Chapter 1
Quinn Fabray had experienced her first orgasm, courtesy of Santana Lopez, the week before Thanksgiving in her freshman year of high school. This was something she was mostly able to ignore until the summer before her sophomore year of college, though not for want of trying.
"But Quinn, even your internship is in New York! You don't need to commute if you stay with your friends in Brooklyn-" Rachel continued her now-daily exercise of trying to convince me to spend my summer living with her and however many of the glee club kids would be hosted at her apartment until they all moved into their own places for college. I didn't point out that since my internship was in Tribeca, I would still need to commute. "-and it will be just like one big long sleepover!" I waited five seconds, and when she didn't speak again, I sighed. It had been two weeks of this while I packed up my dorm room between finals, storage boxes because even though I hadn't told Rachel (or anyone) I didn't have an off-campus apartment in New Haven yet and was expecting to put most of my belongings into a unit while I bunked with a classmate who I didn't really like but who was on the same internship.
I didn't really want to live in an overpacked apartment with everyone I still spoke to from high school in it 24/7, but it would honestly be more fun. And Santana's brutal timekeeping would make sure I was at work on time - the classmate is on level pegging with Santana when it comes to partying, but is a lot further down when it comes to alarm setting. Even if it was just a theatre workshop that was basically being run for Ivy League theatre programs. Apparently the Columbia kids are bitchy about studying in the city.
"Rachel, if I say yes now do I get a bed to myself?" I bargained after realizing I had left my friend waiting for too long. The sudden inhale told me 'no' was the answer before she even rambled her way around the word.
Four days later I was being greeted by a small army of show choir kids at Grand Central, two suitcases with me. It was more of an inconvenience to all get on the subway together, nice as the gesture was, and I worried that maybe I wouldn't get a moment away from everyone. We hadn't been apart for that long, really. I saw most of them three months ago on Valentine's Day.
Valentine's Day. I hadn't failed to notice that, of all the friends who had ventured out to meet me, Santana - the one who had given me probably the best sex of my life, not that she had much competition, three months ago - was not one of them. Hadn't I just been thinking how dumb it was for them all to come out when it was really a one person job? That could have been Santana's job, though, it's she who I had been closest with the longest. And it was her apartment more than it was Sam's or Tina's or Artie's. I talked myself in and out of reasons why Santana should or should not have gone all the way to Manhattan for the entire journey to Bushwick.
As most of the club elected to walk the six stories up a cement staircase, and Kurt even grabbed my suitcases to take with him, I waved up at them and leaned against the wall by the elevator with Artie. Our friends' footfall echoing above made the 10 seconds it took for Artie to speak feel much longer. "How's your back?" he asked, not looking at me.
"Awful, to be honest" I reply, averting my gaze before we can make eye contact. I had gone through so many low points in high school, and he had been one of my few avenues of support during the one that threatened to tip me over the edge, but I rarely checked in with him. "I'm sorry we don't talk more." The elevator arrived and I let Artie in first before pressing the button to the loft floor.
"It's okay," he said all too jovially for this conversation, "you didn't talk to anyone at McKinley, and you'd dated Sam, so no skin off my bones." While Artie wasn't Santana, he did always say what he meant and meant what he said, so his warm tone and astute reaction I took at face value. He wasn't offended, but he did think I should have kept in touch in general. But I felt something I needed to tell someone here in New York, I should tell him.
"I have a walking stick. Official ADA and everything. The city's busy and pedestrian. I still take physical therapy every week but my back can seize up or suddenly go numb without warning, and I at least need something to take the weight while I recover. Or don't. While I call someone to come and help me. Compression shock, I'll have it forever and I've tried to hide it." The doors opened just as Artie reached for my hand. I stepped out first and waited for him to follow.
Artie nodded and smiled at me, looking wiser than I'd seen him before. We didn't do deep. "Yeah, you will. And it sucks. But if you're admitting it for the first time now, you won't be stuck with all the negative emotions for much longer." He started wheeling himself towards the loft's giant door before he suddenly spun in place to look me dead in the eye, speaking with determination "And get a wheelchair, Quinn, you can't be walking in the city if you could fall over at any moment." His tone softened at the fear in my eyes, "You said it yourself, it's busy, who knows when we could save you and who knows what strangers would do." I nodded and patted him on the shoulder as I walked past, sliding open the door myself.
A cheer attacked us from the other side. Santana, Blaine, and Brittany - the three who hadn't gone into the city - then attacked me in a group hug. The whole place had been tidied and decorated in McKinley colors. "Hey hey hey," Santana began when they pulled back and the glee club started to disperse from the doorway to let us in, "this isn't all for you, but if you're finally going to acknowledge our existence then you deserve an extra special welcome." She winked at me, and since she was the last person to show me something more than friendly affection, I, like a fool, blushed. So she smirked at me.
Ever our mediator, Brittany burst between the tension to dazzle me, pulling me into another hug. "You'll be sharing a bed with us, Quinn. Rachel said you could share with her and Tina but Santana said she didn't want you to catch loser now that you're already nerding it up, so you can sleep in her room and our awesome will rub off on you!" Another smirk from Santana, who pulled back her damn curtain like a car sales showgirl. It looked tidier than any bed of Santana's I'd seen before in my life and, from between Brittany's arms, I'm certain my expression told her that.
"Don't look ungrateful, Q, we missed out on dragging your ass back from the city to spend all morning cleaning this shit up to your insane standards. I even got new sheets and everything." Though there was bite, I knew she was trying to make a good impression, and I smiled as I hugged Brittany a bit tighter, hoping Santana realized it was for her. My suitcases were already on that freshly-made bed, but they weren't unzipped, so Santana had shown some restraint, too.
Several hours and a shower later, I was sat in a pajama set of cotton shorts and camisole on Santana and Brittany's bed. I hadn't paid much attention to where everyone else had been zoned off, but they must have been more than three to a bed or some people on the floor. It had almost felt selfish, until Santana had thrown a new maternity pillow at me while I was texting with my disability support advisor. As soon as I recognized what the item was, and maybe because I'd been thinking about my back pain, I took it for a kind gesture and settled it behind my hips and leaned back. Watching me, Santana smiled wide and began to crawl up next to me in a decidedly unsexy fashion.
"I really thought you'd assume I was making a joke about you getting pregnant, Q, but I'm glad you suddenly think better of me." She whispered, head resting on the edge of the pillow by my side. I scratched at her hair as I watched typing bubbles on my phone screen.
"Because I know you're really sweet, San, you may be a bitch to be funny but you care about all of us too much to make me feel bad for no reason. Especially when you didn't rummage through all of my stuff before I got here." She laughed as my phone pinged and I sat up, dislodging her.
"Hey, what's so important I lose out on cuddle time with my second favorite cheerleader?" She whined as she made no attempt to move. I looked down to her little pout, nervous to tell her, and boop her nose as I pass over my phone so she can read it herself. "Okay, I'm not really understanding this?" She asks hesitantly.
I sigh, run my hands through my growing hair - note to self, get a hair cut - and bite my lip as I make eye contact. "Well, you know I get ADA support?" She nods absently and I look away, play with the phone she's passed back, "My support advisor is helping make accommodations because living more independently, especially in a city like New York, is a difficult adjustment. It was something Artie said in the elevator earlier that made me think about just how big everything is here. They're going to get me some wheelchair just to make getting around easier. I'm always going to have weakness sometimes, and I don't want to collapse in the middle of the city alone." I'd almost forgotten I was talking to Santana before her hand was stroking my knee.
"If I'm free I'll always go out with you, if you want, so you can walk, you know?" Vulnerable Santana wasn't all that new to me, but it felt like a revelation again every time I saw it. I lay back and started playing with her hair again in silent gratitude, just as Brittany returned from her own shower and, in nothing but a towel, joined us in the love fest. Laying with a back support and two of my best friends cuddling was a great start to my summer, as unprepared in being an adult as I felt.
We cuddled up, and almost dozed off, together until the last of whoever wanted to clean up in the bathroom had. One bathroom between all of us was not going to be an ideal living situation unless we were willing to give up modesty, and I seriously wondered if the building's boiler could take all of us wanting to shower every day. I had to remind myself that most of these people would be moving out in a matter of days or weeks, either to their own apartments or college dorms when they freed up. I'd only been there an afternoon and was already sad at the prospect of missing them. The glee club officially turned me into a sap. Rachel had improved as a person thanks to her time with us, too, and had offered to be the last one in the bathroom, presumably suffering through a freezing shower based on how weak her voice was when she appeared.
"It's welcome party time, people!" She screamed into the apartment. I was not the only new arrival that day, but I still didn't want to walk the five paces to this party. The maternity pillow was comfy, so sue me. I must have tensed at the announcement, or my friends are mind readers, because it wasn't a second before Santana and Brittany's eyes met from where their heads were on opposite sides of me, looking devious. Brittany suddenly lifted me bridal-style while Santana grabbed my falling phone and the pillow, then pulled back the curtain once more. As our friends were gathering in the designated living room area, Brittany continued to carry me, to their stares. Santana helpfully made Sam move off the couch and set the pillow down before Brittany gentled lowered me. I bat her arms away as quickly as I was settled. Most of the gang, seeing my discomfort, looked away and continued pouring drinks and staring at phones - Santana quickly returned mine to my lap - but such a social more was lost on Rachel when her interest was piqued. She looked around everyone as if to say 'did you all not just see that', before asking the room loudly "So, what, Quinn can't walk all of a sudden?" And trying to giggle, hiding her need to know with sarcasm.
Sarcasm. I knew it well. But, like a scene in a horror movie, ten sets of eyes turned to Rachel in unison and glared. "What?" She squeaked, "Like it's normal to be carried out of-"
"Rachel," I interrupted, stealing back the room's focus to save the girl before she dug herself in. As soon as I had it, my commanding tone became light, "I haven't been able to walk for over a year. Get with the times." Truthful with enough humor to put everyone at ease. I'm a theatre major, I know how to use my words. I know how to perform. Brittany had placed herself on the couch next to me, and Santana was sat on its arm at my other side. My backup were here, and they each picked a spot of skin to stroke as I settled back into the pillow. God, was I grateful for Santana. Not so subtly, Artie wheeled into Rachel's foot as he passed her to join our side of the pseudo-circle, settling in the space next to Santana.
Everyone had laughed except Rachel, who sort of chuckled, then swallowed, "I'm so sorry, Quinn." I nodded at her. Most of my thanks were silent. I'd never been taught to be grateful for anything but God, and was never used to expressing thanks to people verbally. I always tried to show them, though.
"Bitch please, we're over it, let's get our drank on!" Santana cheered from my side, passing along beers from the six pack in Artie's lap. "A toast to our weird incestuous reunion, you guys are really chosen family. I mean, you obviously all chose me and I just allow myself to be dragged along, but I love you deep down below my breast implants." The music pumped.
I was almost exactly one and half bottles into the night, based on the beer level against the label, when a much more intoxicated Kurt suddenly stood and straightened (or ruffled, he just did something) his outfit. "Ladies and gentlemen, or whatever, it has been too long since we all played a drinking game together - but I am not advocating for spin the bottle. We're all already sleeping on each other as it is." How he's so eloquent this drunk is a testament to his performance abilities, too. Rachel Berry eat your heart out. "And we do all need life updates. So I propose truth or drink. I think we all know the rules." And he proceeded to flounce back to his spot on the floor, perfectly coifed hair and matching scarf bobbing as he simply lowered into a sitting position with ease. Oh for the lower back durability that motion required.
The following whoops, and the idea is well-received. Noah grins slyly, still on his first beer. Not one to be left out, he was spending his summer break in New York, too, though his excuse was that he'd already made it through every sex-worthy woman in Lima. Well, half of us are here.
"Alright losers, first time you had sex." He asked the group, trying to make contact with everyone before taking a sip. "It's the first question, you can't chicken out." He added as he finished.
A hand brushed my arm as it was raised next to me, a tipsy Santana heading to ask a question, "Define sex? I assume some kind of mutual masturbation counts?" Confused eyes from around the room after the first part suddenly looked down in realization when the tag came.
"I second that." Kurt mumbled, barely raising from the floor to bob his agreement.
"What? No man," Puck began, swirling his bottle in the air, "I didn't know you needed an education, Satan, but masturbation isn't sex. But if you chicks are-" Rachel punched him from the side. "Hey!" but he shut up.
"Not just masturbation, Puck. Getting someone else off while they pleasure you. You know, sex without sticking your dick in some poor girl's vagina." Santana bit back. Puck rightfully looked a bit sheepish.
"Are you going to call me homophobic if I say it doesn't count?" He asks, sounding and looking for all intents and purposes like a dwarf just sat on his head. But at least he was learning how to play. A chorus of 'yes' echoed, and I barely recognized I was one of the voices - joining Santana, Brittany, Kurt, Blaine, and Kurt's new obviously gay friends I had yet to be properly introduced to - in it. I got a side eye from Santana not unlike the hesitant optimism from the Valentine's Day reception in response, but that was quickly dropped as Noah cleared his throat. "So, first orgasm administered by another person. Babymama?" And all eyes returned to me.
And I quickly realized why I got the look from Santana. If I were to tell the truth, then, by the newly-established laws of this game, I'd had sex almost a year before Noah. The state of public education in Ohio meant that I was never exposed to the sequential horrors of menstruation until I was experiencing them, and though I'd first got my period, thankfully, in the bath when I was 12, I first got period pains while having a meal at Santana's house over the Thanksgiving break in freshman year. I lost my appetite and was worried about it, not knowing what was happening, so excused myself to Santana's room. Her mom came to check on me, kinder than I'd ever seen her in our short friendship. When I described the pain, she explained to me what my body was doing and left to get a warm cushion, apparently sending Santana up to comfort me while she waited for it to be heated. It was after the cushion had cooled that Santana, wise in all these ways I wasn't, offered to show me how she relieved the pain. And that's how Santana, fumbling over my skirt, gave me my first orgasm. To this day I can't truly recall why I reciprocated, except that she'd mentioned after I came that she was going to do it to herself and my brain, mush at the time, decided to push her hands back and fumble under her skirt instead. While I'm sure Valentine's Day is a testament to how much I'd improved since 15, I was going to have to reveal my first time was actually with a girl. Because Noah knew he had my virginity, so anything before that, well, the recent discussion would let them work it out.
"Um. The week before Thanksgiving, freshman year of high school." I mutter, tomato-red cheeks hidden as I basically address the lip of my bottle. But the stillness of the room means they all caught it. I wait for any kind of acknowledgement I might want to hide from, and when nothing is said for a few seconds, I pass the attention to my left, but skipping over Brittany. We don't talk about Brittany's first time. "Mercedes?"
I spoke just as Noah found his voice, "Damn, I gotta stop claiming you then." Well, duh, he shouldn't have been in the first place.
Coming back to the room, Mercedes now, as much as she can, blushes. "I still haven't." She says, and the silence of calculating brains turns into mixed calls for Mercedes to get some already or to keep holding back. And the baton works its way around the room.
And since I passed it left, it's a while before it gets to Santana. The sexually liberated and completely unashamed Santana, who tries to hide her face in her drink, too, running her foot along the wheel of Artie's chair before he bats it away in annoyance. People messing with your chair, I know the feeling. She clears her throat. "Thanksgiving break freshman year." She chokes out, then goes to the kitchen area to grab another drink despite her bottle being nearly full. Oh. Oh. The eyes are on me as soon as I realize, and I use my fantastic upper body strength to, hands on the freshly vacated couch arm and Brittany's leg, propel myself up without straining my lower back after being nestled deep in the couch. Still not feeling strong today, I lean more heavily on the furniture (and some shoulders) than any of these people have seen in a long time as I try to make my escape, until Artie feels sorry for me and rolls up behind, sitting me on his lap as he follows Santana.
"Lame attempt at running away," I try to joke, speaking over Artie as he softly chastises,
"You should really get that chair, Quinn," helping me stand and lean on the bar.
I turn to look back at him as he takes another case of beer and heads back to the group, "Yeah, I've asked Yale's disability support. I know, Art." His smile is almost as warm as Britt's hug earlier. I sense he also doesn't want to be the only one, in this big city, getting all the attention when we take up more space than people in this city normally do. Not that I want much attention right now.
"If this is where you're going to hide until they forget, it could be a while." Santana says as she passes me her half-finished beer.
"Do we really not have any other alcohol?" I ask. She smirks.
"I have a brilliant idea." She grins as she comes around the bar to join me. Unexpectedly, she hoists me to sit on it. "Don't move." She instructs, though she's pretty much ensured I can't unless someone comes, and I think they're respecting the privacy I nearly hurt myself trying to get. I'm almost done with the bottle when Santana returns, arms cradling at least one bottle of tequila, a shaker, and a bottle of clear liquid with its label hidden. "Cocktails, bitch, if they're going to wonder all night we can at least be too fucked to care." I help her unload her haul onto the bar and twist to sit on it, crossing my legs and squeezing her hand briefly. One day I'll be able to say thank you more than once.
We've mixed enough drinks for each of the girls and gays, and Santana takes out a baking tray to act as server, announcing the drinks during yet another round of truth or drink - noting that they're too good for the game and stick to beer if you're a coward - before coming back over and leaning on the bar in front of me. One prod to my thigh and my eyes cast down to meet hers, her eyebrows raised in a quick question. I nod and stretch my arms out, and she helps me down, catching me by the waist. It's a position so familiar, usually felt when landing the perfect cheer move. I resented Santana for a few weeks after she got the cheerleading scholarship. Sure, I didn't want it, and I'd already got into Yale, but I know there's some things that were so integral to my fragile high school identity that I'll never be physically able to do again. I couldn't get a cheerleading scholarship. It hurts to dance, half the time, but I still push through it for appearances. There's an accessible dance class at Yale, though, that I've been too scared to sign up for each semester; it's a performance elective that also gets you an extra credit for some bullshit community outreach thing that helps the rich morons graduate, but my advisor, Janette, thinks I should do it anyway. I haven't wanted to dance too taxingly since the car crash, to pretend like I still could if I wanted. Taking that class, in a wheelchair, would be a level of acceptance that I can't. Janette thinks - or reports from my tutors tell her - I've been holding back in my acting performances, too, and I'll be much more open when I work through, I guess, the stages of grief. Fitness is something I worked so hard for, based my identity on. Gone, like nothing. I rationalize it as God wanting me to accept myself, so I'll work through that first. And maybe a summer spent more often than not in a wheelchair will make the class seem more approachable.
We walk back to the couch with Santana's arm around me much like it was when I stood up on stage during prom, half my weight leaning right into her. I sit on the back of the couch when we reach it - though everyone has continued whatever they were saying, it's definitely slowed down with eyes on us, so best to sit down quickly - and rotate on my ass before sliding into my waiting pillow. Santana abandons her perch to sit half on both my and Brittany's laps, moving two cocktails to the armrest she'd been sitting on before.
"Geez, what made you so heavy," I joke as she wriggles to get comfy.
"Bitch," she flicks at my hair playfully, "I basically just carried you here, don't call me heavy. Can your legs even feel my weight anyway," though it's in her Snix tone, the last jab is hesitant. Our normal evolved over senior year and my freshman year of college and now involves what used to be barbs as, instead, meaningless insults, and while it's an odd friendship, I want our normal to not be censored now we're seeing each other in person - and maybe a different light. We're both more vulnerable than I remember.
"Please, a dead man could feel that elephant taking residence up your skirt," I swat at the obnoxiously high hemline - who gets dressed up for drinks in their own house? - and Santana wraps one arm around me, beaming. Brittany squeals, and gives us one arm each. I imagine we look like a tickle monster to our friends, who seem to have been keeping an ear on our conversation while continuing their own.
"If you guys are going to have a threesome tonight, can I at least watch?" Noah asks, and I don't have anything to throw at him that I'm willing to sacrifice, but Santana lobbies a slipper over there for me. She doesn't even wear slippers. "You don't even wear slippers!" Noah calls as he ducks. Bless the Latina in her for getting a pair just to hit people with. Her smirk is saying as much to him, and he glares back before countering, "So straight to mama feisty over there for the next question? Most recent orgasm given by another person?"
Santana leans backwards a little bit to kiss Brittany before saying the girl's name, and as the question goes around, Brittany gives Santana's name in response, too. My mouth turns heavy with anticipation of the eventual return to me, too heavy to drink, and I just squeeze Santana's hand where it rests next to me.
"Quinn?" Noah looks over lasciviously while half the room is still howling with laughter at whatever Artie's response was - I was too nervously sweating to listen to many of the responses, and it seems he just finished and everyone certainly isn't done finding it funny. But Noah is a bit of a pervert, wanting to hear mine desperately and soon.
It takes a little longer for everyone else to catch up, and I try to go for a swig of beer until Rachel leans and swipes it from my hand. What's her game? But I sigh - the little diva claps her hands so I guess she really wants to know. "Santana". Is all I offer before forcing my beer from Rachel and nearly downing it. Santana looks surprised. Well, everyone looks surprised but I was expecting that. From the woman herself? Not really.
"Wait, you didn't sleep with that preppy douchebag you were dating? And here I thought you'd turn into some sex monster after we did it." Santana adds a stage wink after her antagonizing question, but at least she confirmed it happened for me rather swiftly. I try to bury my face behind her, simultaneously embarrassed and grateful that she's here for me as some human shield.
Kurt clears his throat nervously from the side, "Let's just drink!" he manages to get out between hiccups, saving me from the game he started before. Blaine pats his shoulder while the gay friends look over, trying to decode me, before quickly retracting their heads like turtles. I can only assume Santana gave them a prize glare from behind me.
Everyone has been dribbling back to bed over the last half hour, but I'm effectively trapped in place. While Kurt and Blaine, and the boys I've now been introduced to as Adam and Elliott, seem tired, they're all hanging on until the very end, when Artie, awkwardly glancing between the gay huddle on the ottoman and the three former cheerleaders sprawled on the couch, finally bids us goodnight. I'm just about asking when we can get to bed when the boys relocate to the coffee table in front of our couch.
"Quinn," Kurt and Blaine begin at the same time, and debate for too long on who will speak until Adam, the efficient Brit in all this, just speaks over them in his hushed tone. It's still so easy to pick out thanks to the accent.
"Quinn? I thought you were gay until Kurt said you're not, but he's been tense all night wanting to ask you. So have the other two, and me, if I'm honest." Adam leans forward, so forward, but my Santana-shaped barrier springs into action, pointing a rather drunken finger into his face.
"First, she's a lady, she's a lesbian. Second, shut up, Mary Poppins, let her work that shit out for herself." I curse my pale complexion for how red I turn. Brittany squeezes my shoulder as she reins Santana in, preventing her from teetering into the boys' laps instead of ours. She then decides to just heave Santana up, and carries her to bed before returning.
"So this was nice, but Santana wants to get her cuddles on with her two favorite ladies - sorry, that's not you, Kurt - so we need to do this some other time." Brittany says, too cheerily, in the vague direction of the boys as she just leans down and picks me up, too. "Oh, wait, can one of you bring the pillow?" She makes eye contact with Blaine, who knows an order from Britt when he hears one, following us in. Somehow, Santana's sinful dress is in a pile on the floor and she's in an oversized t-shirt, already asleep. Brittany and I each take a side of her.