(Mostly) Friendship Pair Prompts
Taken from my Tumblr.
She doesn’t love him, he’s pretty sure. Not that anyone has yet, not like Quinn really did either, apparently, but with Santana, it’s different. Quinn at least had the decency to pretend.
Although, now that he thinks about it, maybe the pretending was the worst part.
With Santana, it’s weird; she’s always on his lips, her tongue and teeth working against his like she’s trying to devour him from the inside out. Her hips spike repeatedly in his lap, her hand palming him awkwardly through his jeans, and he keeps making this noise in his head-it must be in his head, or she would definitely come up for air with that exasperated look she seems to have perfected just for him-of complete confusion, because it doesn’t feel like it’s supposed to. Not the way it was with the few girls he’s been with back home, or with Quinn. Not that he’s ever been past second-not really-but at least with those girls, he felt…
Like they wanted to be there?
He’s not sure how to phrase it properly. Santana seems like she wants to be there, kind of. Girls don’t kiss the way Santana does unless they want to, but at the same time, there’s something in her near-desperation that makes him wonder. Girls don’t usually get all desperate. Not like this.
It takes him a week or two to open his eyes-he’ll sigh at himself later, embarrassed at being so slow-and when he does, he finds himself looking at the most obvious thing on the planet. The kind of obvious like the stars hanging in the night sky above the baseball diamond: He has to squint to find them, at first, struggling to pick each one out against the streetlights, but once they’re there-they’re there.
It’s in the little details, the ones he’d never have thought to look for before getting messed around on the first time. It’s in how Santana’s eyes go all big and dark, like she’s totally surprised, like she didn’t expect Brittany to sweep into the choir room each afternoon. And how Santana’s fingertips brush the edge of Brittany’s skirt when they’re all dancing together, like she wants to grab hold, but can’t quite make herself go for it. And how Santana’s smile gets kind of crooked when Brittany’s arm loops around her middle, cracking the instant that arm vanishes and Brittany twirls back to Artie’s lap.
It’s the little things: listening to the sigh she gives when she thinks no one can hear, and seeing her thumb through a line of texts a mile long during the best part of The Untouchables, and feeling her wince-actually wince, which he thinks is a little harsh-when he moves to kiss her in English, with Brittany’s sharp blue eyes scorching them both from the next table over.
It takes him a while, but once he gets it-thanks in part to some movie about British people and flowers and the hot wife from 300, which he catches Santana half-dozing in front of-he gets it. And something clicks into place in his chest, something that makes it all make sense in this really bizarre, kind of messed up way. Not that he’s got any problem with ladies loving ladies (or dudes loving dudes, because, hey, carpe diem or whatever), but the thing is, he’s pretty sure his girlfriend is gay. And that just doesn’t happen to a guy every day.
His track record is getting kind of busted up and weird, truth be told.
He’s not sure how to say it, exactly; he doesn’t think he should mention it at all, for a while. Isn’t there some code or something, about how you’re not supposed to shove something that huge under a person’s nose until they’re ready for it? He thinks he remembers hearing Kurt squawk about it once-something about respecting a person’s right to the ideal time, or something. And, anyway, he’s pretty sure Santana will grab his family jewels and squeeze until he loses any chance of ever having kids if he says it at the wrong moment. Better to be quiet.
He does try to drop hints here and there-not break-up-now hints, because he figures he’s allowed to be just a little bit selfish, keeping the hot girl to himself while he can, but hints as to his willingness to accept her when she’s ready. In his head, they’re always a lot smoother than they come out; he pictures her smiling sheepishly and nodding along, biting her lip. Things Santana doesn’t really do, but would be kind of cute and fitting to his Noble Boyfriend of a Lesbian role.
It should be smooth-he tries, he really does-but it usually isn’t. Like the time he catches her eye at Burger King and announces, apropos of nothing at all, “You know, I think Ellen and I would be buds.”
She gives him this fish-eyed look around her fries, one eyebrow cocked nearly to her hairline, and says, “Ellen McCoy? From Bio? She smells like a rubber band factory.”
His informative attempt to engage her in conversation about the merits of flannel shirts a week later doesn’t go much better. And, for some reason, she gives him the mother of all glares when he tries to make her choose between Gia and But I’m a Cheerleader at their next movie-and-make-out date.
It’s not until the night of Rachel Berry’s Party-the one he’s pretty sure they’ll all be talking about for months to come, and maybe not in a totally good way-that they really talk about it. Not that this is smooth either, exactly. Not the way you’re probably supposed to talk about your girlfriend liking to bang other chicks.
It sort of slips out of him in the car, into the backseat of which Santana has tearfully manhandled him. One minute, her tongue is lapping across his teeth in this sloppy way he actually kind of likes, and then he’s pulling back and staring at her with determination, and he hears himself say, “She likes you, you know.”
Her face goes kind of pale, her mascara-rimmed eyes all raccoon-shocked in the darkness. “What?”
“She likes you,” he repeats, doing his very best not to slur. “And she’s pretty. And a hell of a kisser.”
Her eyebrows narrow, her head ducking to claim his lips again; he dodges, struggling to sit up.
“She’s pretty, and she likes you-I see her looking at you, the way you’re always looking at her. And I think that’s cool. I mean,” he adds hurriedly when her mouth pops open in a murderous little O, “not cool-cool. Cool-cool would be my girlfriend actually wanting to be my girlfriend for once, and not being casually in love with somebody else. But it’s still kind of cool, because you like her, and she likes you, and that’s-”
He can’t find the words; in all probability, he doubts he’d be able to get it right even if he hadn’t slammed half a dozen shots and some questionable punch mix of Puck’s. Not that it matters, because the look at her face is wavering dangerously between horrified and furious.
“I do not,” she begins, and he must be drunk, because it’s the only explanation for stupidly covering her mouth with the palm of his hand. Her nails dig into his shoulder warningly, hard enough to burn.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, but keeps his hand right where it is. “Sorry, but-you do. And she does, and that’s-you don’t find that every day. Maybe not any day. I think-”
She makes a noise against his skin, tickly and uncomfortable. He draws away, squinting when she repeats slowly, “Tell anyone, and I will cut off your nuts with a machete.”
“I wouldn’t,” he swears, as loyally as a guy can when his girlfriend is swimming before him with her identical twin in the back of a Chrysler. “I never-”
“She’s with him,” she interrupts, venomous and heartbroken at the same time. He manages to shrug, his shoulder colliding heavily with the window.
“They’re not married.”
“You got cheated on,” she points out coldly, and shuffles back to perch on his kneecaps. “Didn’t seem to sit too well with you, Lips McGee.”
He drags his fingertips through his hair. “I’m not saying mess around on Artie. Artie’s my bro. That’s not cool. But…I’m just saying, if she really does love you-love finds a way.”
It’s sappy, and lame, and a total misquote from Jurassic Park, but screw it; he’s drunk, and this backseat is cramped, and her face looks all crestfallen and shit, like she misplaced that cranky mask she’s always wearing. He reaches up and tangles his fingers together with hers, squeezing when she gazes forlornly out the back window.
Santana’s crazy, and kind the weepiest drunk in the world, and in the morning, she’ll probably scalp him bald for this conversation even coming up. It’s probably Rule Number 1, that you don’t directly confront your Lesbian Girlfriend about being a lesbian in the first place. It’s probably a bad call on his part.
But for now, she leans forward and nudges her head against his shoulder, all clumsy and dazed, and he presses his mouth to her hair. “She likes you,” he whispers like a secret, and she makes a choked little sound in the back of her throat. “She does.”
It’s the closest he’s ever come to understanding Santana, sitting in this car with her hair between his lips and her nails digging relentlessly into his shoulder. She doesn’t love him. But maybe, even so, she kind of needs him. And maybe that makes her more honest than Quinn ever was.
She’s not the best girlfriend, exactly, but she’s something. And he cares. And he figures that’s about what they both need right now.
(Although, honestly? He’s thinking he should probably put the next girl he likes through a bit of a background check. Just as a safety precaution. Because bros are cool and all, but he could really use a girlfriend who actually wants to be around him. Just some food for more sober thought.)
She’s terrible at video games. Like-truly terrible, actually, genuinely bad in a way that makes him snort with laughter and run his player right into enemy fire. He’s not actually sure he’s ever met anyone so terrible at this sort of thing in his whole life, and that includes the time in fourth grade when Rachel Berry insisted on walking him home (wheeling him, more like, because he had only just found himself locked into this chair, and hadn’t quite realized what a lifetime event it would become) and his mom made him invite her in for the afternoon. Rachel had been bad, but Quinn is, like, Bad. Capital letters totally necessary.
She’s bad, and it makes this a whole lot more fun than it should be, given that they’re two kids trapped with a certain leglessness that makes even going to the bathroom harder than God or anyone intended.
He still can’t full wrap his head around it, the whole “Quinn Fabray coming to his living room and being all weirdly nice and wheelchair-bound” deal, and he suspects she likes it that way. Quinn’s a bigger sweetheart now that she’s had a life-and-death experience, but she’s not all sweet-and he figures she wouldn’t quite be her if that were so. Sweet isn’t Quinn at all, doesn’t fit her right, would look uncomfortably like a shirt with its sleeves all shrunk in and the buttons popping loose.
(He tries not to think too much about how great that could actually be, with the two of them alone in his bedroom and everything.)
Anyway, the fact that she’s still kind of twisted up there under all that blonde hair and that thankfully-unshattered smile kind of works for him. Which says a whole lot more about his sanity than hers, he guesses, but whatever; his longest relationship was with Brittany. Quinn might actually be a step up; even with the having-another-guy’s-baby thing, and the punk-phase thing, and the slightly demented trying-to-steal-back-her-child bit, at least she’s not a lesbian.
(He thinks. Pretty sure. It’s getting harder and harder to tell with girls these days.)
She’s here in his bedroom, her deadened legs stretched out on his bed-and how impressed is he, that she actually managed to get up here without help? It took him years to perfect that particular shade of art-with a controller clutched between her hands, and he knows she thinks it’s funny, that he’s so dumbfounded by it all.They’ve been having these weird little playdates for a few weeks now, ever since he rolled into her hospital room and wisely informed her that hand-eye coordination is incredibly important when it comes to getting around without use of your feet.
Which was, he knows, kind of a blunt and douchey way to put it, but she only bit her lip and closed her eyes for a second, and then she agreed to come over when the doctors figured it was cool to set her loose, and then she actually showed, so-he guesses she maybe wasn’t as insulted as most girls would’ve been.
Chicks can be so confusing.
He watches her out of the corner of his eye, choking back the urge to laugh again. She really is horrible, her shoulders bobbing and weaving as she jerks the controller to and fro. She’s one of Those Players, the kind who clearly never saw so much as a Mario Kart round growing up, and who never quite figured out how little ducking and weaving actually helps in a game. It’s cute, and sad, and he wonders if she’d be better if he had a Wii.
But then, Wiis are kind of designed for people with solid mobility. It’s pretty hard to rock one of those dance-dance-fitness whatever games from a chair. Something like that would probably just piss her off.
When they’re here and she doesn’t have to think about it, she’s good at this, he’s noticed; good at pretending it doesn’t bother her, and at faking a big, cheery grin whenever his mom bustles into the room with cookies and Cokes. She’s good at playing at normalcy, like it doesn’t bug her, get under her skin, drive her completely apeshit. Like being confined in her own personal prison-on-wheels isn’t the end of the world for her.
It’s not, he knows. Almost ten years down the line, and he’s living proof that you can still make things work with only half your body answering to the signals your brain sends out. The world doesn’t stop with failed nerve endings. But it was always different, for him. This was always his thing: the sitting down, the reading books, playing games, building models. He was never exactly a soccer-star kind of guy in the first place, and yeah, it blows that he’ll never dance the way he knows he could, if ever he got the chance, but for her…
She was a goddess to those cheerleaders, a high-kick, air-split, back-flip maniac. She could run, and jump, and fly; that was her life. And now she’s here, jerking her shoulders inelegantly with the controller, eyebrows furrowed in concentration like it will do anything to save her from the sniper on the roof. Now this is the most she can do, and he hates that for her.
But, selfishly, he sort of loves that she’s doing it here, with him.
He shows off a little, racing laps around the screen, leaping from rooftops, firing at hidden ninjas. Doing all the things he hasn’t been able to do outside of his fantasies since he was eight years old, and she laughs-laughs, and swears when she’s shot down for the fifth time in as many minutes. He grins crookedly at her, sparing a second to push his glasses higher on his nose, and announces, “Girl, you weak.”
She pushes at his leg, careless, and he wishes he could feel it: the pressure of her palm, hot through the heavy fabric, the nudge of manicured nails as the scrape along corduroy grooves. He wishes, but wishes don’t get anybody too far these days. If they did, she wouldn’t be here in the first place.
He slaps back instead, damn near girly, his fingertips grazing the edge of her knee where it peeks out from beneath a powder-blue skirt. She rolls her eyes, and he almost misses the flash of discomfort lurking there, the one that says she should feel it, should recognize the brush of his fingertips. Almost. It’s easy to pretend with her sometimes, but after so many hours of this…
“We need to get you a system,” he says brazenly, before she can go to that quiet, dark place she sometimes slips into when they’re quiet for too long. “This is embarrassing.”
“You just pick crappy games,” she shoots back, which-please-couldn’t be further from the truth. He sticks out his tongue.
“Embarrassing. What do you want, Duck Hunt?”
It would actually probably work with her bob-and-weave system, but he doesn’t say that out loud. Pointing it out might make her stop.
She dies again pretty promptly, and tosses her controller down with a grunt. He calmly taps the pause button and shifts at the waist, flashing his teeth.
“So bad.”
“I hate video games,” she grumbles. “Anything else. Let’s do anything else.”
He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, because it’s been a long time since Brittany, and anything else with a pretty girl translates almost instantly to one specific activity. One he’s dead-sure Quinn doesn’t want to consider right now, much less with someone like-
(He’s trying to pretend he’s never thought about the logistics of it, what it would be like for two legless people to go at it. He’s trying to pretend like he hasn’t worked out some of the angles, some of the awkward points of hips that only move so fast and feet that are bound to slide in all the wrong dead-weight places. Pretending, with Quinn, is the safest option.)
“Scrabble,” she says fiercely, out of nowhere, stretching over to yank the controller out of his hands and pitch it off the bed. He snorts.
“You’re trippin’. I’d demolish you.”
“Scrabble,” she repeats, somehow making it sound like two separate words. “I will end you, four-eyes.”
It would have hurt, hearing that from her a year ago, but things change. Girls change, when boys knock them up, and leave them behind, and fathers disown them, and friends get distracted, and trucks come racing out of the blue to shatter their expectations of life in one fell swoop. Girls change, and suddenly, four-eyes is almost adorable.
“Scrabble,” he agrees, and can’t help laughing again, because the look in her eyes is so bright, so determined to prove herself. Like Quinn Fabray ever had anything to prove to someone like him.
Except that she could be anything but bad at video games; she’s still got a hell of a lot to prove in that arena. But from the way she’s glowering at his TV, he’s guessing they won’t be revisiting Call of Duty, or Mortal Kombat, or James Bond for another week or so. So, Scrabble will do. Truth be told, where Quinn Fabray is concerned, any activity will do.
Especially if she’s going to be as pretty as she is now.
When you’re as pretty as that, being terrible at video games really isn’t a turn-off at all.
He hates him-hates the smug little curl of his lips, and the way his hair stands up, and the blue of his eyes. He hates the swish of his hips, and the sling of his bag over one shoulder, and the sound of surprise in his voice whenever someone gets too close. He hates the skinny jeans, and the dopey jackets, and the fact that, when he’s around, Walmart jeans and a JC Penny t-shirt actually make him feel poor. Poor, and stupid, and nowhere near good enough.
He hates not feeling good enough.
He hates him for a million different reasons, each less reasonable than the last, but the thing is-it wasn’t always this way. He didn’t always hate Kurt Hummel, with his air of superiority and his stupid voice and the obnoxious way he pretends he’s better than everyone else in this school. Not always. Not really.
There was actually a time-and this is so hard to believe now, when his head is a spinning mess-when Kurt Hummel didn’t get under his skin this way. A time when he was just some kid, instead of The Boy Who Broke Everything.
Dave remembers that time, in a hazy, half-asleep sort of way; he remembers seeing Kurt at school and not caring, seeing Kurt in gym-dancing clumsily to avoid softballs and racing students-and not being sucked in by that weird light he seems to carry behind his gaze. He remembers sitting behind Kurt in English, prodding him in the shoulder whenever he forgot the difference between an adverb and an adjective, and how Kurt would huffily roll his eyes when he swiveled to repeat the lesson yet again. He remembers spotting Kurt in the cafeteria after school, bent over a notebook and scribbling furiously, and thinking to himself that it might be nice-not for him, but for Boy Scouts, for a Badge In Being Good, or something-to walk the dude home. Just because.
He remembers all of that, but it doesn’t sit quite right in his head. Because that Kurt-the one who taught him about dumb English stuff, and who squeaked and ducked behind him during dodgeball, and who didn’t seem scared of him at all-isn’t even close to the Kurt who traipses through the halls now. The Kurt who wears bowties on a Tuesday, and who sings a high, clear voice that Dave can feel way down deep in his bones, and who stares at him with this bizarre mixture of revulsion and terror and scorn.
Kurt is scared of him now, but not so scared that he won’t turn up his nose when he sees Dave coming. He’s not sure what to make of that, but he hates it. He hates everything, where Kurt’s concerned.
He hates the tap of his shoes against the tile floor, and the hum of his stupid songs in the locker room, and the way a towel fits around his hips when he thinks everyone is gone after gym. He hates the smirky little look on his mouth, and the awestruck gleam in his eyes, and every expression he could ever make-especially when it’s Dave he’s looking at, Dave, who feels so big and so awkward and so angry.
It’s like he sees something he’s not supposed to, and that he almost finds it funny, and Dave can’t see how that’s possible. There’s nothing funny about this, not even a little bit chuckle-worthy, and still, Kurt seems to mock him. Big blue eyes and weird girl lips, the clutch of his jeans and the slim line of his fingers, and Dave hates him. He didn’t before, when they were kids and stuff like this didn’t happen, but it happens now, and it sucks. It happens, that he closes his eyes and forces himself to picture Santana Lopez before he drifts off, and still, the face in his dreams is Kurt’s. It happens, that he tries his hardest to grab at girls in the hallway and mean it, that he wants so badly to bring someone home to his dad, just to show him that they can like him the way they like Puckerman or Hudson-but it just doesn’t work. They don’t want him, and he doesn’t want them, and he’s sure they know it, sometimes. He’s sure they can all see it, and even if they can’t,Kurt can.
He hates Kurt, because Kurt knows, even if he hasn’t figured that out yet. He has to know, somewhere in the back of his head, because why else would he be looking at Dave that way: head tilted, mouth smirking, eyes wide and somehow unafraid even as he cowers. Why else would he be like that, if he didn’t know?
He knows. He has to. And Dave can’t have that.
He didn’t always hate Kurt Hummel. Not back then, when stuff like this didn’t matter. But now, when it is all that counts in the world?
He has never hated someone so much in his life.
They have nothing in common, really, but he thinks Brittany is pretty awesome anyway. Maybe because of the way she dances, like she couldn’t care less who is staring (he can’t say the same; he dances with the eager clumsiness of a puppy, all gangly and hopeful, and he knows he’s not bad at it the way Finn is-but he’s nowhere near good, either). Maybe because of the way she kisses, her mouth supple and stretching against his (and even though he was drunker than wasted, even though he can only remember that night in patches of Puck’s fingers in his hair, Artie’s wheelchair tipping, Santana sobbing in his car, he can still feel that kiss sometimes in the middle of the night). Maybe it’s none of the above, just a random constellation of appreciation without expecting more, because Brittany is easy and comfortable and cool.
They have nothing in common, but he likes her, and when he spots her kicking tiredly at rocks on the way home one day, he jerks his bike (Mike’s bike, really, but who’s counting the reasons to owe his friends?) to a dangerously sharp halt at her side.
“Hey.”
She looks at him like it’s taking her a moment to remember who he even is, which he guesses is fair enough, since he can’t recall the last time they truly spoke. Then her eyes light up, her mouth twitching at the side in a smile that’s trying for its usual brilliance and only making it about halfway there.
“Hi, Sam.”
“Whatcha doin’?” he asks, which is dumb, because obviously she’s walking here, that’s what people do when school lets out and it’s an awkwardly warm Wednesday in March. But she doesn’t seem to think it’s dumb-not the way Santana would have, with her sneers and her hands pushing his shoulders in a not entirely unpleasant way-so he grins and waits for her answer.
“Artie broke up with me,” is not what he was expecting. He knows already-Artie told him himself, in the bathroom, when Sam was just trying to take a whiz and not at all prepared for Sudden Male Bonding-but it doesn’t make it any less depressing when her mouth crooks south again. No wonder she looks like someone just kidnapped her pet kitten.
“Sucks,” he manages, twiddling his thumbs against the smooth rubber of his handlebars. She shrugs.
“He was right. I was-”
She cuts herself off. Something prickles at the back of his neck, a mild irritation that he will never know what she was going to say. He guesses it doesn’t matter.
“Well, I was going over to the park,” he says instead of pushing. “Feelin’ some swing action. You wanna come?”
He doesn’t usually invite slightly batty girls with whom he’s never spoken to his rare me-time, but she looks so sad-her eyes are all puffy underneath, and she keeps biting at her lip. She looks like he did when he first found out about his parents and the homelessness thing, and he remembers wishing someone would be there for him then.
She’s a good swinger, he finds quickly-her legs are long and smooth, and when she pumps through the air, she soars even higher than he does-and when the chain creaks, she laughs like crazy. He grins back, keeping his back straight and his arms tight as he struggles to keep pace with her.
He wants to say something like, Artie’s not worth it, but that would be wrong; Artie is his bro, after all, and anyway, he knows it wouldn’t help at all. Pain is pain, and no amount of people telling him Quinn was a back-stabbing ho made him care about her less. This is better, he feels: swinging until the whole set shudders beneath their weight, watching the hair whip around her face as she leans backward. This is a distraction, and being distracted is pretty essential when your heart’s been broken.
That’s what he’s got Santana for, after all.
They swing until he catches a glimpse of the sun crawling across the sky the way it does when dinner is being set out. He skitters to a stop, dragging the toes of his worn-through sneakers through the dust, and carefully unwraps his hands from the chain.
“I gotta go,” he tells her apologetically, which feels like a cop-out somehow, except the motel is way across town from here, and his mom gets kind of antsy when he’s late. She nods, and without another word, launches herself boldly into space.
She lands on her knees in the woodchips, forehead scrunched up, and pushes herself to her feet slowly. He watches, hands in his pockets.
“Tomorrow?” he hears himself ask, hoping she’ll say yes. “I can meet you here at four.”
“I don’t have a watch,” she says, which is kind of a lie-he’s seen the way she checks her phone every couple of minutes, fingers dusting across the screen like she’s trying to force a text into being-but he accepts it anyway. He wonders if it’s Artie she’s waiting for, hoping he’ll change his mind.
“I’ll catch you by your locker, if you want,” he says instead of asking, because it’s none of his business, and Brittany is sweet and gentle and clearly needs somebody to not ask. She meets his eyes, blue on blue, and nods again.
“Mine’s the one next to Santana’s.”
He knows this, and wonders why her voice catches roughly on the name, like her throat is trying to close around it. Her lips pull to the left in a sad little smile, and he drags the bike upright, swinging a leg over.
“It’s a date. See you around.”
As he pedals off, he catches a glimpse of her-hair reflecting golden fire under the spreading sunset, head bowed to the ground-and thinks that Brittany deserves a lot more credit than she gets around school. She’s crazy, maybe, and not the brightest, but hell-neither is he. He thinks that Artie was probably right to dump her, because Artie’s a good guy, and good guys always have their reasons, but wonders if maybe he spoke too soon. Because Artie may be a good guy, but Brittany’s a hell of a chick, and that’s not something you get so often.
It’s a shame, but then, a lot of bummer things happen to good people. You just gotta shove on through.
He circles the battered baseball calendar on his wall when he gets home, carefully etching ‘swing date, 4 pm’ into the tiny square.
They were the same once, in a way. Not identical or whatever, because Quinn always had it better than he did-beautiful and smart and ideal in every way, the perfect little McKinley princess-but he thinks they were the same anyway. Where it counted, where it stuck; the same urge to be better than their parents, the same style of fucking it all up, the same desperation to always have more than they’ve got. They played it differently; Puck beat people up, and Quinn tore them down, but in the end, it was for the same reasons. To feel something. To feel better.
They had a kid together, for fuck’s sake, and that should have done it. That should have meant something-it sure as hell meant something to him, anyway-and it should have been enough. Kids should always be enough, and Beth is perfect. Perfect toes, perfect eyebrows, perfect elbow dimples and bellybutton and that fine baby powder smell that crooks up into his nostrils and stays for days. Beth is perfect, and kids should always be enough to get their parents together, but-
He ought to know, better than anyone else, how rarely that works out.
He thought it would get better, after Beth was born. Quinn would get it together, he would get it together, and everything would sort of iron itself out. The way his relationship with Finn has, or Kurt, or Rachel-people who should probably never speak to him again, after all he’s done, but who have forgiven him for it. Forgiven way more than a dude (or a chick) ever should, probably. He’s honored, in a weird, fucked up way, that they could give him another shot.
He thought it would get better, because Quinn’s head was always screwed on a little tighter than his, but somehow, it went the opposite way. He pulled himself up, forced himself to do things the way he was supposed to-mostly, not counting that whole “stint in juvie” thing-and she…lost it. Or got lost, or lost him, or something. And now he’s not really sure where she’s at.
He sees her in the halls sometimes, drifting with an aimlessness he can tell is practiced: pink shock of hair, carefully torn clothes, a cigarette dangling from her lips. That’s not the Quinn he knows, and yet, he wonders if she wasn’t always there, somewhere under the skirts and the smiles and the popularity. He wonders about her all the time: how she thinks, why she does these things, if she ever regrets how it all went down.
If she misses him.
He doesn’t know her anymore, and maybe he never really did-fucking someone sure as shit ain’t knowing them, and even watching a human life begin, a human life you had a fifty percent hand in creating, doesn’t make for a real relationship-but this is ridiculous. He loved her once, if you could call it that, and he thinks she may have loved him back. May have tried, at least, for Beth’s sake.
But if she ever loved him, she totally, absolutely cannot love him now. She doesn’t even look at him, not even when they’re talking, like he’s this repulsive bit of gum lodged beneath her boot. She doesn’t look at him, or smile at him, or take his arm. She doesn’t fucking care.
He doesn’t understand why that should hurt so much, after all the chicks he’s banged and dumped.
He never really knew her, probably, so he probably shouldn’t be so shocked by it all, but he can’t help it. They were the same once, where it counted-same fear, same hunger, same wild hatred for where they were-and now they’re nothing at all. Now they don’t speak, don’t smile, don’t do the old dance. He misses that, sometimes.
He misses her.
But she doesn’t miss him, doesn’t need him, doesn’t want him around, and he figures that’s just fucking fine. He can move on, too. He’s the master of moving on, of shattered expectations and carrying himself to new heights without help. He can do this without her, no questions asked.
But some nights, fingering that frayed photo of the three of them-the little family that never was-he wonders if she’s still there, under it all. His Quinn, the one who let him in for half a second. The one who could have loved him, if she’d only tried.
He wonders sometimes, about that girl he used to know.
It’s impossible not to notice when someone is staring you down like you’re a piece of steak. Impossible, and just plain silly to even think it means anything else.
She has always been a little silly, she supposes, but not that silly.
The fact is, Quinn Fabray-the Quinn of a thousand insults, the Quinn who glares daggers each time Rachel so much as brushes by Finn, the Quinn who pushes her aside in the halls and scrawls hateful messages in the bathroom-is staring at her again. Again being the word of operation, the word that makes Rachel think that this is probably more than she ever could have believed possible.
Again doesn’t mean two or three times; it means hundreds.
That may be vaguely hyperbolic. She’s not exactly above a good exaggeration.
But the truth remains that Quinn is a starer. A starer who stares like it’s the only thing she’s truly great at, like she’s planning on majoring in staring at the University of I Like You And I Deludedly Imagine You Can’t Tell.
Quinn is staring, and Rachel sincerely wonders how she doesn’t realize it.
It’s not even subtle, per se, not the twitch of painted eyelashes in her direction every once in a while. It’s a flat-out, no-holds-barred, expression of interest, and it’s made all the more disconcerting by the curl of Quinn’s lip, as if it disgusts her to even be thinking about this. Whatever this happens to be.
Rachel is kind of insulted.
Being stared at by a pretty-a beautiful, she amends tiredly, shaking her head-girl isn’t the problem. Although she is not expressly interested in the fairer sex herself, it’s nothing short of flattering to be wanted by someone as attractive as Quinn. No different than the spike of appreciation she feels when Noah’s eyes linger too long on her backside, or Finn smiles hopefully at the front of her sweater. To be wanted is nice.
It’s the part where Quinn clearly despises her that Rachel’s irked by.
She’s been aware of this whole thing for a while now-Quinn doesn’t make it difficult to figure out, though she apparently believes otherwise-and she has no idea how to handle it. The optimum path would involve striding right up to Quinn’s locker and confronting her about the situation (armed with HRC pamphlets and a smile that says,I support your decision to be who you are), but this is Quinn. Anyone else would likely melt in the face of her overwhelming friendship, but Quinn Fabray is different. Always has been.
Quinn Fabray would stuff her right into that locker and slam the door.
So that plan doesn’t really work, and truthfully, Rachel’s at a loss for anything else. Which leaves her here. With the staring.
It’s getting uncomfortable, knowing what she does and knowing Quinn somehow doesn’t realize it. She’s starting to feel as though she has read Quinn’s diary, taken a cursory glance at her innermost thoughts, like knowing about this actually makes her dirty or something. It’s starting to make her guilty.
Which is just absurd, because it’s Quinn with the interest, and Rachel has done nothing at all except-evidently-be attractive to the Sapphically-inclined.
Honestly, leave it to Quinn Fabray to make this more difficult than it has to be.
They could be friends, Rachel knows, if Quinn would just let her in. If Quinn would accept the inevitable about herself and just let Rachel help, everything could be fine. They could brush this whole thing out, and Rachel could help her find a suitable young woman, and perhaps they could even go on double dates (because, when Quinn finally accepts herself, Finn will absolutely be back on the market, and what else would there be to do but comfort him?). Everything could be just wonderful, if only Quinn would-
Well. Stop being so Quinn about it all.
The bell chimes, and immediately, the gaze boring into the side of her head veers away. Quinn sweeps her books into her arms and huffs out the door, slamming Rachel with her elbow as she goes. Rachel sighs.
Truly, this is more difficult than it needs to be.
She’s minding her own damn business, not bothering anyone at all-not even the Incredible Hulking Dickwipe that is Finn Hudson, which she thinks should earn her a goddamn medal-when the hand closes around her bicep and yanks. Yanks, like anyone has the right to just manhandle her awkwardly around the McKinley halls. God, are people just not even paying attention anymore or what?
She’s got a whole hoard of expletives waiting on the edge of her tongue, but before she gets a chance to use a single one, she finds herself tugged brashly into the dusty Astronomy classroom (like anyone fucking takes Astronomy in fucking America, anyway). The door snicks shut, her attacker releasing at last.
“You have to help me,” Mercedes says.
There’s a bright edge of desperation in her voice, like she’s thought of every possible way this could go-whatever this is; Santana doesn’t have the patience to follow every speck of melodrama in this school anymore-and has realized she is out of options. It’s insulting, to think she is anyone’s last choice (insulting, and leaves just the lightest beat of bitterness in her chest, because she has seriously had it up to here with being second best after all these years). Insulting, and vaguely intriguing. She’s never seen Mercedes this shade of Frustrated Weepy before.
“What gives, Aretha?” she drawls, tilting her head and crossing her arms, lest Mercedes think she actually gives a shit about this conversation. They’re friends now-sort of, in that Santana has mostly stopped leaving wriggling things in her food, and Mercedes has mostly stopped trying to one-up her in song-but friends only goes so far. And if this is about another goddamn solo going to Rachel Berry-
Okay, yeah, that annoys the shit out of her, too, but it’s not drag you into an empty classroom and cry about it territory.
“Sam,” Mercedes chokes out, and holy God, she is actually wringing her hands. Santana didn’t think people did that shit outside of bad chick flicks, but here Mercedes is, looking just short of mental, her teeth digging into her lower lip, and Christ, Santana’s going to have to fix this. If only for the sake of her own sanity; she’s been planning an epic duet with this particular set of power pipes, and it will never pan out if Mercedes loses her shit beneath a cheap imitation of Mars.
“Fishy lips, Bieber hair, Salvation Army wardrobe,” Santana agrees, shrugging. “I’m familiar. What’s your beef?”
“I lo-” Mercedes visibly bites down on the word, her throat convulsing. “I. He. We had a thing.”
“You and half the county,” Santana informs her carelessly, which is maybe a hair insensitive, but whatever. Helping doesn’t mean being fucking nice.
Mercedes’ wince lasts only half a second anyway. “A real thing,” she presses, groping backwards for the nearest desk and leaning her weight against it. “A thing that could have gone somewhere if he hadn’t-if his family-but they did, and then Shane-and then I moved on-but he came-”
Santana waves her off, familiar with the story. “Not looking for a recap. So, what? He’s all up in your grill now? Playing Edward Cullen?”
“No,” Mercedes snaps hotly, fingers anxiously plucking at her sweater. “He’s not stalking-okay, there is a little bit of stalking, maybe, but it’s cute. Or it would be cute, except-”
“You’ve got Mr. NFL-in-three-seasons,” Santana finishes, bored. Mercedes nods jerkily, a puppet whose strings are fraying to depressing degrees. God, this is the oldest story in the world, and one Santana’s patience is pretty well shot on. “Sounds like you’re in a pickle.”
“He won’t go away,” Mercedes groans. Santana arches an eyebrow.
“Which one?”
She watches Mercedes’ mouth work uncertainly and shakes her head. “Damn, girl. Y’know, most chicks ruin their fuckin’ panties thinking about a couple of football studs fighting over them.”
“Sam does synchro now,” Mercedes mumbles. Santana presses a palm to her forehead.
“Boy really does lack game, doesn’t he?”
“I like him,” Mercedes says softly, staring at the floor. “I do, and if Shane weren’t-but he is, and Sam kissed me, and I cheated, Santana. I cheated on my boyfriend.”
“Welcome to the club,” Santana informs her, smiling crookedly without mirth. “It’s a pretty extensive membership. We get our t-shirts in next month.”
“I cheated,” Mercedes repeats, as if she isn’t even there. Her eyes are distant, pricking with tears. Santana sighs.
“Look, cheating for love is-”
“No better.” Mercedes tilts her gaze up, wide-eyed and breathlessly miserable. “It’s not worth it, Santana.”
She’s not sure what to say to that, because every time she’s been there-every time she dicked around on some guy for Brittany-it was worth it. It was cruel, maybe, and pretty fucked up on some counts, but when Brittany was on the line…
But Sam isn’t Brittany, and Mercedes has that whole Self-Righteous Christian Diva rep rocking, and Santana’s not sure where to take this.
“I have to tell him,” Mercedes mumbles. Her fists clench, her toes tilting in their bulky sneakers against the tile floor. Santana frowns.
“As a professional liar, I have to tell you, that never really goes well.”
“Doesn’t matter. I have to do it.” She’s shaking from the shoulders, her body bowing in on itself. This isn’t the girl who broke from New Directions and formed her very own Girl Power group. This isn’t the girl who stood up to Santana’s threats, or who spoke with authoritative logic at rehearsals. Santana doesn’t recognize this person at all.
“I love him,” Mercedes says after a beat. “I do. But I can’t keep doing this. I can’t-I can’t live with myself. And Shane shouldn’t have to…”
Santana’s hand starts to reach out, pausing sparse inches from Mercedes’ arm. “It’s going to be ugly.”
“It already is,” Mercedes says, and almost smiles. A thin, strengthless smile that looks wrong on her mouth. Santana sighs.
“Do yo’ thing, girl.”
Mercedes nods hollowly. Santana shifts uncertainly toward the door.
“So…we done, then?”
Another despairing little smile. “Yeah, Santana. Thanks.”
“Bitch, I didn’t do anything.” Not the time for jokes, not at all, but being Mercedes’ friend doesn’t mean being nice. Mercedes wouldn’t accept it, even if she tried.
“Oh, Beyonce?” Santana flicks a mock glare over her shoulder at the door, one hand on the knob. “Next time you want to drag me into a friggin’ classroom, make sure it’s not a problem you can fix your own damn self.”
She escapes before Mercedes’ smile can go stale.
She doesn’t love him, he’s pretty sure. Not that anyone has yet, not like Quinn really did either, apparently, but with Santana, it’s different. Quinn at least had the decency to pretend.
Although, now that he thinks about it, maybe the pretending was the worst part.
With Santana, it’s weird; she’s always on his lips, her tongue and teeth working against his like she’s trying to devour him from the inside out. Her hips spike repeatedly in his lap, her hand palming him awkwardly through his jeans, and he keeps making this noise in his head-it must be in his head, or she would definitely come up for air with that exasperated look she seems to have perfected just for him-of complete confusion, because it doesn’t feel like it’s supposed to. Not the way it was with the few girls he’s been with back home, or with Quinn. Not that he’s ever been past second-not really-but at least with those girls, he felt…
Like they wanted to be there?
He’s not sure how to phrase it properly. Santana seems like she wants to be there, kind of. Girls don’t kiss the way Santana does unless they want to, but at the same time, there’s something in her near-desperation that makes him wonder. Girls don’t usually get all desperate. Not like this.
It takes him a week or two to open his eyes-he’ll sigh at himself later, embarrassed at being so slow-and when he does, he finds himself looking at the most obvious thing on the planet. The kind of obvious like the stars hanging in the night sky above the baseball diamond: He has to squint to find them, at first, struggling to pick each one out against the streetlights, but once they’re there-they’re there.
It’s in the little details, the ones he’d never have thought to look for before getting messed around on the first time. It’s in how Santana’s eyes go all big and dark, like she’s totally surprised, like she didn’t expect Brittany to sweep into the choir room each afternoon. And how Santana’s fingertips brush the edge of Brittany’s skirt when they’re all dancing together, like she wants to grab hold, but can’t quite make herself go for it. And how Santana’s smile gets kind of crooked when Brittany’s arm loops around her middle, cracking the instant that arm vanishes and Brittany twirls back to Artie’s lap.
It’s the little things: listening to the sigh she gives when she thinks no one can hear, and seeing her thumb through a line of texts a mile long during the best part of The Untouchables, and feeling her wince-actually wince, which he thinks is a little harsh-when he moves to kiss her in English, with Brittany’s sharp blue eyes scorching them both from the next table over.
It takes him a while, but once he gets it-thanks in part to some movie about British people and flowers and the hot wife from 300, which he catches Santana half-dozing in front of-he gets it. And something clicks into place in his chest, something that makes it all make sense in this really bizarre, kind of messed up way. Not that he’s got any problem with ladies loving ladies (or dudes loving dudes, because, hey, carpe diem or whatever), but the thing is, he’s pretty sure his girlfriend is gay. And that just doesn’t happen to a guy every day.
His track record is getting kind of busted up and weird, truth be told.
He’s not sure how to say it, exactly; he doesn’t think he should mention it at all, for a while. Isn’t there some code or something, about how you’re not supposed to shove something that huge under a person’s nose until they’re ready for it? He thinks he remembers hearing Kurt squawk about it once-something about respecting a person’s right to the ideal time, or something. And, anyway, he’s pretty sure Santana will grab his family jewels and squeeze until he loses any chance of ever having kids if he says it at the wrong moment. Better to be quiet.
He does try to drop hints here and there-not break-up-now hints, because he figures he’s allowed to be just a little bit selfish, keeping the hot girl to himself while he can, but hints as to his willingness to accept her when she’s ready. In his head, they’re always a lot smoother than they come out; he pictures her smiling sheepishly and nodding along, biting her lip. Things Santana doesn’t really do, but would be kind of cute and fitting to his Noble Boyfriend of a Lesbian role.
It should be smooth-he tries, he really does-but it usually isn’t. Like the time he catches her eye at Burger King and announces, apropos of nothing at all, “You know, I think Ellen and I would be buds.”
She gives him this fish-eyed look around her fries, one eyebrow cocked nearly to her hairline, and says, “Ellen McCoy? From Bio? She smells like a rubber band factory.”
His informative attempt to engage her in conversation about the merits of flannel shirts a week later doesn’t go much better. And, for some reason, she gives him the mother of all glares when he tries to make her choose between Gia and But I’m a Cheerleader at their next movie-and-make-out date.
It’s not until the night of Rachel Berry’s Party-the one he’s pretty sure they’ll all be talking about for months to come, and maybe not in a totally good way-that they really talk about it. Not that this is smooth either, exactly. Not the way you’re probably supposed to talk about your girlfriend liking to bang other chicks.
It sort of slips out of him in the car, into the backseat of which Santana has tearfully manhandled him. One minute, her tongue is lapping across his teeth in this sloppy way he actually kind of likes, and then he’s pulling back and staring at her with determination, and he hears himself say, “She likes you, you know.”
Her face goes kind of pale, her mascara-rimmed eyes all raccoon-shocked in the darkness. “What?”
“She likes you,” he repeats, doing his very best not to slur. “And she’s pretty. And a hell of a kisser.”
Her eyebrows narrow, her head ducking to claim his lips again; he dodges, struggling to sit up.
“She’s pretty, and she likes you-I see her looking at you, the way you’re always looking at her. And I think that’s cool. I mean,” he adds hurriedly when her mouth pops open in a murderous little O, “not cool-cool. Cool-cool would be my girlfriend actually wanting to be my girlfriend for once, and not being casually in love with somebody else. But it’s still kind of cool, because you like her, and she likes you, and that’s-”
He can’t find the words; in all probability, he doubts he’d be able to get it right even if he hadn’t slammed half a dozen shots and some questionable punch mix of Puck’s. Not that it matters, because the look at her face is wavering dangerously between horrified and furious.
“I do not,” she begins, and he must be drunk, because it’s the only explanation for stupidly covering her mouth with the palm of his hand. Her nails dig into his shoulder warningly, hard enough to burn.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, but keeps his hand right where it is. “Sorry, but-you do. And she does, and that’s-you don’t find that every day. Maybe not any day. I think-”
She makes a noise against his skin, tickly and uncomfortable. He draws away, squinting when she repeats slowly, “Tell anyone, and I will cut off your nuts with a machete.”
“I wouldn’t,” he swears, as loyally as a guy can when his girlfriend is swimming before him with her identical twin in the back of a Chrysler. “I never-”
“She’s with him,” she interrupts, venomous and heartbroken at the same time. He manages to shrug, his shoulder colliding heavily with the window.
“They’re not married.”
“You got cheated on,” she points out coldly, and shuffles back to perch on his kneecaps. “Didn’t seem to sit too well with you, Lips McGee.”
He drags his fingertips through his hair. “I’m not saying mess around on Artie. Artie’s my bro. That’s not cool. But…I’m just saying, if she really does love you-love finds a way.”
It’s sappy, and lame, and a total misquote from Jurassic Park, but screw it; he’s drunk, and this backseat is cramped, and her face looks all crestfallen and shit, like she misplaced that cranky mask she’s always wearing. He reaches up and tangles his fingers together with hers, squeezing when she gazes forlornly out the back window.
Santana’s crazy, and kind the weepiest drunk in the world, and in the morning, she’ll probably scalp him bald for this conversation even coming up. It’s probably Rule Number 1, that you don’t directly confront your Lesbian Girlfriend about being a lesbian in the first place. It’s probably a bad call on his part.
But for now, she leans forward and nudges her head against his shoulder, all clumsy and dazed, and he presses his mouth to her hair. “She likes you,” he whispers like a secret, and she makes a choked little sound in the back of her throat. “She does.”
It’s the closest he’s ever come to understanding Santana, sitting in this car with her hair between his lips and her nails digging relentlessly into his shoulder. She doesn’t love him. But maybe, even so, she kind of needs him. And maybe that makes her more honest than Quinn ever was.
She’s not the best girlfriend, exactly, but she’s something. And he cares. And he figures that’s about what they both need right now.
(Although, honestly? He’s thinking he should probably put the next girl he likes through a bit of a background check. Just as a safety precaution. Because bros are cool and all, but he could really use a girlfriend who actually wants to be around him. Just some food for more sober thought.)
She’s terrible at video games. Like-truly terrible, actually, genuinely bad in a way that makes him snort with laughter and run his player right into enemy fire. He’s not actually sure he’s ever met anyone so terrible at this sort of thing in his whole life, and that includes the time in fourth grade when Rachel Berry insisted on walking him home (wheeling him, more like, because he had only just found himself locked into this chair, and hadn’t quite realized what a lifetime event it would become) and his mom made him invite her in for the afternoon. Rachel had been bad, but Quinn is, like, Bad. Capital letters totally necessary.
She’s bad, and it makes this a whole lot more fun than it should be, given that they’re two kids trapped with a certain leglessness that makes even going to the bathroom harder than God or anyone intended.
He still can’t full wrap his head around it, the whole “Quinn Fabray coming to his living room and being all weirdly nice and wheelchair-bound” deal, and he suspects she likes it that way. Quinn’s a bigger sweetheart now that she’s had a life-and-death experience, but she’s not all sweet-and he figures she wouldn’t quite be her if that were so. Sweet isn’t Quinn at all, doesn’t fit her right, would look uncomfortably like a shirt with its sleeves all shrunk in and the buttons popping loose.
(He tries not to think too much about how great that could actually be, with the two of them alone in his bedroom and everything.)
Anyway, the fact that she’s still kind of twisted up there under all that blonde hair and that thankfully-unshattered smile kind of works for him. Which says a whole lot more about his sanity than hers, he guesses, but whatever; his longest relationship was with Brittany. Quinn might actually be a step up; even with the having-another-guy’s-baby thing, and the punk-phase thing, and the slightly demented trying-to-steal-back-her-child bit, at least she’s not a lesbian.
(He thinks. Pretty sure. It’s getting harder and harder to tell with girls these days.)
She’s here in his bedroom, her deadened legs stretched out on his bed-and how impressed is he, that she actually managed to get up here without help? It took him years to perfect that particular shade of art-with a controller clutched between her hands, and he knows she thinks it’s funny, that he’s so dumbfounded by it all.They’ve been having these weird little playdates for a few weeks now, ever since he rolled into her hospital room and wisely informed her that hand-eye coordination is incredibly important when it comes to getting around without use of your feet.
Which was, he knows, kind of a blunt and douchey way to put it, but she only bit her lip and closed her eyes for a second, and then she agreed to come over when the doctors figured it was cool to set her loose, and then she actually showed, so-he guesses she maybe wasn’t as insulted as most girls would’ve been.
Chicks can be so confusing.
He watches her out of the corner of his eye, choking back the urge to laugh again. She really is horrible, her shoulders bobbing and weaving as she jerks the controller to and fro. She’s one of Those Players, the kind who clearly never saw so much as a Mario Kart round growing up, and who never quite figured out how little ducking and weaving actually helps in a game. It’s cute, and sad, and he wonders if she’d be better if he had a Wii.
But then, Wiis are kind of designed for people with solid mobility. It’s pretty hard to rock one of those dance-dance-fitness whatever games from a chair. Something like that would probably just piss her off.
When they’re here and she doesn’t have to think about it, she’s good at this, he’s noticed; good at pretending it doesn’t bother her, and at faking a big, cheery grin whenever his mom bustles into the room with cookies and Cokes. She’s good at playing at normalcy, like it doesn’t bug her, get under her skin, drive her completely apeshit. Like being confined in her own personal prison-on-wheels isn’t the end of the world for her.
It’s not, he knows. Almost ten years down the line, and he’s living proof that you can still make things work with only half your body answering to the signals your brain sends out. The world doesn’t stop with failed nerve endings. But it was always different, for him. This was always his thing: the sitting down, the reading books, playing games, building models. He was never exactly a soccer-star kind of guy in the first place, and yeah, it blows that he’ll never dance the way he knows he could, if ever he got the chance, but for her…
She was a goddess to those cheerleaders, a high-kick, air-split, back-flip maniac. She could run, and jump, and fly; that was her life. And now she’s here, jerking her shoulders inelegantly with the controller, eyebrows furrowed in concentration like it will do anything to save her from the sniper on the roof. Now this is the most she can do, and he hates that for her.
But, selfishly, he sort of loves that she’s doing it here, with him.
He shows off a little, racing laps around the screen, leaping from rooftops, firing at hidden ninjas. Doing all the things he hasn’t been able to do outside of his fantasies since he was eight years old, and she laughs-laughs, and swears when she’s shot down for the fifth time in as many minutes. He grins crookedly at her, sparing a second to push his glasses higher on his nose, and announces, “Girl, you weak.”
She pushes at his leg, careless, and he wishes he could feel it: the pressure of her palm, hot through the heavy fabric, the nudge of manicured nails as the scrape along corduroy grooves. He wishes, but wishes don’t get anybody too far these days. If they did, she wouldn’t be here in the first place.
He slaps back instead, damn near girly, his fingertips grazing the edge of her knee where it peeks out from beneath a powder-blue skirt. She rolls her eyes, and he almost misses the flash of discomfort lurking there, the one that says she should feel it, should recognize the brush of his fingertips. Almost. It’s easy to pretend with her sometimes, but after so many hours of this…
“We need to get you a system,” he says brazenly, before she can go to that quiet, dark place she sometimes slips into when they’re quiet for too long. “This is embarrassing.”
“You just pick crappy games,” she shoots back, which-please-couldn’t be further from the truth. He sticks out his tongue.
“Embarrassing. What do you want, Duck Hunt?”
It would actually probably work with her bob-and-weave system, but he doesn’t say that out loud. Pointing it out might make her stop.
She dies again pretty promptly, and tosses her controller down with a grunt. He calmly taps the pause button and shifts at the waist, flashing his teeth.
“So bad.”
“I hate video games,” she grumbles. “Anything else. Let’s do anything else.”
He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, because it’s been a long time since Brittany, and anything else with a pretty girl translates almost instantly to one specific activity. One he’s dead-sure Quinn doesn’t want to consider right now, much less with someone like-
(He’s trying to pretend he’s never thought about the logistics of it, what it would be like for two legless people to go at it. He’s trying to pretend like he hasn’t worked out some of the angles, some of the awkward points of hips that only move so fast and feet that are bound to slide in all the wrong dead-weight places. Pretending, with Quinn, is the safest option.)
“Scrabble,” she says fiercely, out of nowhere, stretching over to yank the controller out of his hands and pitch it off the bed. He snorts.
“You’re trippin’. I’d demolish you.”
“Scrabble,” she repeats, somehow making it sound like two separate words. “I will end you, four-eyes.”
It would have hurt, hearing that from her a year ago, but things change. Girls change, when boys knock them up, and leave them behind, and fathers disown them, and friends get distracted, and trucks come racing out of the blue to shatter their expectations of life in one fell swoop. Girls change, and suddenly, four-eyes is almost adorable.
“Scrabble,” he agrees, and can’t help laughing again, because the look in her eyes is so bright, so determined to prove herself. Like Quinn Fabray ever had anything to prove to someone like him.
Except that she could be anything but bad at video games; she’s still got a hell of a lot to prove in that arena. But from the way she’s glowering at his TV, he’s guessing they won’t be revisiting Call of Duty, or Mortal Kombat, or James Bond for another week or so. So, Scrabble will do. Truth be told, where Quinn Fabray is concerned, any activity will do.
Especially if she’s going to be as pretty as she is now.
When you’re as pretty as that, being terrible at video games really isn’t a turn-off at all.
He hates him-hates the smug little curl of his lips, and the way his hair stands up, and the blue of his eyes. He hates the swish of his hips, and the sling of his bag over one shoulder, and the sound of surprise in his voice whenever someone gets too close. He hates the skinny jeans, and the dopey jackets, and the fact that, when he’s around, Walmart jeans and a JC Penny t-shirt actually make him feel poor. Poor, and stupid, and nowhere near good enough.
He hates not feeling good enough.
He hates him for a million different reasons, each less reasonable than the last, but the thing is-it wasn’t always this way. He didn’t always hate Kurt Hummel, with his air of superiority and his stupid voice and the obnoxious way he pretends he’s better than everyone else in this school. Not always. Not really.
There was actually a time-and this is so hard to believe now, when his head is a spinning mess-when Kurt Hummel didn’t get under his skin this way. A time when he was just some kid, instead of The Boy Who Broke Everything.
Dave remembers that time, in a hazy, half-asleep sort of way; he remembers seeing Kurt at school and not caring, seeing Kurt in gym-dancing clumsily to avoid softballs and racing students-and not being sucked in by that weird light he seems to carry behind his gaze. He remembers sitting behind Kurt in English, prodding him in the shoulder whenever he forgot the difference between an adverb and an adjective, and how Kurt would huffily roll his eyes when he swiveled to repeat the lesson yet again. He remembers spotting Kurt in the cafeteria after school, bent over a notebook and scribbling furiously, and thinking to himself that it might be nice-not for him, but for Boy Scouts, for a Badge In Being Good, or something-to walk the dude home. Just because.
He remembers all of that, but it doesn’t sit quite right in his head. Because that Kurt-the one who taught him about dumb English stuff, and who squeaked and ducked behind him during dodgeball, and who didn’t seem scared of him at all-isn’t even close to the Kurt who traipses through the halls now. The Kurt who wears bowties on a Tuesday, and who sings a high, clear voice that Dave can feel way down deep in his bones, and who stares at him with this bizarre mixture of revulsion and terror and scorn.
Kurt is scared of him now, but not so scared that he won’t turn up his nose when he sees Dave coming. He’s not sure what to make of that, but he hates it. He hates everything, where Kurt’s concerned.
He hates the tap of his shoes against the tile floor, and the hum of his stupid songs in the locker room, and the way a towel fits around his hips when he thinks everyone is gone after gym. He hates the smirky little look on his mouth, and the awestruck gleam in his eyes, and every expression he could ever make-especially when it’s Dave he’s looking at, Dave, who feels so big and so awkward and so angry.
It’s like he sees something he’s not supposed to, and that he almost finds it funny, and Dave can’t see how that’s possible. There’s nothing funny about this, not even a little bit chuckle-worthy, and still, Kurt seems to mock him. Big blue eyes and weird girl lips, the clutch of his jeans and the slim line of his fingers, and Dave hates him. He didn’t before, when they were kids and stuff like this didn’t happen, but it happens now, and it sucks. It happens, that he closes his eyes and forces himself to picture Santana Lopez before he drifts off, and still, the face in his dreams is Kurt’s. It happens, that he tries his hardest to grab at girls in the hallway and mean it, that he wants so badly to bring someone home to his dad, just to show him that they can like him the way they like Puckerman or Hudson-but it just doesn’t work. They don’t want him, and he doesn’t want them, and he’s sure they know it, sometimes. He’s sure they can all see it, and even if they can’t,Kurt can.
He hates Kurt, because Kurt knows, even if he hasn’t figured that out yet. He has to know, somewhere in the back of his head, because why else would he be looking at Dave that way: head tilted, mouth smirking, eyes wide and somehow unafraid even as he cowers. Why else would he be like that, if he didn’t know?
He knows. He has to. And Dave can’t have that.
He didn’t always hate Kurt Hummel. Not back then, when stuff like this didn’t matter. But now, when it is all that counts in the world?
He has never hated someone so much in his life.
They have nothing in common, really, but he thinks Brittany is pretty awesome anyway. Maybe because of the way she dances, like she couldn’t care less who is staring (he can’t say the same; he dances with the eager clumsiness of a puppy, all gangly and hopeful, and he knows he’s not bad at it the way Finn is-but he’s nowhere near good, either). Maybe because of the way she kisses, her mouth supple and stretching against his (and even though he was drunker than wasted, even though he can only remember that night in patches of Puck’s fingers in his hair, Artie’s wheelchair tipping, Santana sobbing in his car, he can still feel that kiss sometimes in the middle of the night). Maybe it’s none of the above, just a random constellation of appreciation without expecting more, because Brittany is easy and comfortable and cool.
They have nothing in common, but he likes her, and when he spots her kicking tiredly at rocks on the way home one day, he jerks his bike (Mike’s bike, really, but who’s counting the reasons to owe his friends?) to a dangerously sharp halt at her side.
“Hey.”
She looks at him like it’s taking her a moment to remember who he even is, which he guesses is fair enough, since he can’t recall the last time they truly spoke. Then her eyes light up, her mouth twitching at the side in a smile that’s trying for its usual brilliance and only making it about halfway there.
“Hi, Sam.”
“Whatcha doin’?” he asks, which is dumb, because obviously she’s walking here, that’s what people do when school lets out and it’s an awkwardly warm Wednesday in March. But she doesn’t seem to think it’s dumb-not the way Santana would have, with her sneers and her hands pushing his shoulders in a not entirely unpleasant way-so he grins and waits for her answer.
“Artie broke up with me,” is not what he was expecting. He knows already-Artie told him himself, in the bathroom, when Sam was just trying to take a whiz and not at all prepared for Sudden Male Bonding-but it doesn’t make it any less depressing when her mouth crooks south again. No wonder she looks like someone just kidnapped her pet kitten.
“Sucks,” he manages, twiddling his thumbs against the smooth rubber of his handlebars. She shrugs.
“He was right. I was-”
She cuts herself off. Something prickles at the back of his neck, a mild irritation that he will never know what she was going to say. He guesses it doesn’t matter.
“Well, I was going over to the park,” he says instead of pushing. “Feelin’ some swing action. You wanna come?”
He doesn’t usually invite slightly batty girls with whom he’s never spoken to his rare me-time, but she looks so sad-her eyes are all puffy underneath, and she keeps biting at her lip. She looks like he did when he first found out about his parents and the homelessness thing, and he remembers wishing someone would be there for him then.
She’s a good swinger, he finds quickly-her legs are long and smooth, and when she pumps through the air, she soars even higher than he does-and when the chain creaks, she laughs like crazy. He grins back, keeping his back straight and his arms tight as he struggles to keep pace with her.
He wants to say something like, Artie’s not worth it, but that would be wrong; Artie is his bro, after all, and anyway, he knows it wouldn’t help at all. Pain is pain, and no amount of people telling him Quinn was a back-stabbing ho made him care about her less. This is better, he feels: swinging until the whole set shudders beneath their weight, watching the hair whip around her face as she leans backward. This is a distraction, and being distracted is pretty essential when your heart’s been broken.
That’s what he’s got Santana for, after all.
They swing until he catches a glimpse of the sun crawling across the sky the way it does when dinner is being set out. He skitters to a stop, dragging the toes of his worn-through sneakers through the dust, and carefully unwraps his hands from the chain.
“I gotta go,” he tells her apologetically, which feels like a cop-out somehow, except the motel is way across town from here, and his mom gets kind of antsy when he’s late. She nods, and without another word, launches herself boldly into space.
She lands on her knees in the woodchips, forehead scrunched up, and pushes herself to her feet slowly. He watches, hands in his pockets.
“Tomorrow?” he hears himself ask, hoping she’ll say yes. “I can meet you here at four.”
“I don’t have a watch,” she says, which is kind of a lie-he’s seen the way she checks her phone every couple of minutes, fingers dusting across the screen like she’s trying to force a text into being-but he accepts it anyway. He wonders if it’s Artie she’s waiting for, hoping he’ll change his mind.
“I’ll catch you by your locker, if you want,” he says instead of asking, because it’s none of his business, and Brittany is sweet and gentle and clearly needs somebody to not ask. She meets his eyes, blue on blue, and nods again.
“Mine’s the one next to Santana’s.”
He knows this, and wonders why her voice catches roughly on the name, like her throat is trying to close around it. Her lips pull to the left in a sad little smile, and he drags the bike upright, swinging a leg over.
“It’s a date. See you around.”
As he pedals off, he catches a glimpse of her-hair reflecting golden fire under the spreading sunset, head bowed to the ground-and thinks that Brittany deserves a lot more credit than she gets around school. She’s crazy, maybe, and not the brightest, but hell-neither is he. He thinks that Artie was probably right to dump her, because Artie’s a good guy, and good guys always have their reasons, but wonders if maybe he spoke too soon. Because Artie may be a good guy, but Brittany’s a hell of a chick, and that’s not something you get so often.
It’s a shame, but then, a lot of bummer things happen to good people. You just gotta shove on through.
He circles the battered baseball calendar on his wall when he gets home, carefully etching ‘swing date, 4 pm’ into the tiny square.
They were the same once, in a way. Not identical or whatever, because Quinn always had it better than he did-beautiful and smart and ideal in every way, the perfect little McKinley princess-but he thinks they were the same anyway. Where it counted, where it stuck; the same urge to be better than their parents, the same style of fucking it all up, the same desperation to always have more than they’ve got. They played it differently; Puck beat people up, and Quinn tore them down, but in the end, it was for the same reasons. To feel something. To feel better.
They had a kid together, for fuck’s sake, and that should have done it. That should have meant something-it sure as hell meant something to him, anyway-and it should have been enough. Kids should always be enough, and Beth is perfect. Perfect toes, perfect eyebrows, perfect elbow dimples and bellybutton and that fine baby powder smell that crooks up into his nostrils and stays for days. Beth is perfect, and kids should always be enough to get their parents together, but-
He ought to know, better than anyone else, how rarely that works out.
He thought it would get better, after Beth was born. Quinn would get it together, he would get it together, and everything would sort of iron itself out. The way his relationship with Finn has, or Kurt, or Rachel-people who should probably never speak to him again, after all he’s done, but who have forgiven him for it. Forgiven way more than a dude (or a chick) ever should, probably. He’s honored, in a weird, fucked up way, that they could give him another shot.
He thought it would get better, because Quinn’s head was always screwed on a little tighter than his, but somehow, it went the opposite way. He pulled himself up, forced himself to do things the way he was supposed to-mostly, not counting that whole “stint in juvie” thing-and she…lost it. Or got lost, or lost him, or something. And now he’s not really sure where she’s at.
He sees her in the halls sometimes, drifting with an aimlessness he can tell is practiced: pink shock of hair, carefully torn clothes, a cigarette dangling from her lips. That’s not the Quinn he knows, and yet, he wonders if she wasn’t always there, somewhere under the skirts and the smiles and the popularity. He wonders about her all the time: how she thinks, why she does these things, if she ever regrets how it all went down.
If she misses him.
He doesn’t know her anymore, and maybe he never really did-fucking someone sure as shit ain’t knowing them, and even watching a human life begin, a human life you had a fifty percent hand in creating, doesn’t make for a real relationship-but this is ridiculous. He loved her once, if you could call it that, and he thinks she may have loved him back. May have tried, at least, for Beth’s sake.
But if she ever loved him, she totally, absolutely cannot love him now. She doesn’t even look at him, not even when they’re talking, like he’s this repulsive bit of gum lodged beneath her boot. She doesn’t look at him, or smile at him, or take his arm. She doesn’t fucking care.
He doesn’t understand why that should hurt so much, after all the chicks he’s banged and dumped.
He never really knew her, probably, so he probably shouldn’t be so shocked by it all, but he can’t help it. They were the same once, where it counted-same fear, same hunger, same wild hatred for where they were-and now they’re nothing at all. Now they don’t speak, don’t smile, don’t do the old dance. He misses that, sometimes.
He misses her.
But she doesn’t miss him, doesn’t need him, doesn’t want him around, and he figures that’s just fucking fine. He can move on, too. He’s the master of moving on, of shattered expectations and carrying himself to new heights without help. He can do this without her, no questions asked.
But some nights, fingering that frayed photo of the three of them-the little family that never was-he wonders if she’s still there, under it all. His Quinn, the one who let him in for half a second. The one who could have loved him, if she’d only tried.
He wonders sometimes, about that girl he used to know.
It’s impossible not to notice when someone is staring you down like you’re a piece of steak. Impossible, and just plain silly to even think it means anything else.
She has always been a little silly, she supposes, but not that silly.
The fact is, Quinn Fabray-the Quinn of a thousand insults, the Quinn who glares daggers each time Rachel so much as brushes by Finn, the Quinn who pushes her aside in the halls and scrawls hateful messages in the bathroom-is staring at her again. Again being the word of operation, the word that makes Rachel think that this is probably more than she ever could have believed possible.
Again doesn’t mean two or three times; it means hundreds.
That may be vaguely hyperbolic. She’s not exactly above a good exaggeration.
But the truth remains that Quinn is a starer. A starer who stares like it’s the only thing she’s truly great at, like she’s planning on majoring in staring at the University of I Like You And I Deludedly Imagine You Can’t Tell.
Quinn is staring, and Rachel sincerely wonders how she doesn’t realize it.
It’s not even subtle, per se, not the twitch of painted eyelashes in her direction every once in a while. It’s a flat-out, no-holds-barred, expression of interest, and it’s made all the more disconcerting by the curl of Quinn’s lip, as if it disgusts her to even be thinking about this. Whatever this happens to be.
Rachel is kind of insulted.
Being stared at by a pretty-a beautiful, she amends tiredly, shaking her head-girl isn’t the problem. Although she is not expressly interested in the fairer sex herself, it’s nothing short of flattering to be wanted by someone as attractive as Quinn. No different than the spike of appreciation she feels when Noah’s eyes linger too long on her backside, or Finn smiles hopefully at the front of her sweater. To be wanted is nice.
It’s the part where Quinn clearly despises her that Rachel’s irked by.
She’s been aware of this whole thing for a while now-Quinn doesn’t make it difficult to figure out, though she apparently believes otherwise-and she has no idea how to handle it. The optimum path would involve striding right up to Quinn’s locker and confronting her about the situation (armed with HRC pamphlets and a smile that says,I support your decision to be who you are), but this is Quinn. Anyone else would likely melt in the face of her overwhelming friendship, but Quinn Fabray is different. Always has been.
Quinn Fabray would stuff her right into that locker and slam the door.
So that plan doesn’t really work, and truthfully, Rachel’s at a loss for anything else. Which leaves her here. With the staring.
It’s getting uncomfortable, knowing what she does and knowing Quinn somehow doesn’t realize it. She’s starting to feel as though she has read Quinn’s diary, taken a cursory glance at her innermost thoughts, like knowing about this actually makes her dirty or something. It’s starting to make her guilty.
Which is just absurd, because it’s Quinn with the interest, and Rachel has done nothing at all except-evidently-be attractive to the Sapphically-inclined.
Honestly, leave it to Quinn Fabray to make this more difficult than it has to be.
They could be friends, Rachel knows, if Quinn would just let her in. If Quinn would accept the inevitable about herself and just let Rachel help, everything could be fine. They could brush this whole thing out, and Rachel could help her find a suitable young woman, and perhaps they could even go on double dates (because, when Quinn finally accepts herself, Finn will absolutely be back on the market, and what else would there be to do but comfort him?). Everything could be just wonderful, if only Quinn would-
Well. Stop being so Quinn about it all.
The bell chimes, and immediately, the gaze boring into the side of her head veers away. Quinn sweeps her books into her arms and huffs out the door, slamming Rachel with her elbow as she goes. Rachel sighs.
Truly, this is more difficult than it needs to be.
She’s minding her own damn business, not bothering anyone at all-not even the Incredible Hulking Dickwipe that is Finn Hudson, which she thinks should earn her a goddamn medal-when the hand closes around her bicep and yanks. Yanks, like anyone has the right to just manhandle her awkwardly around the McKinley halls. God, are people just not even paying attention anymore or what?
She’s got a whole hoard of expletives waiting on the edge of her tongue, but before she gets a chance to use a single one, she finds herself tugged brashly into the dusty Astronomy classroom (like anyone fucking takes Astronomy in fucking America, anyway). The door snicks shut, her attacker releasing at last.
“You have to help me,” Mercedes says.
There’s a bright edge of desperation in her voice, like she’s thought of every possible way this could go-whatever this is; Santana doesn’t have the patience to follow every speck of melodrama in this school anymore-and has realized she is out of options. It’s insulting, to think she is anyone’s last choice (insulting, and leaves just the lightest beat of bitterness in her chest, because she has seriously had it up to here with being second best after all these years). Insulting, and vaguely intriguing. She’s never seen Mercedes this shade of Frustrated Weepy before.
“What gives, Aretha?” she drawls, tilting her head and crossing her arms, lest Mercedes think she actually gives a shit about this conversation. They’re friends now-sort of, in that Santana has mostly stopped leaving wriggling things in her food, and Mercedes has mostly stopped trying to one-up her in song-but friends only goes so far. And if this is about another goddamn solo going to Rachel Berry-
Okay, yeah, that annoys the shit out of her, too, but it’s not drag you into an empty classroom and cry about it territory.
“Sam,” Mercedes chokes out, and holy God, she is actually wringing her hands. Santana didn’t think people did that shit outside of bad chick flicks, but here Mercedes is, looking just short of mental, her teeth digging into her lower lip, and Christ, Santana’s going to have to fix this. If only for the sake of her own sanity; she’s been planning an epic duet with this particular set of power pipes, and it will never pan out if Mercedes loses her shit beneath a cheap imitation of Mars.
“Fishy lips, Bieber hair, Salvation Army wardrobe,” Santana agrees, shrugging. “I’m familiar. What’s your beef?”
“I lo-” Mercedes visibly bites down on the word, her throat convulsing. “I. He. We had a thing.”
“You and half the county,” Santana informs her carelessly, which is maybe a hair insensitive, but whatever. Helping doesn’t mean being fucking nice.
Mercedes’ wince lasts only half a second anyway. “A real thing,” she presses, groping backwards for the nearest desk and leaning her weight against it. “A thing that could have gone somewhere if he hadn’t-if his family-but they did, and then Shane-and then I moved on-but he came-”
Santana waves her off, familiar with the story. “Not looking for a recap. So, what? He’s all up in your grill now? Playing Edward Cullen?”
“No,” Mercedes snaps hotly, fingers anxiously plucking at her sweater. “He’s not stalking-okay, there is a little bit of stalking, maybe, but it’s cute. Or it would be cute, except-”
“You’ve got Mr. NFL-in-three-seasons,” Santana finishes, bored. Mercedes nods jerkily, a puppet whose strings are fraying to depressing degrees. God, this is the oldest story in the world, and one Santana’s patience is pretty well shot on. “Sounds like you’re in a pickle.”
“He won’t go away,” Mercedes groans. Santana arches an eyebrow.
“Which one?”
She watches Mercedes’ mouth work uncertainly and shakes her head. “Damn, girl. Y’know, most chicks ruin their fuckin’ panties thinking about a couple of football studs fighting over them.”
“Sam does synchro now,” Mercedes mumbles. Santana presses a palm to her forehead.
“Boy really does lack game, doesn’t he?”
“I like him,” Mercedes says softly, staring at the floor. “I do, and if Shane weren’t-but he is, and Sam kissed me, and I cheated, Santana. I cheated on my boyfriend.”
“Welcome to the club,” Santana informs her, smiling crookedly without mirth. “It’s a pretty extensive membership. We get our t-shirts in next month.”
“I cheated,” Mercedes repeats, as if she isn’t even there. Her eyes are distant, pricking with tears. Santana sighs.
“Look, cheating for love is-”
“No better.” Mercedes tilts her gaze up, wide-eyed and breathlessly miserable. “It’s not worth it, Santana.”
She’s not sure what to say to that, because every time she’s been there-every time she dicked around on some guy for Brittany-it was worth it. It was cruel, maybe, and pretty fucked up on some counts, but when Brittany was on the line…
But Sam isn’t Brittany, and Mercedes has that whole Self-Righteous Christian Diva rep rocking, and Santana’s not sure where to take this.
“I have to tell him,” Mercedes mumbles. Her fists clench, her toes tilting in their bulky sneakers against the tile floor. Santana frowns.
“As a professional liar, I have to tell you, that never really goes well.”
“Doesn’t matter. I have to do it.” She’s shaking from the shoulders, her body bowing in on itself. This isn’t the girl who broke from New Directions and formed her very own Girl Power group. This isn’t the girl who stood up to Santana’s threats, or who spoke with authoritative logic at rehearsals. Santana doesn’t recognize this person at all.
“I love him,” Mercedes says after a beat. “I do. But I can’t keep doing this. I can’t-I can’t live with myself. And Shane shouldn’t have to…”
Santana’s hand starts to reach out, pausing sparse inches from Mercedes’ arm. “It’s going to be ugly.”
“It already is,” Mercedes says, and almost smiles. A thin, strengthless smile that looks wrong on her mouth. Santana sighs.
“Do yo’ thing, girl.”
Mercedes nods hollowly. Santana shifts uncertainly toward the door.
“So…we done, then?”
Another despairing little smile. “Yeah, Santana. Thanks.”
“Bitch, I didn’t do anything.” Not the time for jokes, not at all, but being Mercedes’ friend doesn’t mean being nice. Mercedes wouldn’t accept it, even if she tried.
“Oh, Beyonce?” Santana flicks a mock glare over her shoulder at the door, one hand on the knob. “Next time you want to drag me into a friggin’ classroom, make sure it’s not a problem you can fix your own damn self.”
She escapes before Mercedes’ smile can go stale.