Author's Note: Hey lovelies, I come bearing some angst. This isn't part of the future!fic I've been working on since that will be part of my THWBIA series, but I couldn't help letting this one take on a mind of its own. Thank you to those who support my fics and to that crazy little girl, even though she was super pissed that this is unrelated to my THWBIA universe haha. This fic was inspired by "Days and Days (Painting Songs)" by Tegan and Sara and it's set their sophomore year of college. Enjoy.

For Reasons I Can't Explain

It started in a post office. On a Thursday.

Which is weird, but kind of cool since there aren't many other things you can say the same for.

You enter through the chiming door, grasping the tiny envelope you're holding as if you loosen your grip you might lose your nerve. You don't notice Tina there until she taps you on the shoulder. She didn't know it was you either—the Mohawk officially died about a year ago around the middle of your freshmen year of college—but it turns out you were so lost in thought you ended up holding up the line like some lame-ass space cadet.

She smiles. Her streaked hair is a little shorter and her makeup a little less out there and she actually looks kind of pleased to see you. You got along pretty well in Glee after she got over her firm accusations that you wrote the glist—you suspect she was just pissed because she thought you thought she wasn't hot enough for it, but you never mention that— and she's probably one of the few people from high school that doesn't make you want to duck into the next aisle when you run into them in public places.

You make the typical small talk; you tell her you're still playing on a sports team that kind of sucks but you're taking some cool music classes, too. She tells you while she still sings and dances on her free time, she's majoring in arts administration and, "Yes, Puck, that's a real thing." She laughs a little and says she might actually miss your Mohawk and you claim you definitely miss her creepy razorblade key chains.

You know you made a mistake in nodding towards the envelope in her hand, because her smile fades slightly and her voice is stiffer when she admits she's writing a long-distance letter to Artie. When she counters the question, you feel just as uncomfortable telling her you're writing Bex since her adoptive parents said it was okay. At her furrowed eyebrows, you clarify: your daughter, Rebecca. When you muse out loud that you wonder if you'll ever get to know if she hates that nickname or not, her expression softens.

Although she laughs when you mock her for not quickly recalling the few days you all spent living off of hospital cafeteria food to be there for Quinn, you still end up shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot while wishing the banshee-looking guy with man-boobs ahead of you would hurry the hell up and buy his overpriced stamps already.

When you both are ready to leave, you hold the door open for her without really thinking about it and she smiles again. You feel like you should've asked for her number or something, but you shrug it off on the way to your truck and try not to watch her walk away.

You see her next at Burt and Carole's wedding the following month.

To be completely honest, you're surprised you're even invited. You know your family has been friends with Finn's for as long as you've known him, but you figure that by impregnating the then-girlfriend of the bride's son and then making him believe he was the father and spending all of freshmen year causing the son of the groom to take one too many dives in the campus dumpster, that doesn't exactly put you on top priority.

But there you are, donning some lame-ass tux and entering the reception with your tearful mother and annoying kid sister. You start to figure that weddings make people irrationally emotional so you don't question it. It's not until you look up from your place setting that you find Tina sitting at your table, all but grimacing at the band playing, the empty seat beside her mother marked for her absentee father.

"People should quit butchering the integrity of the Beatles by trying to cover their songs. I swear that should be a law or something."

The frown on her face morphs into a light smirk when her eyes make contact with yours and you wonder why you've never noticed how pretty she is before now. The truth is, though, that you've barely said two words to each other for the 3 years you were in Glee together and you thought she staked hearts for fun so that probably has something to do with it, but you shrug it off like a champ.

You watch her dance around Hummel for a while before she ends up back at the table and you wonder why you're almost happy to see her again.

When your mothers keep pushing you to dance together like you're five, you both wait until they're distracted by other guests and then grab a bottle of champagne and sit there splitting it at your empty table as you watch everyone else make fools of themselves. Your eyes keep straying to where a thirteen year old is getting handsy on the dance floor with your sister. She notices this and laughs.

You twirl her around for one song to get both your Jewish mothers off your backs and it's not as awkward as you thought it'd be. You find yourself actually laughing as she busts out into some weird version of the robot, and it's then you realize you kind of really miss Glee.

At the end of the night, you end up carrying your sleeping sister to the car and you leave with her phone number scribbled on a napkin in your pocket.

During winter break, she texts you saying Artie blew off their movie date, and the next thing you know, you're offering to take her to the slasher film yourself if it means she'll stop pouting. It turns out her university isn't that far from yours and you end up visiting her anyway. She throws your first Hanukkah gift of the holiday at you through your truck window and you smirk at the vintage Jimi Hendrix shirt you unwrap.

She smiles when she hops into your truck and, for a moment, life appears to make sense (even though it really, really doesn't).

The more you hang out with her, you realize that Tina's a lot more laidback and outgoing than you originally thought in high school. You also realize that she's probably the only girl from McKinley you haven't put the moves on. Well…except that creepy Pepper chick. And that whole terrifying vampire cult—you've said before that you like your girls a little freaky, but that's just a whole new level of batshit-crazy you just don't want to mess with.

When Tina casually tells you over pizza one night that she hasn't heard from Abrams in awhile, you don't even blink.

You realize you might've actually become friends with her, even if by sheer accident, when you get a gig teaching guitar at the local shop down the street and she's the only person other than your mother that you tell. You don't realize how much less of a fuckup you feel like until she's giggling and poking fun at the way you're rambling on about it. And hell, since when did you ever get excited?

You don't know when this started and it kind of makes you regret telling her, but she makes a habit out of crashing your lessons. She sits in the corner and gets this proud little smile on her face when she catches you helping a student with a patience you never knew you even had. You're pretty sure you thought you're unable to get enthusiastic over anything by default, but you find yourself meeting her eyes and smiling at her when the little pubescent boys ask her to sing along a few times and seriously, who ever thought you'd end up here?

When she tells you one of your co-workers asked her out, you don't really know why you have the sudden urge to punch him in the face. It's not like you've ever had beef with the guy—he's a dweeb but he's still pretty chill and there's enough people on that hitlist already.

But the idea of some greasy-haired bass player hitting on your best friend leaves you feeling bothered. You're protective over her, like any friend would be. At least that's what you tell yourself. And then you wonder when in the hell did you let your badass self become actual friends with a girl, especially one you once thought you should wear garlic cloves around for protection?

When this date appears to have gone really well by the way Tina can't stop gushing, you figure this isn't as big as a fluke as you had hoped.

When you tell her you'll break his legs if he hurts her, she laughs.

She thinks you're kidding.

When you open your front door to have her barge past you with tears streaming down her face and a sniffle in lieu of a greeting, it takes every ounce of self-control you don't even have not to immediately jump in your truck and go run down Peter. Seriously, even his name begs for some ass-kicking. What did she ever see in that douche, anyway?

Before you can go dig up your nunchucks and hunt his ass down Bruce Lee-style, a gentle hand on your shoulder stops you.

Turns out Petey-boy won't be dying tonight because he's not the reason she looks like a kicked raccoon right now. In a shaky voice she tells you she just found out what her father meant by 'business trips' for years and she ended up blowing up at Peter when he tried to comfort her and broke it off entirely and goddamn does she feel like a complete and utter train wreck right now.

With your hands awkwardly jammed in your pockets, you're not really sure what to do at first. You then ask her if she wants to go light shit on fire and throw it off the roof of McKinley. She gives you a doubtful look at the thought of encouraging your pyromaniac ways, so you suggest TPing Dave Karofsky's house instead.

She says that sounds perfect and you lead the way out to your truck.

As you're later laughing like the two crazy people you are while booking it away from the toilet paper masterpiece you created together on the Karofskys' suburban wonder, it dawns on you that you're the first person she thought to run to when she found out about her two-timing douche of a dad. Neither of you are sure what this means anymore—not that you ever did—but you're not as bothered as you thought you'd be.

You get a call from the hospital one night. Your mother had a stroke at work.

You don't think you've ever ran that fast or held your breath that long as you grab your keys and grab your sister and race like a fucking madman to the Lima medical center.

You don't get what point you're trying to prove to yourself when you don't press send when you dial Tina's number and instead close your phone before chucking it at one of those creepy health magazines with the perfect little smiling family next to a headline about AIDS. Your sister falls asleep curled into a ball on one of the waiting chairs with tearstains on her cheeks and you keep an eye on her as you pace the waiting room.

Forty minutes later you turn around to be engulfed by protective arms and black hair and for a second you think those freaky Twilight fans are finally abducting you before you realize it's Tina. You feel her arms snake around your shoulders and the fingers of one hand graze the back of your neck and you tell yourself your sudden dizziness has everything to do with the smell of dying people and nothing to do with her.

When she pulls back, she has this look on her face that asks, 'why the hell didn't you call me?' To which you try not to counter with, 'because I think I'm trying to prove that I don't need you,' but it soon gives way to something gently unreadable as she simply sits down beside you and grabs a hold of your hand.

The doctor eventually comes out and tells you your mother is in recovery, but neither of you move to let go.

When you watch the serene expression on her face as she paints, you realize you don't know when your life became this cheesy scene from some Lifetime movie your mom would like, but since your desire to beat people up has dramatically decreased, you figure you'll just roll with it.

Some days, you really wonder why the hell you haven't kissed her already and you get the feeling she's wondering the same thing. You also kind of cringe at the thought because you're you and you would probably find a way to screw it up so you stay in the no-kissing zone, no matter how unnatural and pansy-like it seems. And by the look on her face sometimes you have a feeling she's thought about that, too.

When you play your first gig at a club downtown by your university, she sits in the front row and you swear her grin lights up the entire room.

The club owner compliments you on your set and invites you to play again next Friday. He then amicably advises you that even if you get all big and famous one day, your girlfriend is definitely a keeper.

Neither of you bother to correct him.

You don't know when or why, but you agree to let her paint your room.

She sings along and twirls around in time with all the horrible songs on the radio and ends up flicking paint all over you and giggling. Soon you're chasing her then grabbing and throwing her over your shoulder like somebody you don't recognize. You both grin like you're not two people that fucked up things have happened to, and you find that you don't really care how weird this all is because you like the way her laughter seeps through you like a drug.

One afternoon she's quiet as hell and it's making you uncomfortable. When she finally speaks, it's a bombshell.

"I'm moving to New York."

And that's it. There it is, five simple words you never foresaw kicking your world on its axis. It turns out she's been offered this paid internship with this art gallery if she transfers to the program at NYU—one of those once-in-a-lifetime deals that you're not a dick enough anymore to talk her out of. The way she's looking at you makes you want to kick all clichés and pansy feelings in the face. And since by the way you feel torn as fuck like some lead guy in a lame-ass Hollywood movie when she tells you all of this, this includes you, too.

The few days following are kind of awkward.

You both know you're running on borrowed time and neither of you know what you're supposed to mean to the other, so you don't even know where to go from here.

On the third day of your Tina-avoidance spree, you find a note on your dashboard accompanied by a small gift.

'Jimi Hendrix was a badass, but even he used guitar picks, you moron.'

And just like that, the banter is back like nothing ever went or will ever go wrong. You don't question how the hell she broke into your truck, but you shrug and know that even though she's come a long way since high school, she's still Tina and you accept the fact this means she'll always be a little spooky.

After that, you end up spending practically every free waking and sleeping minute you have with her, trying not to think that you're being a bit of a masochist since she'll be gone soon and getting used to being around her this much is just a recipe for fucking heartbreak. When she falls asleep against you some nights, you breathe in the intoxicating scent of her streaked hair and don't push her off like you did that one time with Santana Lopez in high school. You also don't get socked in the face this time either.

A few weeks pass and you're already hugging goodbye in the middle of an airport.

She swears she'll call, she'll write, but you get this sick sense of irony or something probably too profound for you to care about that reminds you of that first day you bumped into her in that old post office that reeks of cardboard and old people. You try not to think about how that was one of the last letters she ever sent to Artie.

You decide to make your life even more of a crappy chick flick by stopping as you walk away and turning around for one more glance. She has this look on her face like she wants to say something more, a look that makes you want to say fuck it and jump on the plane with her, but you try not to question it too much.

She smiles one last Tina-smile, eyes bright and watery, before you decide you really need to get the hell out of this airport before you buy yourself a ticket. Her expression pricks something in your stomach, or it would, but you refuse to dwell on what this all could mean, really.

Yeah. You're not dwelling at all.

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