.

Maybe I really deserve to be alone.

It is the apocalypse in this world and everything is falling apart around us. But we don't mind. You and I have found each other early in our lives, have fallen in love, gotten married, raised three children and had seen the birth of five grandchildren. We feel a little sad at the thought that our grandchildren were born just when everything was about to end. But as I hold you close, you look at me and smile. I kiss you and we close our eyes and can only feel contentment.

We have lived our lives in the best way we knew how: with each other.

Going through each world has robbed me much of my optimism and youthful naïveté. I still look for you but now it's with the heaviness of painful memories and the anticipation of even more of these. When I had made this deal, I didn't think it would be this terrible. I am starting to ask myself more and more if all this was really worth it. Even the best memories of us together cannot completely salve the wounds that all the other worlds have inflicted on me.

But when I see you in this world, I cannot bring myself to regret my choice. It's always been like this. Just one indication that you are in the same world that I am in, and all I can feel is how happy I am to be in a world where you are and how much I love you still.

You and I are eighteen when we see each other, the same age when I made the deal. Despite the feelings of love and happiness, I cannot help the feeling of dread that starts to settle at the pit of my stomach. Will everything go well in this world? Will we get to live out our lives together? Will I be able to make you happy?

And then I see the unmistakable spark in your eyes, the one that I've been vainly trying to find each and every time we saw each other. Realization dawns on me and my eyes widen. I whisper you have made the deal, too?

You nod your head and say I don't want to miss you anymore.

I feel my eyes burn with tears as you envelope me in your arms, lifting me up and slowly spinning me around. When you finally set me down, you put your hands on either side of my face so that I am compelled to look at you.

But… what if we don't arrive at the same world together? What if we keep on missing each other still? I grow anxious at the thought that you would experience all the pain of those worlds where everything ends badly. What if…?

You silence me with a kiss. You pull back and smile. Didn't I tell you before? I love you more than I've ever loved anyone else in any world. And because of that, I think anything's possible.

I break down and cry once more. You're right. That's the only important thing: you love me and I love you.

You hold me close once again until my sobs subside. Then you look at me before leaning in to kiss me slowly, gently, full of reassurance of love and faith and hope. It was a kiss that made me wonder if I was wrong to think that there ever was a world where you did not love me. Maybe, maybe I just didn't see it, or I didn't wait long enough for it to grow.

Your arms tighten around me and I let you take away all my doubt, replacing it with certainty.

In this kiss I finally feel the kind of happiness that spills over in many lifetimes:

This is the kiss of two halves of the same soul finally fitting together.