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storypaint) wrote2011-05-26 06:59 pm
storypaint) wrote2011-05-26 06:59 pm
[Glee] let’s live suddenly without thinking (the rebirth remix) (Mercedes/Quinn)
Title: let's live suddenly without thinking (the rebirth remix)
Fandom: Glee
Length: 4813 words
Prompt: remix
Pairing: Mercedes/Quinn primarily; minor Sam/Quinn
Other: PG-13 for some sexuality and religious themes. In the vein of the original, spoilers through 2x07 and diverging from canon before 2x10. The title comes from E.E. Cummings's poem of the same name. This is a remix of_harmlessthings's fic chalk lines. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to put my own spin on your story! It was a lot of fun.
Excerpt: When Mercedes told this story, it began in the summer, with a gradual slide from before to after the kiss and what followed. But to Quinn, like all proper romances, this began in the spring.
when I was young, I lived in a world of dreams
of moods and myths and illusionary schemes
though now I am much more grown up
I fear that I must own up
to the fact that I'm in doubt of
what the modern cynics shout of
-"They Say It's Spring," M. Clarke, B. Haymes, 1956
When Mercedes told this story, it began in the summer, with a gradual slide from before to after the kiss and what followed. But to Quinn, like all proper romances, this began in the spring.
*
It wasn't like any other relationship Quinn had been in, carefully choreographed at the start. Instead, Quinn was spending nine months sharing her body with a tiny stranger, with a stomach that showed exactly how badly she'd deviated from her life plan.
Into the emptiness and uncertainty, Mercedes came. She didn't help because Quinn asked her to, or because she thought it would help her social standing, or for any of the selfish reasons that Quinn could come up with. No, Mercedes was a genuinely good person, and Quinn was beginning to realize how few of those she knew. (She certainly wasn't one.)
Mercedes took her home. She shared ice cream at three a.m. and tied Quinn's shoes and she listened, genuinely. When there were pains rippling through Quinn's abdomen and Quinn was scared that she was going to die doing this, never mind that women had given birth since the Garden of Eden, Mercedes went with her.
Mercedes held her hand and wiped her sweat and didn't say anything about how terrible and gross this was. Quinn sobbed and wanted to pass out and instead discovered this awful, powerful love in the room, as if God wanted her to have something to compensate for all of the hurt. She loved her mother suddenly and the doctor and the nurse and the baby and Mercedes Jones. She needed them never to leave. She didn't know that she was saying, "Don't let go," until Mercedes laughed and said, "Like you'd let me, Q," and then Quinn wanted to laugh too, but she was screaming instead.
Quinn always counted that, privately, as the beginning. She'd never forget that desperate need she felt for the girl at her side. And that frightened her.
*
Quinn had been a member of St. John's Catholic church since her baptism at two weeks of age. She knew her catechism. She went to Bible study on Wednesday nights and church on Sunday mornings.
She knew that being gay was wrong: that it said so in Leviticus and in Romans, that the gays caused the downfall of Sodom and Gomorrah, that marriage should be between a man and a woman, and that she had a cousin she hadn't seen since the age of five, when the cousin came out as a lesbian and Quinn's uncle kicked her out of the house.
She never really thought much about gay people. She didn't really have anything against Kurt or her lost cousin. She signed the petitions they passed around the pews and she didn't think much about the choices that other people made and the way it affected their lives.
Because it had to be a choice. It had to be, so she could choose something else.
*
I want to know who I am, she said to Mercedes on the day before school let out, prettying up the statement with words like "self-actualization" so that she didn't sound as confused as she felt. She thought maybe she could figure that out at home, or at least far enough away from Mercedes that the tide of feelings she had would go out, just a bit. But she couldn't stand being at home. Her mother hovered, brittle and sweet by turns, and Quinn thought she would suffocate if she had to listen to another gossipy story about their neighbors or her mother's volunteer work. Her father's contribution to the family arrived in envelopes once a month. Quinn found that she preferred it this way.
After two days of humidity and over-thinking everything, Quinn picked out her favorite tank top and shortest blue jean shorts. She threw them in a duffel bag and found her mom in the kitchen with flour on her cheek. It was too hot to bake, but Judi still made chocolate chip cookies every Wednesday afternoon. They invariably went uneaten until Sunday morning, when she'd donate them to the weekly women's luncheon.
"I'm going over to Mercedes's house," Quinn said, hitching the duffel up on her shoulder and not meeting her mother's eyes. She could see her mother's lips tighten a little. She knew that the woman wanted to protest, wanted to ask what had happened to Quinn's harem of Cheerios and football players, wanted to suggest, with genteel, white, upper-middle-class racism, that Quinn would be happier among her own kind of people.
But Mercedes had been there when Quinn's mother had not, and Quinn had already made it clear that she wouldn't listen to statements like that. So her mother smiled a little and said, "Why don't you take some cookies with you?"
Quinn shook her head and took her key.
*
Mercedes let her in, as always. She let Quinn play around with her identity, trying selves on like they tried on dresses at the mall, laughing at Mercedes dressed in a Hot Topic corset ("You know I woulda rocked that role, Quinn,") and Quinn in white lace ("We need to find you some wings and a halo and you've got your Halloween costume"). They did everything, because it was summer and they could. They watched awful movies and ate junk food and stayed up late whispering.
Quinn went home every few days just so that she wasn't overwhelmed by what Mercedes was giving her. She tossed and turned in the air-conditioning like she never did when she was sharing Mercedes's bed. Even with the windows open and the fans blowing, they still woke up most mornings with skin touching, with Quinn's hand on Mercedes's thigh or Quinn's head on Mercedes's shoulder, with Mercedes's breath in Quinn's face or their backs pressed together. It was comfortable.
One thing she could do at home that she couldn't do when Mercedes was around: she shut her eyes and bit her lips and dreamed, in her most private thoughts, that it was Mercedes's hand on her most sensitive skin, that Mercedes was above her and around her and touching her, that she let Mercedes's hands traverse her body, not Finn's or Puck's but the one person she could honestly trust.
*
They went hiking, because maybe Quinn could be an outdoorsy person. After the first couple of bug bites she was pretty positive that she wasn't. She was the kind of person who appreciated indoor plumbing and all of the comforts of civilization. The grass was scratchy on the back of her legs as they flopped down under the tree at their halfway point. Quinn wasn't sure she wanted to go any further.
"Thank you," she said to Mercedes, who had been keeping up a lazy, one-sided conversation about mosquitoes and what she wouldn't do for a bug spray that worked and didn't smell like ass. The wind failed to rise at this awkward proclamation of gratitude. Mercedes sat up and wiped her sweaty hands on her calves. Quinn tried not to stare at the gleaming dampness rising up and disappearing under Mercedes's shorts to a place that Quinn had never seen. (Mercedes had seen all of Quinn, more of Quinn than anybody, even the doctor who'd delivered Beth. There was more to seeing than looking.)
"For what?" Mercedes asked, surprised, and Quinn tried to explain without saying too much. She wasn't sure Mercedes understood, exactly, but Mercedes gave her a hand up, and onward up the path they went.
*
After they gave up hiking, they (Quinn) decided to try swimming, which was fun and healthy and most importantly, cool. They spent hours in the lake and Mercedes teased Quinn about her beach shoes until Quinn gave in and let her feet roughen on the bottom.
There wasn't much sand -- mostly rocks and seaweed -- and if they'd tripped one time they'd tripped a dozen times, but this time Mercedes fell forward onto Quinn and they fit together, really fit, legs tangled and arms and everything else. Quinn's hand landed on something soft, and just like that, they both froze.
She touched Mercedes's breast by accident, in the dark water of the lake, and for the first time in her life, Quinn really understood temptation, that rushing in the blood that said it wouldn't matter, no big deal, please go ahead, more more more more. And she wanted -- she didn't want to say no anymore.
Mercedes nodded, just a little, and Quinn wanted to cry so badly she thought that she would laugh. It was a wave of relief that made her knees weak, that disregarded verses and fears and drowning. This was Mercedes. Mercedes gave and gave and loved Quinn more than anyone had ever loved Quinn. Why was it so much of a surprise?
She didn't hear Mercedes's parents calling but she jumped when Mercedes jumped. She could feel the smile stretching her face; it must have been comically wide but for once she couldn't bring herself to care. She helped Mercedes up, squeezed her hand, and Mercedes didn't let go all the way home, even after they both dozed off.
*
The next week they brought a tent and a sleeping bag. There hadn't been anything overt since the moment in the lake: just an occasional pause, a soft look shared between them. They didn't talk about it, but they planned a return trip, and this time they only brought one sleeping bag, a secret that filled the small gaps between them.
"Mercedes," Quinn whispered into the dark, "Mercedes --" And then Quinn kissed her, not just once, but for the first time. (She could see why Mercedes would see this as the beginning, but Quinn had been hopelessly in love for months already.)
The locusts crooned and the owls hooted and they kissed for what felt like hours before they fell asleep, curled around each other in the dark.
*
Quinn spent four hours at home when they got back from the lake. She walked around the house and stared at the statues of Jesus and Mary as if she'd never seen them before. She wrestled furiously with herself or perhaps the Devil, bringing out her Bible to look things up. She paged through, pausing at passages she had bookmarked and underlined (passages that Mercedes knew just as well as she did, she knew; but somehow Mercedes had found her peace).
Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.
Or do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: neither the sexually immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor homosexuals...
They exchanged the truth about God for a lie... Because of this, God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural sexual relations for unnatural ones.
Quinn shut the book and her eyes, and she got down on her knees and listened harder than she'd ever listened before.
She still didn't hear anything, so she packed her bag again, and Mercedes opened the door before she knocked.
*
They still went to the park and to the lake, all of their normal summer haunts. But Mercedes applied Quinn's sunscreen and Quinn did hers, fingers skimming along Mercedes's skin, trembling with a desire she still wasn't sure how to name.
They only kissed when they were alone, away from everyone else. Quinn wasn't ready to share this, and neither was Mercedes. They fumbled into the things that felt right, Quinn's lips on Mercedes's hip and Mercedes's mouth soft on Quinn's stretchmarks ("Beautiful," she said, and wouldn't let Quinn disagree), and everything else. It was the most natural progression of any of Quinn's relationships. She'd rationed the boys, careful to keep to her own rules: first, a few kisses, then some making out, no second base, lots of prayer. But she couldn't hold anything back from Mercedes. She didn't want to.
She took Mercedes's hand in hers and guided it between her legs, and it was better than she ever could have imagined. She didn't mind falling apart, because she loved Mercedes's delighted laugh.
Somehow, no one guessed. Quinn felt like it was obvious, like everyone should be able to look at them and know, but although their parents seemed surprised by their unlikely friendship, they didn't seem to think it was anything more.
Maybe it was just that Quinn was different, all the way through, every time that Mercedes looked at her. She felt like she could be a better person.
*
"Could you come home from that girl's house early on Saturday, Quinn?" her mother asked. Quinn's hand was on the doorknob and she didn't turn around until after she'd rolled her eyes. Her mother knew what Mercedes's name was.
"Why?" she asked, voice flat.
"Well, school's starting back in three weeks, you know, and I thought we could go clothes shopping. If you're not going to be a Cheerio, you need something to wear during the week. We could have a mother-daughter makeover day!" her mother answered.
Quinn's hand left the doorknob. The blood was rushing in her ears and her knees were trembling. She turned back around.
"Oh, aren't you going out?" her mother asked, somehow managing not to notice her distress.
Quinn shook her head. "I'm going to join Cheerios again," she announced, and when her voice cracked on the last word she ran upstairs and flung herself onto her bed.
She'd forgotten -- how had she forgotten that summers ended?
She reached into her pocket for her cell phone and her thumb hovered over Mercedes's speed dial -- 2, because voicemail was always 1, and who else was she calling these days? But instead of pressing the button she went all the way to 9.
Santana picked up on the second ring. Quinn had been almost ready to hang up and when Santana answered, she was momentarily thrown off guard.
"Yeah? Hello? Quinn, I have caller ID, okay, I know it's you," Santana said, her tone irritated. She was breathing just a little hard into the phone, and Quinn didn't know whether to be disgusted or pleased that Santana had interrupted something (probably sexual) to answer the phone for her.
"I'm rejoining the squad," she said, before she could regret the words, before it could sink in.
Santana laughed. "I'm not going to give captain up easy, Fabray," she said, "so don't think I will."
"Not for a minute," Quinn promised. Santana told her what day to show up for tryouts, and then after they hung up, Quinn double-checked it online (because this was Santana, after all). If she started working out now, maybe she wouldn't pass out on the first day. That always caught Sylvester's eye.
Every pushup she did that day was a poor substitute for a kiss from Mercedes, but Quinn kept going. She knew what her life had to be. She knew who she was.
She wasn't that person that Mercedes thought she could be. But she knew that she couldn't tell Mercedes that, not in person. It wasn't shame; it was --
She wrote a letter, and she mailed it during a morning run, from a stranger's mailbox.
*
When school resumed, there was Sam, and he was so earnest that it almost hurt to look at him. He liked her, though, and boys could be molded. Finn was no good now. She wasn't going to do that again. So she let Sam court her and she monitored his wandering hands and they had the most wonderful, perfect relationship that meant absolutely nothing.
She caught herself watching Mercedes sometimes, and sometimes she thought Mercedes caught her looking, but they didn't say anything. No one asked what had happened to their friendship. They understood, like Quinn had understood, the way that high school was.
And in high school, you went to keggers, even ones hosted by your best frenemy. Quinn knew it was an awful idea, but the wine coolers felt like more than a year ago, like a lifetime ago, and she wasn't going to get that drunk, really.
The alcohol made her feel good. It made her forget why she was angry all the time, why she didn't bother to pray anymore, why being on top of the school just wasn't enough. So she drank too much and dared anyone to try to make her vulnerable again: they wouldn't, and they couldn't.
Except then she ran into Mercedes. Ran straight into, because her legs weren't working and she was drawn to her like she used to be. They ended up in a tangle on the floor, and it felt so right that Quinn almost started crying. She reached for Mercedes and took her wrist.
She wasn't sure what she was saying, but she kept talking, kept staring at Mercedes's lips. She wanted to apologize but the words kept getting tangled up in the way she missed Mercedes, so so bad, and that summer that felt absolutely unreal right now.
"Yes," Mercedes said, and Quinn wasn't sure what she'd said yes to, but Mercedes helped her to her feet and led her to bed. Quinn was asleep as soon as she lay down.
In the morning, she woke alone with her splitting headache. When she went downstairs, Santana handed her some aspirin and said, "You know Mercedes is in love with you?"
It was clean from Santana's tone that she expected this to be a revelation which would increase her hangover. Quinn wasn't surprised. Santana had a hangover too, and she was always at her most bitchy then.
Quinn just muttered something and left. It wasn't until she was almost all the way home that the words really sunk in.
Mercedes was in love with her. Still.
*
She was sick for a week and for the first two days she was desperately frightened that she was pregnant again somehow, that this was her divine punishment for being gay and getting drunk and selfishness. On the third day, she got her period and spent ten minutes in the bathroom crying.
It was winter now, nearly December, and Quinn had been back on the top of the pack for four miserable months. She put in a tampon and went back to bed, curling up under three layers of blankets. She was nearly asleep when she heard a voice, and it was her own voice.
"I love her," Quinn said.
This time, the idea wasn't so frightening. She let herself sleep. When she woke up, she made a plan. It had three parts.
1. Break up with Sam.
2. Make a scarf.
3. Tell Mercedes.
She almost added a fourth step: be happy. But she wasn't sure how this would work out in the end, even if Mercedes did still love her.
When she felt like she could get around without collapsing or puking, she went to the knitting store. She spent so long looking at yarn that the saleslady came by and offered to help twice. Quinn turned her down. This seemed like something she had to do all on her own.
Finally her mom called to ask what was taking so long. She was doing Christmas shopping in a different part of the mall and wanted Quinn's input on something for a cousin. Quinn picked up some color and paid in a hurry. It didn't really matter, anyway, because she was horrible at knitting.
She hoped that it really was the thought that counted.
*
She ran into Mercedes on her way to Sears. She was just one face in the crowd until suddenly she wasn't, and Quinn paused. She ignored the people bumping past her, muttering.
"Hi," she said, breathing into her scarf. "You left before I could say thank you, that time. So, you know: thank you."
"Not a problem," Mercedes said. She wasn't looking at Quinn, and Quinn wanted her to. Needed her to. She clutched the bag with her yarn in it.
"We should hang out sometime," she said, and Mercedes looked up then, squinting against the sunshine. She was beautiful, Quinn thought, in her dark coat with wind-chapped cheeks and snowflakes caught in her hair. "You, me, Sam."
She smiled when Mercedes agreed. She was still smiling when she met her mother five minutes later.
*
Breaking up with Sam was easy. He did it for her. They were on the phone one afternoon and he was going on about some ridiculous movie he was in love with or something. Quinn was knitting and not really listening.
"And then rocks fell and everyone died," Sam said, sounding frustrated. "Are you even listening to me, Quinn?"
"I would be if this were interesting," she answered with her usual bite. Sam sighed, and then started to say something, and then sighed again.
"I think we should break up," he said. "You don't really love me."
"I'm sorry," she said. "I wish I could."
"You never belonged to me," he muttered, and she couldn't deny it. They struggled through the usual arrangements, picked a time to return things they'd borrowed, and Quinn eventually hung up, feeling relieved. She was crying a little, but that would pass.
Her knitting had snarled and she spent half an hour working back the row before dinner.
*
Mercedes called her the next day. Quinn had seen the sideways glances during Glee and she'd half-expected it, enough to have the phone nearby while she watched America's Next Top Model. She was hoping Mercedes would call before she had to go help her mother with the Christmas cookies. She'd wheedled out an hour for her show, and she didn't want her mom to be listening in if Mercedes waited until later.
"Are you all right?" Mercedes asked, her voice gentle, and it reminded her of the way that Mercedes spoke in the week after she gave up the baby, as if Mercedes expected Quinn to break any moment.
Quinn knew that Mercedes and Sam had formed some kind of odd friendship. She hadn't encouraged it, but she hadn't fought too hard either.
"It's not his fault," she said, and when Mercedes offered to hang out, Quinn wanted to accept. But her mother had poked her head into the living room and lifted her eyebrows. She had a spatula in hand.
"Are you busy on Saturday?" she asked. They were leaving for her grandparents' house Sunday night. It would have to be then.
"I'll give you your Christmas present," she said, trying to be casual, and Mercedes agreed.
*
It felt like ages until Saturday occurred, but Quinn knocked on the door the exact same way she always had. If it wasn't for the freezing wind blowing through her coat, it could be summer again. Mercedes answered the door before she could think about knocking again.
Mercedes had Christmas lights up in her room. Quinn had always wanted to do that, but her father hadn't wanted the extra nail marks. After seeing how they threw everything into a softer light, Quinn made a mental note to do it next year. Or in January. Who's to say you couldn't have Christmas lights all the time?
Mercedes bought her gifts. They weren't bad gifts -- on the contrary, it showed how much Mercedes had been paying attention this year, to remember that she'd mentioned this book and this band, and to notice that sometimes her legs were cold and she didn't have many pairs of tights. They were gifts that anyone could have given her, but that didn't matter. They were perfect. So was the card, which she'd clearly spent a lot of time on. Quinn wanted to press it to her chest and just hold it there.
"I love everything," she said, smiling, and she took a sip of her mother's rum. She'd brought it in case she needed some liquid courage, but now that she was here, she felt peaceful. She wasn't going to get drunk. She didn't need to.
Mercedes opened the box and pulled out the scarf. It looked just as bad as it had when Quinn put it into the box, but Mercedes immediately wrapped it around her neck. Quinn's hands itched to adjust it; she wanted to touch Mercedes.
She clasped her hands in her lap and when Mercedes picked up the card, she said, "Open it," perhaps a little too eager. She watched Mercedes's face as she read.
An apology isn't the best Christmas gift and I know I said sorry before, but I said it for the wrong reasons. I said sorry then because I thought I was wrong. I thought we were wrong. And we're not. There's nothing wrong with loving you this much, except for the fact that it scares me so badly. You could break my heart just like I broke yours. And you should have that chance. You deserve so much more than I've given you so far. So I want to give you me. I want to be with you. I love you.
Her signature was tucked into the remaining corner. Yours, Quinn, it said, because she always would be. She waited as Mercedes read the card again.
And then Mercedes looked up. Quinn's hands were shaking as she started talking. "Look, I understand if you don't want to," she said, and she knew she was rambling, but she just couldn't stop.
"What about Sam?" Mercedes said, voice hoarse.
Quinn thought about the conversation she'd had yesterday with Sam. She'd treated him to coffee and given him a DVD she was pretty sure that he already had, judging by his reaction. He'd given her that serious look he had, the one that really made him look kinda dumb in a sweet way.
"If you break her heart too, I'm going to have come up with a fitting punishment," he said, and he pushed a scrap of paper across the table toward her. She flipped it around. SAM EVANS APPROVES, it said, in dark red ink. There was some little lizard creature hanging over the SAM part. She'd laughed.
"He knows," she said, and she had to mention the seal. Mercedes smiled.
"Quelle surprise," Mercedes said, and for a moment they hung there, looking at each other.
"The ball is in your court," Quinn said, trying to make her hands stop shaking. She didn't mean to let anything else spill out, wasn't sure she has anything else to spill, "but you're the only person who makes me vulnerable, and that has to count for something, right?"
"It does," Mercedes said after two long breaths, leaning forward, and Quinn leaned in and shut her eyes.
*
Quinn woke up slowly, cuddling closer to Mercedes, comfortable in that warm place between sleeping and waking. Mercedes's eyes were already open. She brushed Quinn's cheek without speaking. Quinn smiled. The sun was gleaming off the snow outside, shining through the windows and reflecting off Mercedes's white blankets and white walls. It was as if the sunlight had arrived just for them, breaking a long string of gloomy days to give them a bit of glow.
Quinn knew she'd have to be home by noon to pack to see her family. She knew that their battle had just begun and that her mother was going to be disappointed and that her life, from now on, was going to be totally different. There was a lightness in her chest that had nothing to do with loss and everything to do with the way she wanted to laugh at her old self for holding back so long.
"Good morning," Mercedes said softly, and it was.
Fandom: Glee
Length: 4813 words
Prompt: remix
Pairing: Mercedes/Quinn primarily; minor Sam/Quinn
Other: PG-13 for some sexuality and religious themes. In the vein of the original, spoilers through 2x07 and diverging from canon before 2x10. The title comes from E.E. Cummings's poem of the same name. This is a remix of
_harmlessthings's fic chalk lines. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to put my own spin on your story! It was a lot of fun.Excerpt: When Mercedes told this story, it began in the summer, with a gradual slide from before to after the kiss and what followed. But to Quinn, like all proper romances, this began in the spring.
when I was young, I lived in a world of dreams
of moods and myths and illusionary schemes
though now I am much more grown up
I fear that I must own up
to the fact that I'm in doubt of
what the modern cynics shout of
-"They Say It's Spring," M. Clarke, B. Haymes, 1956
When Mercedes told this story, it began in the summer, with a gradual slide from before to after the kiss and what followed. But to Quinn, like all proper romances, this began in the spring.
*
It wasn't like any other relationship Quinn had been in, carefully choreographed at the start. Instead, Quinn was spending nine months sharing her body with a tiny stranger, with a stomach that showed exactly how badly she'd deviated from her life plan.
Into the emptiness and uncertainty, Mercedes came. She didn't help because Quinn asked her to, or because she thought it would help her social standing, or for any of the selfish reasons that Quinn could come up with. No, Mercedes was a genuinely good person, and Quinn was beginning to realize how few of those she knew. (She certainly wasn't one.)
Mercedes took her home. She shared ice cream at three a.m. and tied Quinn's shoes and she listened, genuinely. When there were pains rippling through Quinn's abdomen and Quinn was scared that she was going to die doing this, never mind that women had given birth since the Garden of Eden, Mercedes went with her.
Mercedes held her hand and wiped her sweat and didn't say anything about how terrible and gross this was. Quinn sobbed and wanted to pass out and instead discovered this awful, powerful love in the room, as if God wanted her to have something to compensate for all of the hurt. She loved her mother suddenly and the doctor and the nurse and the baby and Mercedes Jones. She needed them never to leave. She didn't know that she was saying, "Don't let go," until Mercedes laughed and said, "Like you'd let me, Q," and then Quinn wanted to laugh too, but she was screaming instead.
Quinn always counted that, privately, as the beginning. She'd never forget that desperate need she felt for the girl at her side. And that frightened her.
*
Quinn had been a member of St. John's Catholic church since her baptism at two weeks of age. She knew her catechism. She went to Bible study on Wednesday nights and church on Sunday mornings.
She knew that being gay was wrong: that it said so in Leviticus and in Romans, that the gays caused the downfall of Sodom and Gomorrah, that marriage should be between a man and a woman, and that she had a cousin she hadn't seen since the age of five, when the cousin came out as a lesbian and Quinn's uncle kicked her out of the house.
She never really thought much about gay people. She didn't really have anything against Kurt or her lost cousin. She signed the petitions they passed around the pews and she didn't think much about the choices that other people made and the way it affected their lives.
Because it had to be a choice. It had to be, so she could choose something else.
*
I want to know who I am, she said to Mercedes on the day before school let out, prettying up the statement with words like "self-actualization" so that she didn't sound as confused as she felt. She thought maybe she could figure that out at home, or at least far enough away from Mercedes that the tide of feelings she had would go out, just a bit. But she couldn't stand being at home. Her mother hovered, brittle and sweet by turns, and Quinn thought she would suffocate if she had to listen to another gossipy story about their neighbors or her mother's volunteer work. Her father's contribution to the family arrived in envelopes once a month. Quinn found that she preferred it this way.
After two days of humidity and over-thinking everything, Quinn picked out her favorite tank top and shortest blue jean shorts. She threw them in a duffel bag and found her mom in the kitchen with flour on her cheek. It was too hot to bake, but Judi still made chocolate chip cookies every Wednesday afternoon. They invariably went uneaten until Sunday morning, when she'd donate them to the weekly women's luncheon.
"I'm going over to Mercedes's house," Quinn said, hitching the duffel up on her shoulder and not meeting her mother's eyes. She could see her mother's lips tighten a little. She knew that the woman wanted to protest, wanted to ask what had happened to Quinn's harem of Cheerios and football players, wanted to suggest, with genteel, white, upper-middle-class racism, that Quinn would be happier among her own kind of people.
But Mercedes had been there when Quinn's mother had not, and Quinn had already made it clear that she wouldn't listen to statements like that. So her mother smiled a little and said, "Why don't you take some cookies with you?"
Quinn shook her head and took her key.
*
Mercedes let her in, as always. She let Quinn play around with her identity, trying selves on like they tried on dresses at the mall, laughing at Mercedes dressed in a Hot Topic corset ("You know I woulda rocked that role, Quinn,") and Quinn in white lace ("We need to find you some wings and a halo and you've got your Halloween costume"). They did everything, because it was summer and they could. They watched awful movies and ate junk food and stayed up late whispering.
Quinn went home every few days just so that she wasn't overwhelmed by what Mercedes was giving her. She tossed and turned in the air-conditioning like she never did when she was sharing Mercedes's bed. Even with the windows open and the fans blowing, they still woke up most mornings with skin touching, with Quinn's hand on Mercedes's thigh or Quinn's head on Mercedes's shoulder, with Mercedes's breath in Quinn's face or their backs pressed together. It was comfortable.
One thing she could do at home that she couldn't do when Mercedes was around: she shut her eyes and bit her lips and dreamed, in her most private thoughts, that it was Mercedes's hand on her most sensitive skin, that Mercedes was above her and around her and touching her, that she let Mercedes's hands traverse her body, not Finn's or Puck's but the one person she could honestly trust.
*
They went hiking, because maybe Quinn could be an outdoorsy person. After the first couple of bug bites she was pretty positive that she wasn't. She was the kind of person who appreciated indoor plumbing and all of the comforts of civilization. The grass was scratchy on the back of her legs as they flopped down under the tree at their halfway point. Quinn wasn't sure she wanted to go any further.
"Thank you," she said to Mercedes, who had been keeping up a lazy, one-sided conversation about mosquitoes and what she wouldn't do for a bug spray that worked and didn't smell like ass. The wind failed to rise at this awkward proclamation of gratitude. Mercedes sat up and wiped her sweaty hands on her calves. Quinn tried not to stare at the gleaming dampness rising up and disappearing under Mercedes's shorts to a place that Quinn had never seen. (Mercedes had seen all of Quinn, more of Quinn than anybody, even the doctor who'd delivered Beth. There was more to seeing than looking.)
"For what?" Mercedes asked, surprised, and Quinn tried to explain without saying too much. She wasn't sure Mercedes understood, exactly, but Mercedes gave her a hand up, and onward up the path they went.
*
After they gave up hiking, they (Quinn) decided to try swimming, which was fun and healthy and most importantly, cool. They spent hours in the lake and Mercedes teased Quinn about her beach shoes until Quinn gave in and let her feet roughen on the bottom.
There wasn't much sand -- mostly rocks and seaweed -- and if they'd tripped one time they'd tripped a dozen times, but this time Mercedes fell forward onto Quinn and they fit together, really fit, legs tangled and arms and everything else. Quinn's hand landed on something soft, and just like that, they both froze.
She touched Mercedes's breast by accident, in the dark water of the lake, and for the first time in her life, Quinn really understood temptation, that rushing in the blood that said it wouldn't matter, no big deal, please go ahead, more more more more. And she wanted -- she didn't want to say no anymore.
Mercedes nodded, just a little, and Quinn wanted to cry so badly she thought that she would laugh. It was a wave of relief that made her knees weak, that disregarded verses and fears and drowning. This was Mercedes. Mercedes gave and gave and loved Quinn more than anyone had ever loved Quinn. Why was it so much of a surprise?
She didn't hear Mercedes's parents calling but she jumped when Mercedes jumped. She could feel the smile stretching her face; it must have been comically wide but for once she couldn't bring herself to care. She helped Mercedes up, squeezed her hand, and Mercedes didn't let go all the way home, even after they both dozed off.
*
The next week they brought a tent and a sleeping bag. There hadn't been anything overt since the moment in the lake: just an occasional pause, a soft look shared between them. They didn't talk about it, but they planned a return trip, and this time they only brought one sleeping bag, a secret that filled the small gaps between them.
"Mercedes," Quinn whispered into the dark, "Mercedes --" And then Quinn kissed her, not just once, but for the first time. (She could see why Mercedes would see this as the beginning, but Quinn had been hopelessly in love for months already.)
The locusts crooned and the owls hooted and they kissed for what felt like hours before they fell asleep, curled around each other in the dark.
*
Quinn spent four hours at home when they got back from the lake. She walked around the house and stared at the statues of Jesus and Mary as if she'd never seen them before. She wrestled furiously with herself or perhaps the Devil, bringing out her Bible to look things up. She paged through, pausing at passages she had bookmarked and underlined (passages that Mercedes knew just as well as she did, she knew; but somehow Mercedes had found her peace).
Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.
Or do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: neither the sexually immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor homosexuals...
They exchanged the truth about God for a lie... Because of this, God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural sexual relations for unnatural ones.
Quinn shut the book and her eyes, and she got down on her knees and listened harder than she'd ever listened before.
She still didn't hear anything, so she packed her bag again, and Mercedes opened the door before she knocked.
*
They still went to the park and to the lake, all of their normal summer haunts. But Mercedes applied Quinn's sunscreen and Quinn did hers, fingers skimming along Mercedes's skin, trembling with a desire she still wasn't sure how to name.
They only kissed when they were alone, away from everyone else. Quinn wasn't ready to share this, and neither was Mercedes. They fumbled into the things that felt right, Quinn's lips on Mercedes's hip and Mercedes's mouth soft on Quinn's stretchmarks ("Beautiful," she said, and wouldn't let Quinn disagree), and everything else. It was the most natural progression of any of Quinn's relationships. She'd rationed the boys, careful to keep to her own rules: first, a few kisses, then some making out, no second base, lots of prayer. But she couldn't hold anything back from Mercedes. She didn't want to.
She took Mercedes's hand in hers and guided it between her legs, and it was better than she ever could have imagined. She didn't mind falling apart, because she loved Mercedes's delighted laugh.
Somehow, no one guessed. Quinn felt like it was obvious, like everyone should be able to look at them and know, but although their parents seemed surprised by their unlikely friendship, they didn't seem to think it was anything more.
Maybe it was just that Quinn was different, all the way through, every time that Mercedes looked at her. She felt like she could be a better person.
*
"Could you come home from that girl's house early on Saturday, Quinn?" her mother asked. Quinn's hand was on the doorknob and she didn't turn around until after she'd rolled her eyes. Her mother knew what Mercedes's name was.
"Why?" she asked, voice flat.
"Well, school's starting back in three weeks, you know, and I thought we could go clothes shopping. If you're not going to be a Cheerio, you need something to wear during the week. We could have a mother-daughter makeover day!" her mother answered.
Quinn's hand left the doorknob. The blood was rushing in her ears and her knees were trembling. She turned back around.
"Oh, aren't you going out?" her mother asked, somehow managing not to notice her distress.
Quinn shook her head. "I'm going to join Cheerios again," she announced, and when her voice cracked on the last word she ran upstairs and flung herself onto her bed.
She'd forgotten -- how had she forgotten that summers ended?
She reached into her pocket for her cell phone and her thumb hovered over Mercedes's speed dial -- 2, because voicemail was always 1, and who else was she calling these days? But instead of pressing the button she went all the way to 9.
Santana picked up on the second ring. Quinn had been almost ready to hang up and when Santana answered, she was momentarily thrown off guard.
"Yeah? Hello? Quinn, I have caller ID, okay, I know it's you," Santana said, her tone irritated. She was breathing just a little hard into the phone, and Quinn didn't know whether to be disgusted or pleased that Santana had interrupted something (probably sexual) to answer the phone for her.
"I'm rejoining the squad," she said, before she could regret the words, before it could sink in.
Santana laughed. "I'm not going to give captain up easy, Fabray," she said, "so don't think I will."
"Not for a minute," Quinn promised. Santana told her what day to show up for tryouts, and then after they hung up, Quinn double-checked it online (because this was Santana, after all). If she started working out now, maybe she wouldn't pass out on the first day. That always caught Sylvester's eye.
Every pushup she did that day was a poor substitute for a kiss from Mercedes, but Quinn kept going. She knew what her life had to be. She knew who she was.
She wasn't that person that Mercedes thought she could be. But she knew that she couldn't tell Mercedes that, not in person. It wasn't shame; it was --
She wrote a letter, and she mailed it during a morning run, from a stranger's mailbox.
*
When school resumed, there was Sam, and he was so earnest that it almost hurt to look at him. He liked her, though, and boys could be molded. Finn was no good now. She wasn't going to do that again. So she let Sam court her and she monitored his wandering hands and they had the most wonderful, perfect relationship that meant absolutely nothing.
She caught herself watching Mercedes sometimes, and sometimes she thought Mercedes caught her looking, but they didn't say anything. No one asked what had happened to their friendship. They understood, like Quinn had understood, the way that high school was.
And in high school, you went to keggers, even ones hosted by your best frenemy. Quinn knew it was an awful idea, but the wine coolers felt like more than a year ago, like a lifetime ago, and she wasn't going to get that drunk, really.
The alcohol made her feel good. It made her forget why she was angry all the time, why she didn't bother to pray anymore, why being on top of the school just wasn't enough. So she drank too much and dared anyone to try to make her vulnerable again: they wouldn't, and they couldn't.
Except then she ran into Mercedes. Ran straight into, because her legs weren't working and she was drawn to her like she used to be. They ended up in a tangle on the floor, and it felt so right that Quinn almost started crying. She reached for Mercedes and took her wrist.
She wasn't sure what she was saying, but she kept talking, kept staring at Mercedes's lips. She wanted to apologize but the words kept getting tangled up in the way she missed Mercedes, so so bad, and that summer that felt absolutely unreal right now.
"Yes," Mercedes said, and Quinn wasn't sure what she'd said yes to, but Mercedes helped her to her feet and led her to bed. Quinn was asleep as soon as she lay down.
In the morning, she woke alone with her splitting headache. When she went downstairs, Santana handed her some aspirin and said, "You know Mercedes is in love with you?"
It was clean from Santana's tone that she expected this to be a revelation which would increase her hangover. Quinn wasn't surprised. Santana had a hangover too, and she was always at her most bitchy then.
Quinn just muttered something and left. It wasn't until she was almost all the way home that the words really sunk in.
Mercedes was in love with her. Still.
*
She was sick for a week and for the first two days she was desperately frightened that she was pregnant again somehow, that this was her divine punishment for being gay and getting drunk and selfishness. On the third day, she got her period and spent ten minutes in the bathroom crying.
It was winter now, nearly December, and Quinn had been back on the top of the pack for four miserable months. She put in a tampon and went back to bed, curling up under three layers of blankets. She was nearly asleep when she heard a voice, and it was her own voice.
"I love her," Quinn said.
This time, the idea wasn't so frightening. She let herself sleep. When she woke up, she made a plan. It had three parts.
1. Break up with Sam.
2. Make a scarf.
3. Tell Mercedes.
She almost added a fourth step: be happy. But she wasn't sure how this would work out in the end, even if Mercedes did still love her.
When she felt like she could get around without collapsing or puking, she went to the knitting store. She spent so long looking at yarn that the saleslady came by and offered to help twice. Quinn turned her down. This seemed like something she had to do all on her own.
Finally her mom called to ask what was taking so long. She was doing Christmas shopping in a different part of the mall and wanted Quinn's input on something for a cousin. Quinn picked up some color and paid in a hurry. It didn't really matter, anyway, because she was horrible at knitting.
She hoped that it really was the thought that counted.
*
She ran into Mercedes on her way to Sears. She was just one face in the crowd until suddenly she wasn't, and Quinn paused. She ignored the people bumping past her, muttering.
"Hi," she said, breathing into her scarf. "You left before I could say thank you, that time. So, you know: thank you."
"Not a problem," Mercedes said. She wasn't looking at Quinn, and Quinn wanted her to. Needed her to. She clutched the bag with her yarn in it.
"We should hang out sometime," she said, and Mercedes looked up then, squinting against the sunshine. She was beautiful, Quinn thought, in her dark coat with wind-chapped cheeks and snowflakes caught in her hair. "You, me, Sam."
She smiled when Mercedes agreed. She was still smiling when she met her mother five minutes later.
*
Breaking up with Sam was easy. He did it for her. They were on the phone one afternoon and he was going on about some ridiculous movie he was in love with or something. Quinn was knitting and not really listening.
"And then rocks fell and everyone died," Sam said, sounding frustrated. "Are you even listening to me, Quinn?"
"I would be if this were interesting," she answered with her usual bite. Sam sighed, and then started to say something, and then sighed again.
"I think we should break up," he said. "You don't really love me."
"I'm sorry," she said. "I wish I could."
"You never belonged to me," he muttered, and she couldn't deny it. They struggled through the usual arrangements, picked a time to return things they'd borrowed, and Quinn eventually hung up, feeling relieved. She was crying a little, but that would pass.
Her knitting had snarled and she spent half an hour working back the row before dinner.
*
Mercedes called her the next day. Quinn had seen the sideways glances during Glee and she'd half-expected it, enough to have the phone nearby while she watched America's Next Top Model. She was hoping Mercedes would call before she had to go help her mother with the Christmas cookies. She'd wheedled out an hour for her show, and she didn't want her mom to be listening in if Mercedes waited until later.
"Are you all right?" Mercedes asked, her voice gentle, and it reminded her of the way that Mercedes spoke in the week after she gave up the baby, as if Mercedes expected Quinn to break any moment.
Quinn knew that Mercedes and Sam had formed some kind of odd friendship. She hadn't encouraged it, but she hadn't fought too hard either.
"It's not his fault," she said, and when Mercedes offered to hang out, Quinn wanted to accept. But her mother had poked her head into the living room and lifted her eyebrows. She had a spatula in hand.
"Are you busy on Saturday?" she asked. They were leaving for her grandparents' house Sunday night. It would have to be then.
"I'll give you your Christmas present," she said, trying to be casual, and Mercedes agreed.
*
It felt like ages until Saturday occurred, but Quinn knocked on the door the exact same way she always had. If it wasn't for the freezing wind blowing through her coat, it could be summer again. Mercedes answered the door before she could think about knocking again.
Mercedes had Christmas lights up in her room. Quinn had always wanted to do that, but her father hadn't wanted the extra nail marks. After seeing how they threw everything into a softer light, Quinn made a mental note to do it next year. Or in January. Who's to say you couldn't have Christmas lights all the time?
Mercedes bought her gifts. They weren't bad gifts -- on the contrary, it showed how much Mercedes had been paying attention this year, to remember that she'd mentioned this book and this band, and to notice that sometimes her legs were cold and she didn't have many pairs of tights. They were gifts that anyone could have given her, but that didn't matter. They were perfect. So was the card, which she'd clearly spent a lot of time on. Quinn wanted to press it to her chest and just hold it there.
"I love everything," she said, smiling, and she took a sip of her mother's rum. She'd brought it in case she needed some liquid courage, but now that she was here, she felt peaceful. She wasn't going to get drunk. She didn't need to.
Mercedes opened the box and pulled out the scarf. It looked just as bad as it had when Quinn put it into the box, but Mercedes immediately wrapped it around her neck. Quinn's hands itched to adjust it; she wanted to touch Mercedes.
She clasped her hands in her lap and when Mercedes picked up the card, she said, "Open it," perhaps a little too eager. She watched Mercedes's face as she read.
An apology isn't the best Christmas gift and I know I said sorry before, but I said it for the wrong reasons. I said sorry then because I thought I was wrong. I thought we were wrong. And we're not. There's nothing wrong with loving you this much, except for the fact that it scares me so badly. You could break my heart just like I broke yours. And you should have that chance. You deserve so much more than I've given you so far. So I want to give you me. I want to be with you. I love you.
Her signature was tucked into the remaining corner. Yours, Quinn, it said, because she always would be. She waited as Mercedes read the card again.
And then Mercedes looked up. Quinn's hands were shaking as she started talking. "Look, I understand if you don't want to," she said, and she knew she was rambling, but she just couldn't stop.
"What about Sam?" Mercedes said, voice hoarse.
Quinn thought about the conversation she'd had yesterday with Sam. She'd treated him to coffee and given him a DVD she was pretty sure that he already had, judging by his reaction. He'd given her that serious look he had, the one that really made him look kinda dumb in a sweet way.
"If you break her heart too, I'm going to have come up with a fitting punishment," he said, and he pushed a scrap of paper across the table toward her. She flipped it around. SAM EVANS APPROVES, it said, in dark red ink. There was some little lizard creature hanging over the SAM part. She'd laughed.
"He knows," she said, and she had to mention the seal. Mercedes smiled.
"Quelle surprise," Mercedes said, and for a moment they hung there, looking at each other.
"The ball is in your court," Quinn said, trying to make her hands stop shaking. She didn't mean to let anything else spill out, wasn't sure she has anything else to spill, "but you're the only person who makes me vulnerable, and that has to count for something, right?"
"It does," Mercedes said after two long breaths, leaning forward, and Quinn leaned in and shut her eyes.
*
Quinn woke up slowly, cuddling closer to Mercedes, comfortable in that warm place between sleeping and waking. Mercedes's eyes were already open. She brushed Quinn's cheek without speaking. Quinn smiled. The sun was gleaming off the snow outside, shining through the windows and reflecting off Mercedes's white blankets and white walls. It was as if the sunlight had arrived just for them, breaking a long string of gloomy days to give them a bit of glow.
Quinn knew she'd have to be home by noon to pack to see her family. She knew that their battle had just begun and that her mother was going to be disappointed and that her life, from now on, was going to be totally different. There was a lightness in her chest that had nothing to do with loss and everything to do with the way she wanted to laugh at her old self for holding back so long.
"Good morning," Mercedes said softly, and it was.