Title: After the Glitter Fades
Summary: Four years after graduation, Rachel and Santana have made it to New York City. One is a singing waitress, the other an exotic dancer. Reunited by chance, they form a quick and unexpected bond that changes their lives drastically. Rated M for language and strong sexual content.
Disclaimer: I'm told they belong to Ryan Murphy. Not that he has any idea what to do with them.
A/N: This story is dedicated to Diet Mt. Dew for keeping me awake all-hours so that I could write it. And also, to Naya Rivera's smokin' hot body and keen fashion sense, which provided endless inspiration throughout the writing process. (But on a more serious note, I started this fic at the beginning of summer and recently completed it. So, it is finished, but I'm still in the revision process and will be posting the chapters as I get them spruced up. I'll warn you now, there are two love scenes in later chapters. If that's not your cup of tea, or if you're too young to be reading them, turn back now. Otherwise, I'll leave you to the ladies Pezberry. Oh, and reviews are much appreciated. :)

For me it's the only life that I've ever known
And love is only one fine star away
Even though the living is sometimes laced with lies
It's all right
The feeling remains even after the glitter fades

- Stevie Nicks, "After the Glitter Fades"

PROLOGUE: One Fine Star Away

The brownish sludge pouring into the sink looked like dregs from a bowl of beef stew. Gagging at the thought, Rachel hastily spat toothpaste into the rusty basin and alternated cranking the hot and cold knobs with all her might until the spigot was off. She inhaled sharply as the strain of turning the ancient fixtures created a brief but intense ache through her entire forearm. Massaging her wrist she cast a dejected glance over the bathroom as a whole, from chipped linoleum to walls stained with what she hoped was only water damage. The room bore a strong resemblance to a crime scene. Had she the money for cable, or even a television, there would have been a strict no-CSI-reruns policy for Miss Rachel Berry.

When an outline on the tattered shower curtain began to look a little too much like a human figure, she grabbed the cup that held her toothbrush, flicked off the light switch and stepped into the dim hallway in one quick and practiced motion, tugging the bathroom door shut behind her. Relief to find the hall empty soon became trepidation at being alone. With the longest strides her short legs could manage, she hurried to the door marked 5B and slipped inside. She listened for each of the four locks to click into place as she secured herself inside the apartment. Once the final safeguard—a chair with a hole instead of a wicker seat—was propped between floorboards and doorknob, she relaxed.

Home sweet home.

"Make that 'closet sweet closet,'" she said, turning to face the sparse living quarters.

Her queen-size mattress, the main piece of furniture in the room, took up most of the available floor space. Ages ago she had pawned her bed frame, a luxury which made for an even tighter squeeze, and simply stacked the mattress on top of its box springs in the farthest corner. Crossing to it in three small steps, she flopped down onto rumpled floral sheets and placed her cup and toothbrush atop the closed lid of the nearby trunk that served as nightstand and dresser.

She straightened the collection of Playbills that occupied one side of the oak lid, then swept her hand across them, gathering several dollar bills and change into her awaiting palm. Dismissing thoughts of filth and germs, she began counting the money and arranging it in piles of ones, fives and tens. To naysayers who might claim she could just as easily wait tables in Ohio, she would have pointed out that a week's worth of tips from the finest establishment in Lima didn't add up to what she earned in a single night at a grungy little New York City dive.

But in order to make that argument someone would have to know the truth about her glorious career in the Big Apple. They would have to know that three years' intensive training at The American Academy of Dramatic Arts, whose alumni included Lauren Bacall and Kirk Douglas, led not to overnight success but to an endless stream of auditions and a handful of minor roles in Off-Off-Broadway productions that were as forgettable as their two week runs. Rather than originating characters on stage, she used her imagination to put a creative spin on the stories she did call home with. The 1950s-themed diner where she worked transformed into a retro playhouse; the singing wait staff were members of the chorus; the advances of a lecherous busboy became a natural rapport with her leading man; and rude customers served as the hecklers in an otherwise adoring audience.

Rachel looked up at the three framed photographs that decorated a nook in the wall opposite her bed. Her fathers smiled out at her from a family portrait snapped by a compliant passerby on the day of high school graduation. Both men looked so proud. And there she stood between them, beaming in cap and gown, eternally hopeful. She didn't doubt her dads' love, but in moments like the one isolated by that silver frame, she felt that their approval hinged on her successes alone. Even as a child she sensed their disappointment when she didn't excel at certain tasks, whether it be dance class or piano lessons. She owed every bit of her tenacity and determination to them, and she would always be grateful. But refusal to admit defeat also meant she seldom spoke of her hardships or asked for help. And returning home was not an option.

Her gaze drifted to the other photograph, a candid shot of the William McKinley High glee club. Many of her fondest memories, and a few of her worst, included the faces captured in that blurry 5X7. She hadn't seen the majority of them in years. Though she did keep in touch with Mercedes and Kurt, both were busy pursuing their own careers. She looked forward to someday seeing them plastered across the covers at the magazine stand she passed each morning. Just as long as she made it there first.

She lingered on the tall, brown-haired boy in his letterman jacket, a blonde beauty at his side. Then, as if caught staring, she quickly diverted her eyes and focused on the last and largest in the trio of pictures—a glossy headshot of Barbra Streisand. More than any of the others, this photo kept Rachel's spirits up. She felt a renewed sense of purpose almost every time she looked at it.

Stuffing the coins and roll of cash into a pair of shoes she used as a bank, she double-checked that the baseball bat next to her bed was within reach. Satisfied, she pulled a cord that dangled from the ceiling, extinguishing the room's solitary bulb. Thin curtains did a poor job of blocking the bright city lights outside her window, but she liked it that way. She could just make out Streisand's distinctive profile in the dark.

"Goodnight, Babs," she murmured, already half asleep.

His exposed penis bobbled obscenely as he pushed her face towards it, the car's leather upholstery squeaking under his bare buttocks. Santana's stomach churned at the sight of protruding veins and flesh the color of raw salmon. She wanted to breathe through her mouth to avoid inhaling his scent, but that required parted lips. She kept them firmly closed until he wrenched at her hair.

"Quit fucking around," he said, knuckles pressing into her scalp as his grip tightened.

A smartass retort came to mind, but Santana thought better of it. She preferred to get this over with as soon as possible, collect her fee and never glance back at the posh car with its middle-aged occupant and floor mats that needed vacuuming. Grit dug into her knees whenever she shifted, and the heels of her six-inch stilettos kept getting wedged in the front seat underpinnings. She concentrated on the hot, abrasive pain and on minimal movements. Instead of the erection in her hands, she looked at her fingernails, noting that their chipped red polish could use a touch-up. As the man began to moan, she blocked out the terms of endearment laced with profanity and tried to remember the last time someone had stroked her hair so tenderly. It almost felt nice.

Touch was one of the few things not in short supply for her these days. Working as an exotic dancer in a gentlemen's club, she had been patted, pinched, groped, squeezed and rubbed up against more times than she could count. And not just by the gentlemen. Congratulatory slaps on the ass were common practice among her fellow dancers after a routine worked the crowd into a frenzy. Though most were friendly, some were delivered with a hint of malice. It never failed to amuse her how much the camaraderie and rivalry between strippers mirrored that of cheerleaders. She was often tempted to phone up her old Cheerios coach, Sue Sylvester, and thank the woman for preparing her to deal with such catty behavior, but she hadn't spoken to anyone from her hometown since leaving it four years ago.

Living as a closeted lesbian in Lima, Ohio, wasn't easy. Coming out made it even worse. She had spent her senior year of high school as a nomad, drifting from one friend's house to the next after continuous arguments with her parents about her sexuality became unbearable. Any hopes at a relationship with Brittany had withered when the Pierces, suddenly uncomfortable with the intimacy level between their daughter and her longtime best friend, banned Santana from their home. The girls' post-graduation plans to ditch Lima and relocate to Columbus, where they would find jobs, attend Ohio State University and share an apartment, quickly dissolved thereafter. The thought of being alone in Columbus, a city chosen for its nearness to family and friends—neither of which she had anymore—was too painful for Santana. Her sights set on someplace bigger, farther away and more promising than anything Ohio had to offer, she wound up in New York City. She wound up in New York City, in the alley behind a strip joint, giving head to a complete stranger while he fondled her tits and called her "sweet thing."

It didn't take long to make the guy come. He was noisy and messy, and she jerked the backdoor wide open to expel a mouthful of semen and saliva the minute it was over. When she glanced up, wiping more of him off her lips with the back of her hand, he looked incredulous. And pissed.

"Four hundred," she said, palm extended.

"Christ," he muttered in disgust, fishing a wallet from the pants around his ankles. He leafed through the bills inside, pulled out four and held them up for her to see before tossing them down next to the spot of moisture that darkened the ground. "Three-fifty."

"Bullshit," she said, hurrying to latch her bra. She shoved his legs aside and leaned halfway from the car to retrieve the money. "We agreed on four hundred."

"That was if you were worth it," he said, catching her around the waist and forcing her out of the vehicle altogether. With a sharp cry, she dropped against the asphalt on hands and knees. Adrenaline surging, she immediately clambered to her feet, teetering for a moment on spiked heels; she flew at him as he stepped from the car to zip his pants and slip into the driver's seat. One of her fists drooped lamely at the wrist, so she pummeled him with the other. He fended off the blows with little effort and brought the match to an abrupt end by punching her in the face.

Santana hit the ground hard again, but this time she stayed down. Supine and struggling to remain conscious, she heard the man call her a dumb little twat—among other things. She flinched when he wadded her lacy black shirt into a ball and threw it out the window, hitting her square in the chest. Now the bastard developed good aim.

"Next time, swallow," he said, revving the engine of his silver Bentley. The taillights gleamed like a pair of harsh red eyes as he sped off into the night.

"Goddamn prick!" she hollered, voice ineffectual and raspy. Propped on both elbows, she made a failed attempt at sitting up, swore and tried again. Eventually, she heaved herself upright, left arm clutched to her side because it hurt too much to use. She collected her shirt and the money that had gotten wet and sticky in the scuffle. "Your fucking cock tastes like mildew, anyway," she said, spitting for emphasis as she wiped the bills on her already soiled skirt, then folded and tucked them into her cleavage.

So went Santana's first encounter with a john.

Hooking was frowned upon at the club where she worked, but a few of the dancers did it for the extra cash. She considered those girls sleazy and pathetic; however, until two months ago, she had been making the rent and eating on a regular basis. Then her co-worker and roommate, Veronica, reconciled with an abusive ex and moved back to New Jersey. Without their combined salaries, Santana could no longer afford the small but cozy apartment with a killer view. As if repeating her final year of high school, she found herself living out of a duffel bag, crashing on a different friend's couch every night. She had overstayed her last welcome and discovered her belongings on the front stoop when she came home tipsy at 3AM.

To her, living on the streets was more reprehensible than working them. When the man with the Bentley approached her at the club, his wallet bulging almost as much as his crotch, she had let desperation and fear get the better of her. Now she was one of those sleazy, pathetic girls.

At least she had three hundred and fifty bucks to show for it.

She hobbled to the rear exit of Eden's Gate—her place of employment and current residence—thankful to see the door still ajar. It opened from the inside only, so she used various objects to prevent it from closing and locking her out. Tonight a pair of knotted pantyhose had done the trick. Checking that the hallway was empty, she removed her heels and padded into the nearest dressing room. All the other girls were gone for the evening and backstage security was lax, but she remained careful nonetheless. Getting fired for being a squatter would be the final humiliating nail in the coffin.

Groping through the dark, she located a lighted makeup mirror on the wall-length vanity and switched it to the dimmest setting. Anything brighter chanced drawing attention, but she didn't think her eye could stand the glare of overhead lights, either. The tender lids were swollen into a mere slit, moisture trickling from the corner. Without even looking in the mirror she knew the john had given her a nasty black eye. Still, she held her breath and glanced up.

"Dios mío," she said, the air leaving her lungs with a soft whoosh. She steadied herself on a nearby chair back and stared at the puffy, unrecognizable face reflected back at her. Slumping heavily into the seat, she hung her head and wrestled with an onslaught of emotion, the predominant one being disgust at what her life had become. On top of everything else, she was now ugly. Bitter tears dripped onto the countertop in front of her, forming minuscule puddles in the layer of cosmetic dust that covered it. She watched them for a long time, fighting an inner battle she knew she would lose.

Reaching for the bottom drawer she had claimed as her own after just a week on the job, she brought out another mirror, this one the size of a Post-it. Next, she retrieved the tiny vial of cocaine she had promised herself not to finish off. Despite trembling hands, she sprinkled the white powder precisely along the glass surface and cut it into two neat lines with the tip of a fingernail file. From between her breasts she plucked a hundred dollar bill, rolled it and snorted both lines in quick succession.

Snuffling and rubbing her nose, she leaned back in the chair and waited for the tension and self-loathing to melt away. It did so as if by magic, and fifteen minutes later she barely noticed any aches or pains at all. If she didn't look at her reflection, the incident in the alley seemed almost humorous. She even began to wonder why prostitution hadn't occurred to her sooner.

Whether or not Santana intended to use it, having the new, alternative source of income comforted her. She buried the empty vial and mirror deep in the drawer, spent another twenty minutes tidying up the room, then made her way to a curtained-off section that housed props and skimpy costumes. Peeling off her tight skirt, she tossed it in the corner wastebasket along with her wrinkled top, then spread out the thick padding which served as a pre-show yoga mat to the other girls and as a bedroll to her. Clad in bra and panties, she wrapped up with the patchwork quilt that had been a quinceañera gift from her grandmother. She drifted to sleep planning for tomorrow and the spacious apartment she would someday call home.