Chapter 2
Quinn Fabray had her first kiss at the Homecoming game freshman year. Not the party after, but at the game itself. Brittany Pierce, the kindest of the cheerleaders, had promised on the walk out to the field that she would give out kisses for every touchdown, and Quinn and Santana each got one, never mind that the touchdowns were scored by the other team. This memory was a little harder to forget: it's the entire reason the three of them became a unit.
I wake being spooned by primarily Santana, but also Brittany's long limbs stretched out behind us both. It doesn't take much effort to pencil roll away, and I stand comfortably. So today is a good day right now. But I don't hesitate to take some of the muscle relaxant gel left handily on the bedside table, beside an assortment of hair ties, Santana's glasses, and a book that I guess also belongs to her, and apply it to my lower back. It's then I remember the overpopulation of the apartment, when someone laughs and another curses from beyond the curtain. Trying not to wake Brittany and Santana, I walk out to find my risen friends and, hopefully, breakfast. Today, walking is easy, and I feel light, so I almost glide through the apartment to the breakfast bar where Rachel is trying to eat some mangled bagel, Kurt sipping at a head-sized mug of something. Coffee, from the smell, burnt. I get different odd looks from them both.
"Morning, Quinn." Kurt greets cheerily, anyway, holding out his mug to me as I pass him easily to rummage around in their cupboards. Finding no suitable ready-to-eat breakfast foods - there's only a bag of cheetos by the bowls - I take the offer and toe open the fridge to see if there's maybe something I could cook, grimacing at the first sip before handing it back and bending down to grab the bacon hidden at the bottom. To keep it from spoiling Rachel's food, I presume. The sudden cup-meeting-bar and shuffle behind me, plus Rachel's gasp, alerts me to their concern. At bending down? I react when I rise, elegantly if I do say so myself, and raise an eyebrow at them both. Kurt's hands are still outstretched as if to catch, and I glare them back to his sides, hanging limply as the man awaits further instruction.
"I know my limits, guys, have a little faith," I try to sound unaffected and light, though I honestly don't know whether I'm insulted or comforted, then add "I presume you have a frying pan and some virgin olive oil somewhere?", holding up the bacon and eggs I'd retrieved. To show my strength, I tap the fridge door closed by my heel with the just the right strength, not even looking behind myself at it. Rachel snickers, Kurt bats her arm then helps me cook breakfast. Fried food seems to be at least Mike's hangover cure, as he appears out of nowhere to join us.
Once our unusual foursome is seated with plates, Kurt decides to break the relatively peaceful silence (there are more sirens outside than I'd hoped), with a "Can we address the elephant in the room?" Rachel nods solemnly, but thankfully Mike, like myself, looked confused - was the silence awkward and we'd missed the hint? Since nobody replied, Kurt continued: "Quinn." Me? My face screams. "Your sexuality?" It's not lost on me that he's stolen a rather ironic and iconic line from Santana's closet days, but instead of point this out I blush (again!) and look down. "Or the fact you can evidently only stand up half the time and never told us!" With that outburst, I meet his eyes. He's not digging for details so much as hurt that I haven't shared the important things with my friends, and I reach across the table to grab his hand.
"I'm sorry," I start, getting an odd look from Rachel as if I hadn't made it a habit to apologize, "I've not been trying to hide things," I start to explain, not really sure how I will, "well, except from myself. I've been trying to pretend everything's fine." If there's a better way to finish, or more to offer, I know I'd start sounding like an after school special on friendship or something, so I just squeeze his hand and get back to eating. So do the boys. Rachel, however, is Rachel, after all.
"Are we going to talk about it now?" She pushes, almost done with the vegan bagel softly gripped above her plate. The three of us stop and look, but don't respond. "You know, Quinn, are you gay?" She elaborates in a whisper. Reservedness suits her.
"While I'm interested in that answer," Santana appears behind us, loudly interrupting, "I'm more interested in some of this homecooked breakfast. Why did we never do this before?" She asks, taking a mouthful from between my and Kurt's plates.
Kurt rolls his eyes, "Because none of us bother to cook most of the time? Be grateful your ex decided she wanted something more filling than your expired Greek yogurt." He snarks back, bobbing his head towards me at the word 'ex' as if we wouldn't pick up on the joke.
Santana snorts, "Please, Quinn's not my ex, she's made out with Britt more," and wanders off to the kitchen area to see what food she can gather for herself. We had fried up enough bacon for everyone - the entire two packets I'd found - but not so many eggs. It's probably still warm, just like my cheeks when the clatter of silverware tells me even Kurt can't keep up with Santana's wit. The woman in question returns, dragging a poof over to the small table (if anyone else decides to rise we'll have to relocate or at least expand breakfast to the living area) between 'zones'. "What, like anyone's surprised at Quinn's outstanding homosexuality." She adds when she notices only Mike actually eating. I swat at her, which only brings out her twisted humor more, "wanna hear about our threesome?" She chuckles out.
Before Rachel's eyes can pop out of her head I intervene, "Now that's where she is messing with you," adding an exaggerated shin tap for show.
As if by magic, Brittany appears, sitting on Santana's lap and eating her food. She shrugs, "I dunno, Quinnie, we totally did some stuff together." And I'm conflicted whether to face the conversation ready to force itself from Kurt and Rachel's lips, or to take my half empty plate to the kitchen to escape. But we really did a good job with the frying.
"Yeah, but nothing like they were picturing," I start, matter-of-fact, and while Rachel is still bugging out, Brittany just nods and hums and continues eating, Kurt is trying to keep his listening face on, and Mike is genuinely just listening, it's Santana's response that startles me. She looks genuinely surprised, presumably at the mere fact I've openly broached the topic, and relocates her left hand from Brittany's waist to my knee as I decide to tackle it, "but yeah," I address the table at large, "I guess we had some fun." To indicate this is far as that's going to go right now, I remove Santana's hand and return to my own food.
Then Mike coughs, "Do you always know when you're going to struggle walking?" His eyes pierce me, his caring voice entrapping me. I shrug. Not really. I think, and while the shrug probably indicates that, it feels like he's read my mind when he nods and adds, "We could do some physio, I'm sure I can find a good gym here," in an elated tone. He doesn't expect a response, clearing the last of his eggs in one mouthful then removing his dishes to the kitchen. I nod at his back in thanks, too.
"Speaking of," Santana starts up as she's trying to reclaim at least some bacon from Brittany - their relationship is in a confusing unlabeled more-than-friends situation again - "your phone went off with that advisor lady," and she throws my phone at me for good measure. I drop my silverware and catch it, checking the email. I knew it wouldn't be that easy: I hoped that, being brave enough to admit I could probably do with the aid of a chair, I would be able to sit back and watch it appear without having to think (and accept) too much. No; the ADA has, in Janette's words, approved funds for it, but I still have to go and test, choose, and buy one from an approved store. Even if I didn't, I expect Janette would be making me, anyway, to confront the situation. I growl. "Hey, what?" Santana soothes, directing Brittany to stroke my forearms since her hands are otherwise occupied. I knew the bacon was good. And I'll explain later, a message that only requires a certain type of head turn to pass along to my two friends. Brittany gives my arm a pat in confirmation then gets back to stealing Santana's bacon.
I roll my eyes at her trying to catch the end of some hanging from Santana's fork in her mouth. "Mike, could you bring Brittany some bacon of her own?" He cheers out a confirmation and also brings a bowl of washed fruit for the table.
"You guys really need to go grocery shopping." Mike notes, taking his seat with a bite from an apple that's definitely lost its crunch. It's only minutes before we're all done with breakfast and pile the dishes (in front of Kurt) but stay at the table to chat. It's nearly 9 a.m. and the various sounds of sleep are replaced by at least one other body fighting off wakefulness. Rachel has just finished telling us all about her plans to get a photo in front of every Broadway theatre this summer when Sam, wrapped in a bed sheet, appears. "Dude," Mike eyes him up, "did you steal the sheets?"
Everyone else is at least awake by midday, Artie and Puck shortly following Sam since he'd left them uncovered, when Santana prods me with a pointed index finger. We're curled up with our friends watching dumb TV and trying to pretend Kurt's burnt coffee tastes good, since he made a full pot. "I'm going grocery shopping today, want to come with?" She asks.
I bite my lip and nod, "Can we stop by another store on the way?" I ask. She smiles, nods, and buries herself further into Brittany. It sometimes surprises how she's become so soft, but it shouldn't, given how timid she became as soon as she recognized my interest in her was genuine rather than just playful or lustful.
Having left Brittany to the cartoons with our other slightly blitzed friends, Santana and I prepare for the world in her room. Though I'm feeling strong today, I still grab my stick, keeping it close to my side as if it will blend with my body. I can see Santana notice, but she doesn't respond. When we leave the apartment, though, she hesitates before heading for the stairs, letting me lead; I take one look down at them and realize that's just something I can't do. Each step is deep, the staircase itself is quite steep, and it's wide enough I could only reach one handrail. I sigh deeply - solemnly, not frustrated anymore - and turn back to the elevator, where Santana had been waiting and watching, letting her hit the call button.
On the way down, I bring up the trip I want to make, "That message from my advisor," I look at the flyers on the wall, "said that support services has given me the money for a wheelchair, but we need to go get one. I don't know where you get your groceries, but near Williamsburg there's a store." I rush out. The doors open at ground level, and Santana loops her arm with mine.
"Cool, wheelchair first?" She asks as we leave the barely air-conditioned building for the still much hotter packed Brooklyn streets. At least there's a subway entrance at the end of this block. As we descend its steps, Santana swapping sides wordlessly so she can still support me without going against the flow of people, she chuckles out "Hey, we can use it to push the groceries back!" And I laugh wholeheartedly.
It's not like a fashion outlet at the accessibility store - they measure height, and leg and torso length, then offer a checklist of things you may or may not want in a chair. I opt for pockets, detachable handles and armrest, and one that folds for storage purposes. Sure, there's different brands, but only one is covered by my ADA voucher anyway, so after 20 minutes we come out with the one chair that was an option. Not before Santana charms her way into getting a pink marker from behind the counter and doodling on the backrest to make it feel more personal, though. And we fold it with out purses inside as we get back on the subway to the little grocery store where Santana swears she gets a discount because the Polish checkout guy likes her. I don't think we get a discount, but he definitely flirts. And, since we're stocking up for three times as many people, the chair does become a useful shopping cart.
It's 3 p.m. when we get back, the sun seeming to reach its peak and I worry I'll burn just before relaxing into the A/C as we enter the apartment building. Everyone seems to have livened up - and asks if we bought alcohol - by this time, too. "Didn't we drink enough last night," I scowl as Kurt relieves the wheelchair and Santana's arms of the groceries, "for at least a few days?"
Artie pops the top of the tequila bottle we didn't finish in answer. Adam is already draining a much nicer beer than we'd had last night, with a "No, no, don't look like that. It's called day drinking and it's a national pastime," and those closest to him decide to be British for the afternoon.
"As long as nobody pukes on me," Rachel shouts, shrill, as Adam offers her one of his Belgian beers. "Ooh, import!" She calls. Not everyone has taken up the offer, so the drunk party relocates to Kurt's room.
"But we are going out tonight, right?" Mercedes asks as I open a fresh bag of chips and flick through TV channels. I'm just accepting the local news affiliate is the best we're going to do when Santana affirms that yes, we are going out, while snatching the remote off me. I let go of the chips to retrieve and Tina steals them. My aghast face acting has never been more on point, as I get them right back, laughing and apologizing at her look of remorse.