Dream A Little Dream of Me

A/N: I did this awhile ago for a prompt that I received on Tumblr. For some reason, I had the inclination today to put it on here as well.

While I'm alone and blue as can be

Dream a little dream of me

She keeps all of her clothes on the first time you have sex.

You don't think it's odd, and you don't remind her that you've seen her body a thousand times in the Cheerio showers, and during costume changes for glee club.

You understand each other. You don't love her; at least you don't think you do. She's the closest thing you have to a best friend now that Brittany is gone, but that wouldn't mean much of anything to most people. Watching Kurt and Rachel together makes you feel like you've really missed out on something. They're competitors like you and Quinn used to be, but they support each other and spend more time together than any two people should.

You and Quinn barely text, and when you do it's never about anything of substance. She's called you once since you moved to NYC, but that was only to tell you that she was coming here. The call lasted two subway stops. You remember that.

She buries her head into the nape of your neck, but you don't kiss.

You hate her most of the time, although sometimes you hate her the least of everyone else.

She's a beautiful girl, but she's also Quinn. You don't worship her like Rachel Berry does. But you think you have as much respect for her as you can have for someone who has so little respect for themselves.

It's like you both graduated from a school from the fucking Twilight Zone, because everyone is going after dreams that most 18-year-olds shouldn't be allowed to have. You're the normal one. The only plans you have for certain are the ones pinned to the corkboard at the bar with your schedule on it for the next two weeks. Brittany was the most long term plan you've ever had. You should have treated her like an accessory to a dream, rather than the dream itself. You know that now.

It doesn't grate on you that much that your peers are strangely successful, while you can't even get your roommates to like you enough to stop them from threatening to kick you out of the apartment every couple of weeks. Really you're just unhappy. You're not sure why.

That's probably the truth that connects you to Quinn. She's living her Ivy League dreams, but she's just as unhappy as you are. No matter how many times you slap her, the fake smile boomerangs right back. Most others seem to buy it. Or at least they choose to believe the picture perfect image that Quinn wants them to believe.

You seem to only care about the show she's putting on in spurts. Usually, it's only when she's called you out on your shit that you feel the need to drag her down with you. It's a waste of energy really, because you know she's already down here with you.

She didn't give you enough warning about her plans to visit for you to find someone to cover your shift. Not that you're sure you would have, because you need the money. So she spent the whole day with Hummel and Berry doing who knows what.

She's already in your bed when you get home from work. You could wake her ass up, and tell her that she belongs on the couch, but you don't. She isn't taking up that much space anyway. By the time you shower, and shift beside her underneath the covers, her eyes are open and not at all clouded by sleep.

There's a thickness in your throat that you don't understand, but it prevents you from making any scathing remarks about her presence in your bed. She doesn't speak either; she guides your hand by the wrist to the front of her shorts instead.

When she orgasms, she does so quietly. There's only the slightest change to her breathing when it happens, and she's still buried in your neck so you can't see her face as she uses you for her release.

You're not irritated when she rolls over. You knew she wasn't going to reciprocate.

Of course you don't talk about it.

You don't dwell on that night. For all of Quinn's carefully laid plans, sometimes she just does things, and you get that.

Then it happens again. But this time it's under Quinn's jacket in the back of a cab.

She does sleep on your couch that night.

The third time is in her dorm bed. She allows you to adjust your position so you're actually above her. You know that you could do this better if she would just let you take off her jeans, but you know not to ask. You resent that today is the day that she's not in a dress for once. Your wrist hurts, and the bottom of her zipper is digging into your skin, but she's wetter than she's ever been before.

It's the first time you think about what it'd be like to kiss her.

She drunk dials you less than two weeks later. Her voice is slurry and low, and she talks about wanting your mouth. You know she isn't talking about kissing.

She hangs up before you can ask if she's somewhere safe.

When you both go home for Christmas the encounters become more frequent.

You don't question her when she takes off her shirt in your bedroom two days before Christmas Eve, but you also don't kiss her stretch marks or scars either; you know you're not capable of making her feel better about them.

She touches you after church on that Sunday, but her mom knocks on the bedroom door before you can orgasm. You're pissed if only because you're not sure if she's ever going to do it again. Her mom wants you two to come down for brunch, and Quinn doesn't finish what she started, but she does kiss you as if to apologize. You're too shocked to kiss her back.

You start to wonder what's wrong with you when your head is between her legs in the laundry room at Mercedes' house of all places. You've never had any troubles finding people who want to have sex with you. You don't know why you keep consenting to these fractions of the real thing. But she squirms more than she ever has before, and her hand is flexing in your hair instead of resting limply at her side.

She returns the favor that night. You never would have dreamed that the first orgasm from her would be with her tongue.

You fly back with her to the East Coast even though it means that you'll have to take an extra train to get home. You spend the weekend with her and you don't have sex. You wonder what has changed, but you don't ask, because you find yourself enjoying everything else.

She drives you to the train station that Sunday, and she bitches about the lack of parking there. You're confused because you see plenty of spots, but she drives around to another parking lot anyway. She asks you for the third time that day for what time your train arrives, but she doesn't spare a glance at the clock on the dash when you answer; she kisses you.

It's bruising, and rough, and she tastes like the raspberry lattes that she drinks that you hate. You miss your train. It's okay, because there'll be another one in forty minutes, and you've coaxed Quinn into softer kisses. You had to do it with most of the boys you kissed in high school, but you're nowhere near as exasperated with her as you were with them.

She makes more noises against your lips than you ever heard when your fingers were inside of her. You feel the hitch in your chest that you know means that the tears will come soon.

You don't stop kissing her, but you feel more like an idiot than you ever have before. Everything is backwards, and there's no one for you to talk to about it. Not that you even would if you had someone. It's just her. She's still the closest thing you have to a friend.

She is a friend now. Or rather, you think she would be if you erased all of the otherness from your relationship.

She thanks you, and she's looking at you rather than through you and you're so confused by it all that you start to cry. She doesn't look confused, however. You know that the gearshift is digging into her side above her hip just like it is into yours, but she holds you tighter than she ever has before anyway.

You don't know what to think when she calls you the next day while you're on your way to work. You think that she may be calling to tell you that she'll be coming into town that weekend or that you should make the trip to New Haven the next night you have off. She doesn't mention either of those things.

It's not a "where is this going?" or "what have we been doing exactly?" conversation either. She talks about her new classes, and she actually asks you how your day has been so far. It takes you at least a full block of walking to get into the rhythm of the conversation, but you find yourself reluctant to hang up once you've arrived in front of your work building.

Whatever this is, you know that it isn't the stuff of dreams, but that's okay. It feels good enough for now.

But in your dreams whatever they be

Dream a little dream of me