Glee 1. Welcome to Adulthood

_**This story will follow the lives of some Glee alumni as well as OC's but I'd like to think -everyone we know and love will make an appearance at some point.**_

_**So, yeah: I don't wanna ramble on for too long so I'll leave it there. Any questions or anything: Leave a review or PM me.**_

_**Despite this chapter focussing on OC's, the Glee characters will definitely be the focus of the story: I'm just trying to help you grasp the inner workings of their minds.**_

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_**Leonie McKee**_

Bullshit. You know when you leave High School the general consensus is that you'll somehow 'find your way'; the most common way of doing this is to condemn yourself to a further 3 years trapped in the corrupt system our beloved Government calls education. That theory is complete and utter bullshit, because I was one of those people stupid enough to think College would mould me into some pioneer who was ready to grasp the proverbial bull by the horns and change the world. For a third and final time: Bullshit.

"Lee Lee, why are you glaring at the Dean as if you want him to spontaneously combust?" I shake myself out of my little 'trance' and turn to look at Annalise Beaumont: Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow quirked and her plump lips, which were painted a startling shade of scarlet for the 'special occasion', were pursed into her trademark 'I have a neurotic freak as a best friend, what have I done to deserve this?' smile.

Rather than humour her, I flip her the middle and face the stage where the Dean of the University is droning on, in his unbearably monotonous voice, about 'prospects' and the 'bright future we all have paved before us'. Sarcastic twat, if he was Pinocchio his nose would be continuously growing she that eventually he would've poked out that fat bird's eye who is picking her nose in the back row; or collapsed under the weight of his deceitful sermon. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if he did spontaneously combust, it would definitely give this boring ceremony more va va voom. Anna nudges me, drawing me out of my elaborate fantasies of how I could blow up the whole stage, and I quell the desire to poke her back. I sometimes wonder how on Earth I am able to tolerate this girl. Never mind having spent the best part of 4 years practically attached to her hip?

"Are you contemplating your 'education is a trap that leaves us all unprepared for the real world, so we will all become victims to vicious sharks who will rip out our intestines' theory again?" I turn to give her my bitch glare; the very glare which has made fully grown muscle men quiver in fear, not once have I ever talked about being attacked by sharks, but what peeves me most is that she is right and it doesn't help that her cerulean blue eyes are shining with the fact she knows she is right. Patronising cow.

Would people notice if I grabbed her sleek blonde hair and head-butted that satisfied smirk right from her face? Most likely: Oh well, even though I feel that violence would be the best option this point, I must fall back onto the safety blanket of unadulterated sarcasm.

"No, dearest Annalise. I am simply devastated that we are leaving this prestigious establishment, one which has prepared us to spread our wings and all that shit. I mean why on Earth would I be concerned that this place has done nothing but result in numerous hangovers, taught me nothing of worth and landed me in shit loads of debt? That's all I ever wanted by the age of 21. I mean who cares about a career or rent or credit card bills or anything else waiting for us out there? This place has certainly prepared us don't you think?"

By the time my short yet extremely passionate rant is over, I'm breathing as though I have run a marathon and my desire to storm onstage and punch someone has grown astronomically. Plus the fact I'm sitting in the sweltering heat wearing this God awful blue gown and wearing sky scraping stiletto's does nothing to improve my mood. Annalise is just laughing silently, holding her ribs and shaking her head; her blonde hair is shining like an Angels halo but I know her well enough to see the devil horns hiding beneath the beautiful façade. I think I'm going to need to find Jesus or some other religious being soon or I may well be responsible for the murder of my best friend.

God: 3 years of my life wasted and tomorrow I am thrown into the big, wide world to make a living? Clueless as to do so of course, because of aforementioned wasted 3 years. Fuck this; I just can't wait for this day to be over: I need a drink, or more precisely drinks. Strong drinks with a ridiculously high alcohol content. I mean what do I have thanks to NYU? A ginormous debt I have no means of paying off and a degree in Music. I just fold my arms across my chest and start counting down the seconds until this travesty of a graduation is over and I can neck a shot of tequila, or ten.

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_**Annalise Beaumont.**_

I shake my head at Leonie; the girl is a vessel of sarcasm and cynicism. Not what you expect from a fresh faced University graduate? I mean we're supposed to be motivated and ready to make our mark on the world not dreading it. But I think that's why we're such good friends: Whereas she is a moody bitch who has an opinion for anything and isn't afraid to make that opinion heard even if some people would take offence. Me? I'm tactful, precise and able to communicate with other human beings without making them fear for their lives and the lives of their loved ones.

But she is my moody bitch and together we do make one hell of a team: When Bradley Gaunston was harassing me in sophomore year and I was unable to get rid of him despite my polite way of trying to 'tactfully reject' him, Leonie simply walked over kicked him right between the legs and told him to do one. When Leonie handed in an assignment late to Professor Langston due to her mother becoming ill, I had to intercede and negotiate on her behalf seeing as she had told him to ram the paper up his arse. We balance each other.

"…Bartlett". Shit. They are going up to collect degrees; deep calming breaths, deep calming breaths. I snatch my compact mirror from my bad and hasten to reapply my make up so I look pristine when I walk along that stage. Oh no, my hand is shaking: My lipstick is going to look like that clown from the Stephen King film Lee Lee forced me to endure. I think I am on the brink of a panic attack, this is so not how I imagined my graduation would look: I'm about to cry when the lipstick is pulled from my hands.

"Come here you bloody moose." Leonie sighs dramatically as she rifles through my makeup bag and works her special brand of magic: I close my eyes as I feel her delicate fingers dance across my skin. Tension escapes from my muscles like air from a punctured tire. A few minutes later she is finished and I take a quick glance at myself in my compact: Perfect, my blue eyes are framed with thick dark lashes and a pale gold eye shadow makes my eyes glitter. My skin looks like porcelain with a slight raspberry brush across my high cheekbones. And this is why I love Leonie, no matter what she always manages to keep her cool. Unlike me, so I throw my arms around her in what would be a bone crushing hug if I were strong enough.

"Thanks Lee Lee, I don't know what I would do without you. Literally, I could die." I pull back as she chuckles, for once she is actually smiling. A genuine smile, not the usual sarcastic smirk she is known for wearing and she literally glows. With her emerald eyes glistening in the sun and her dark tresses falling in loose curls she is quite literally the dark to my light in terms of both character and appearance. She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and pulls me in for another quick hug.

"Annalise Beaumont" The tranquil moment of 'best friend bonding' is shattered when I hear my name called I jump upright as if I am being anally probed by aliens and scream, thankfully I don't scream too loud but a few people look around and I feel a blush of embarrassment taking residence on my cheeks. I stumble into the aisle and manage to make my way onto stage, waving and smiling despite the fact I want to bash my head against something, I collect my degree from some old woman I have never seen before and then it is over. It all seems a bit anti-climactic to be honest, College is over: I've got my degree and that's it.

I stand by as the rest of my year collect their degrees and everything goes smoothly until Leonie makes her way onto the stage, she has taken her gown off and is holding the stiletto's I forced her to wear in her hand like a deadly weapon. She doesn't smile and she doesn't wave, in fact she snatches her degree from the woman with such force I wouldn't be surprised if the woman had fractured her wrist: Bloody typical. Leonie doesn't linger as she finds me in the crowd of people who have collected their degrees, pushing her way through like a bulldozer and growling at anyone who even looks at her. I just roll my eyes.

"Can we please go now?" Well as always she is straight to the point, grumbling as people look over. I just shake my head and gesture to the stage where people are still well, graduating. I pay attention, or try to at least, while Leonie jumps from foot to foot grumbling about whatever is irking her at this current moment in time or glaring at whoever catches her eye. Eventually the procession of students comes to a stop, and Leonie sighs.

"Can we go now then? Or at least go and beat up Professor Richards cause he has done nothing but piss me off for the last 3 years. They've all got their bloody degrees. First drinks are on me." I laugh quietly and shake my head, she just stares at me incredulously and it is pretty hard to maintain my composure seeing her look as though she is about to explode.

"We have to wait for the speeches; particular students are elected to speak. And no, we are not assaulting a lecturer because it is illegal, Leonie, illegal. We've been here for 3 years, almost 4 years, and you still don't know how graduation works do you?" I shake my head in faux disappointment; Leonie is Leonie, she forgot her own birthday one year and when I tried to give her a gift she tried to give me a photo frame in return. Sometimes I do genuinely worry for her.

"Well whatever, but you're buying first drinks now... And a shot of tequila, in the name of compensation of course" I shrug in acceptance, and watch as people begin to talk about their favourite memories of university and what they plan for the future. And for once I am agreeing with Leonie who branded these speeches "total bollocks" as soon as the first person opened their mouth. I mean, really? Studying in the courtyard? How can that be a 'defining moment'? I remember all the antics me and Lee Lee got up to: Vandalising the statue in the courtyard or breaking into Professor's offices to try and find test papers. I'm just about to tell Leonie we can escape when our Dean introduces the final speech.

"And to close the ceremony, Mr. Blaine Anderson." I can practically hear Leonie's eyes rolling into the back of her head, her muttering increasing and I can catch a few expletives. Now, personally I like Blaine: He is sweet and considerate, and with his curly, black hair falling across his forehead and those hazel eyes he is most definitely attractive. But in Leonie Land he is annoying, tries too hard and is an all-round sap that has an 'inappropriate fetish' for bow ties. I think the bow ties just add to his cuteness and if he wasn't, well gay, I would definitely have sunk my manicured claws into him.

Personally, I think Leonie doesn't like Blaine because he is her main 'competition' as a singer/songwriter who doesn't have to try too hard to do well. Plus he is perpetually happy which doesn't tend to mix well with her surly nature. He begins to talk about how we may not know what is waiting around the corner but college has given us all the tools to face any challenge we may find in the real world: Okay, maybe the reason Leonie isn't too fond of Blaine is because he is the complete antithesis. Leonie grabs my arm as Blaine's speech is coming to a close and begins to pull me through the crowd, while bashing people with the heel of the stiletto as she goes: Charming.

"Fuck this, I can't be arsed to listen to him babble on about cotton candy clouds or Unicorns racing along a rainbow any longer" Well doesn't Leonie have such a way with words.

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_**Blaine Anderson.**_

"… Although I am sad to say goodbye to NYU and the safety it represents, I am happy to step into the real world. With the friends I have made and the things I have learnt: I am limitless. We are limitless. So let's party tonight, to signify the beginning of the rest of our lives." I breathe a sigh of relief as I bring my speech to a close; glad that all those hours of rehearsal with Kurt and Rachel had paid off and I hadn't stuttered or forgotten what I was going to say. I just smiled as the crowd erupted into applause; I shook hands with the Dean and a few other officials before I was free.

As soon as I escaped the stage I was scouring through the crowd, looking for the ocean blue eyes I could lose myself in for hours. The eyes of the boy, now man, who had taught me how to love. Kurt Hummel, my soul mate and however cliché it may sound: The love of my life. I saw him standing over my the oak tree I had spent hours studying under for finals, our eyes connected and I felt a weight disappear from my chest as if I had been in agony until I had seen him and his very presence was a strong painkiller. He waved me over and it was like a scene from a movie, everyone else disappeared and it was just us two: I began to make my way over and our eyes remained connected until I crashed into somebody.

"Watch where you're fucking going." I almost flinched at the venom in the girl's voice until I registered who it was: Leonie McKee, and this was as pleasant a greeting I would ever get from the 'feisty' brunette. We were in the same classes throughout the whole of my college experience but we'd hardly ever spoken, I respect her talent but I would be lying if I said I found her one of the nicest people I had encountered since moving to New York but despite the fact I realise that I had crashed into them.

"I'm really sorry, I was distracted." I give them my most charming smile, the one that always helps when I'm trying to persuade Kurt or one of his equally stubborn housemates: Rachel and Santana to see things from my point of view. Unfortunately, it doesn't succeed in melting the Ice Queen's heart or softening the hateful glare she was sending my way. In fact, if looks could kill I would currently be beginning the first phase of rigor mortis.

"It's ok, I mean: its graduation we all have our heads in the clouds. Don't sweat about it. Right Lee Lee?" I stared at the petite blonde girl whose arm was linked with the fearsome brunette, she was staring at her and I was enraptured by the silent battle of wills going on. No, not enraptured but totally fascinated to see someone even try and engage Leonie in any way: However rude it sounds, I was shocked that Leonie even had friends. Especially a friend who seemed as compassionate as the willowy blonde before me.

"I'm sorry for being rude, it's just the stress of graduation and everything. Have a nice evening." And it seems the shock factor just kept growing: Leonie was smiling at me, granted it was possibly the most forced smile I had ever seen, but my jaw was grazing the floor. The blonde girl tapped my shoulder and I shook myself into what I hoped was reality, and gave her a grin.

"I'm Annalise, sorry for Leonie. She rarely wakes up on the right side of the bed, but great speech" Then they simply walked away, and if my ears didn't deceive me: This Annalise girl was scolding Leonie for a lack of manners, miracles can happen or maybe the blonde girl is stupidly brave or has a death wish. I was still entertaining the thought that I had bumped my head and stumbled into some alternate reality when I arrive at Kurt's side still reeling from the surreal encounter with the two girls.

"Blaine, are you okay? You look as if you've seen a ghost." Kurt's worry zaps me back into reality, and as I stare into his blue eyes and see genuine concern my heart skips a beat. I arrange my features into a winning smile and give him a chaste kiss and I'm shocked when he responds enthusiastically; as he runs his dainty hands across my shoulder blades leaving a blaze of fire I groan into his mouth and pull him even closer. Eventually he pulls back, assessing me to see if I am genuinely fine.

"Yes Kurt, I just had a weird experience with a class mate. It was like falling through the closet and ending up in Narnia." Kurt just shook his head and gave me another chaste kiss, which led to a more intense kiss and I don't know what that would have led to seeing as Rachel Berry exploded onto the scene with her usual flair and pulled me into her arms. For such a small person she is incredibly strong, I blame the intense dance classes at NYADA.

"You delivered your speech to perfection, the emotion was there. Oh, it is so sad you didn't come to NYADA: Not many people can engage with their material so thoroughly, give it that shade. Of course I would have made more use of deliberate pauses to give the delivery a higher sense of poignancy but that would've come with more intense rehearsal…" I looked over at Kurt as Rachel continued to ramble about how I could've incorporated a song and dance routine which she would've partnered me for and whether or not symbolic costume could have been used. Kurt was just laughing and shaking his head, leaving me to face Hurricane Rachel alone.

"Man hands, leave hobbit alone. We needs to gets our drinks on, and since our Blainey Baby just graduated the first round will be on Auntie Snix. And no Rachel, we are not going to Call Backs: If we wanted a Rachel Berry Sing-a-thon we would just go home." Santana's arrival was my saviour and I could have fallen to the ground and kissed her feet since Rachel was now trying to convince her that going to the acclaimed Call Backs was the best way to spend my graduation night. Seeing Kurt in the burgundy spray on jeans however, gave me another and much more appealing way of spending my evening.

Getting bored of listening to Rachel's monologue, Santana started to walk towards the parking lot and our Broadway Diva was soon on her heels. Despite her violent tendencies and acidic tongue, I do admire how much more patient is from when we were at McKinley; she may not have lost her Lima Heights sassiness but she had managed to live with Rachel for 4 years without causing her grievous bodily harm. Kurt slipped his fingers as we followed the girls, we talked about the weather and just hearing the distinct lilt in his voice had a calming effect on me.

"I never got to say it since Rachel steam rolled in, but you did really well today. I was so proud." He throws his hand against his chest in an overly feminine way and grins, but beneath the jokey exterior I see genuine praise in his eyes which means a lot more to me than Rachel's overly technical assessment. I felt like puffing out my chest and declaring to the world that not only was this beautiful man my boyfriend but also proud of me: But that seemed egotistical and would've drawn unwanted attention so I settled for kissing him just below his ear and smirking as he shivered involuntarily.

"Thanks, just hard to imagine it's over. It's just us and the world now." Kurt places his head against my own and traces circles on the back of my hand with his thumb.

"No, it's the beginning of our life together Blaine and we can do no wrong." I smiled at the radiance of his enthusiasm; this is what we've been waiting so long for: Me and Kurt will finally be living together in New York, finding work, seeing friends and raising a family. I had said that College had prepared us for the outside world, but it never really mattered because whatever happens I know that with Kurt and my friends by my side, we could do anything: We were limitless.

"Oh, Gayboys. Hurry up, I can hear the scotch calling to me and if you don't hurry your asses up: You can walk." The world might be a scary place, but evidently some things stay the same.

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_**I know this is a pretty boring chapter and I do apologise, but I can promise it gets a lot better from here on out. **_

_**So what did you think? Is it worth continuing? I have a few chapters pre-written which I plan to upload and see what people think :)**_

_**-Evie**_


	2. Conversations With Old Friends

_**Back again… But 5 years in the future so the year is. This is AU, although I will take elements from canon**_

_**Furthermore, the story may appear a little fragmented for the first few chapters as I start to develop character and everything like that; I'm just laying the foundations but eventually all the loose ends will most definitely come together like the perfect shoes to go with the perfect dress, well I hope so anyway. (Remember that reviews are the perfect accessories, so leave me a handbag sometime ;))**_

_**Plus since I had forgotten in the last chapter… I do NOT own Glee, unfortunate since my bank balance would be a lot healthier if I did.**_

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_**Rachel Berry.**_

Despite the fact I will be immortally thankful to the Show-Business Gods who have smiled down upon me, allowing me to chase my ambitious yet entirely achievable dreams in the Big Apple. There is one thing I will not be sending them a customised gold star thank you note for and that is my agent; one Ms. Jeanette Holden. Although being signed to Creative Artist's Agency, which was yet another testament as to how far one Rachel Berry has come in the pursuit of her destiny as Broadway star. Jeanette, however, doesn't make me feel like the up and coming star that I know I am; yet she is still my manager after 6 years of doing nothing but belittling me and questioning my talent at every possible opportunity.

Fortunately, like many of the great divas who have come before me, I have faced the problem of those who aren't as outwardly talented as me trying to suppress me as a meaningful artist and crush my dreams. But I have overcome the likes of Sue Sylvester and Cassandra July and I may have questioned myself at times but I always bounced back like the shining star that people know me to be, so I can endure the never ending rants from Jeanette.

Mostly because I know her brusque attitude derives from the fact she lacks the real talent to have become a star and she is jealous of my obvious affinity for the arts; plus, every great star requires an agent of sorts until they are in the position to choose jobs as they please, for formalities sake at the very least. So here I am, sitting in a sleek leather armchair with chrome finishing as Jeanette looks through my extensive file which documents all my experiences within the performing arts media and as always she deliberately tuts as she turns every page.

It's one of her favourite things to do, her cold grey eyes watching me through her ridiculous horn rimmed glasses as she makes snide comments about everything: 'Oh another commercial for dog food, they may have got something right there' 'Hand Modelling? Personally I think your hands are too broad for that'. But as I said I've had worse and so I like to play a game whenever I am summoned to Jeanette's pit: I sit with my legs crossed, my 'feminine' hands folded in my lap with a broad smile and my head tilted to the side.

Not only does it insinuate that I'm listening to her ramble about the 'Golden Days of Broadway' and the distinct lack of talent in this generation of performers. It also give me the opportunity to employ my vast acting skills and to see if she would ever notice that I spend most of our time together contemplating more much imperative things such as whether I should change my audition songs; I mean audition songs are vital when securing a role.

Do you go with a song which demonstrates your, and in my case tremendously extensive, vocal range? Or a song which allows for character development, and for me to showcase my distinct talent for injecting emotion into my craft? I stop pondering the emotional backstory of Kim in 'Miss Saigon' when Jeanette slams her hand down on her desk; it just shows that I've grown into an impeccable actress, the fact I didn't jump at all.

"So…Berry? I've got some good news" I would take longer to be offended that after 6 years she is still unable to remember my name, which is appalling seeing as I am the Rachel Berry and in 5 years from now anyone who is anyone will know my name, but this is the first time Jeanette has ever mentioned 'good news' . In relation to me at least; so I admit that she has my curiosity spiked despite the fact she is looking at me as though I am something which has the misfortune of having ended up on the bottom of her foot.

"Good news? Is it a revival of Company, maybe a lead role in the rumoured film documenting the life of one Miss Barbara Streisand…?" The possibilities are literally endless and it would be a lie to say I'm not intrigued to hear what the future holds for me; even Jeanette's predatory grin with those abnormally elongated canines isn't enough to quench my sudden burst of enthusiasm.

As Jeanette outlines the details of her 'good news' I can barely sit still, this is fantastic: Kurt will not believe it. Despite my numerous successes as a performer in New York, for example my role as Mimi's understudy on a way-off Broadway rendition of RANT: The modern retelling of RENT, I could just tell that this is it; the big break I've been waiting so long for which can, no will, catapult my name to live amongst those of my idols. Lea Salonge, Patti LuPone, Idina Menzel… Rachel Berry. I can see it now and as I always anticipated it feels right, as if it was always meant to be.

Oblivious to the wandering of my mind Jeanette continues to ramble about how my actions reflect on her and the company. I on the other had had much more fun imagining my friend's reaction to the news; how Santana's snide remarks would belie her secret congratulations, how Kurt would join me in a classic girl and her gay scream fest, how Blaine would flash his sincere smile and give me a bone-crushing hug and then there's Brittany, Quinn and so many others to share my news with. In fact, I will tweet it so all those people that said that I wouldn't amount to anything could choke on their words; now that would be satisfying. Now who to tell first? Well I am meant to be meeting Kurt for lunch, and he is the Marc St. James to my Amanda Tanen or the Will to my Grace after all.

I was planning how what would come to be known as the 'great reveal' when I notice a wrinkled hand waving before my eyes; I risk a glance at the clock and realise I am going to be late meeting Kurt. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing; it would create suspense and tension; like a mystery of sorts and Kurt would have to wait for me to give the answers. Although being 'fashionably late' isn't an issue, anything more than 10 minutes and Kurt will just go; that man can tolerate tardiness about as much as he is able to tolerate a poor skincare regime.

"Is there anything else?" Despite the fact I am dying to get out of this office, I decide I may as well try and be polite towards my manager despite the fact she has been nothing but rude and demeaning towards me ever since I was signed by the agency; since she has handed me my ticket to stardom in a potentially roundabout way. She stares at me appraisingly and I can't help but feel like some specimen under a microscope in a laboratory somewhere, she has a knack for making someone feel constantly scrutinised; and it doesn't help when she places her fingertips together like some archetypal villain plotting world domination.

"Have you considered getting that nose job we were talking about?" Somehow I manage to suppress my rant about how superficial people can be and how I wish to be defined by my unquestionable talent rather than my physical appearance; and however arrogant it may sound I know that I'm not ugly. So I settle for an exasperated sigh and folding my arms across my chest.

"No, you see Jeanette my nose is an integral part of my image; distinguishable, and although some people may see it as a physical flaw. I see it as a way of becoming an accessible role model to my fans, a way of saying that nobody is perfect." I don't miss Jeanette rolling her eyes, and her flippancy in regards to my self-image does cause some of my high school insecurities to return; no, it has taken me years to accept how I look and I will not let some bitter old woman destroy my confidence.

"Oh Jeanette, aren't you as charming as always?" I have a strange desire to cover my mouth or apologise profusely; damn Kurt, too many years around him and I seem to have adopted his tendency to lash out with a snarky retort when backed into a corner. Rather than slowly beat me to death with her gargantuan, red leather handbag she actually smiles or what seem to resemble a smile anyway; although a more accurate way of describing her current expression would be something along the lines of chronically constipated.

"Glad someone appreciates it; now get out of my office. I'll be in touch." I smile at my agents 'wit' and nod my head before leaving her office; glancing at my watch tells me I have exactly 15 minutes to meet Kurt and that is taking my fashionably late plan into consideration. I send him a quick text to let him know I'm on the way and that I have big, big news; and I am a little disconcerted by the fact his reply is a little less than enthusiastic: _Great. See you soon. _No kisses? I subconsciously pick up my pace seeing as there is a possibility that somehow I have managed to incur the New York renowned wrath of Kurt Elizabeth Hummel.

Thoughts of how I have managed to irk my gay best friend dance through my mind as I practically sprint up 54th street like an Olympian; did I forget to send a gift for an important anniversary? No. Did I miss his latest fashion show? No, I remember the 'Pre-Show' break down last week and the countless glasses of self-prescribed vodka tonics. Finally I arrive, a little out of breath may I add, and notice Kurt sitting at our usual table at Café Paradiso.

And what I see is not the prettiest picture, first of all he hasn't given me his 'You, my friend, are late' glare and if my lip reading skills are correct; which they are, then he is muttering to himself in French. This is not good, not good at all; when Kurt starts with the French than every man, woman and child should take it as their cue to run and hide. Unfortunately, seeing as he is my gay, it is my duty to approach; and the closer I get, the worse this is looking.

Not that Kurt doesn't outwardly appear as the poster boy of fashion guru with a sky blue cashmere sweater and a pair of fitted, black chinos; but to the trained eye, like myself, I can see the 'signs'. Such as how he is staring into the depths of his mocha as though he is contemplating trying to drown himself, how his pale skin seems clammy or how his eyes are missing their usual spark. Did someone die? No, I would've heard about that; but the last time I saw Kurt so visibly distressed was the Blaine incident of '21.

How could I have been so stupid? It's me, this is just residual worry from my break down yesterday; I mean I was practically having a full blown panic attack when I'd received the voicemail regarding my 'urgent appointment' with Jeanette. Oh well, that's easily sorted: I'll just give him my news and he'll be right as rain and we can start devising a rigid rehearsal schedule in preparation for my audition; well after the squealing and hugging that is bound to follow my little announcement. I bustle through the crowd and give him the customary air kiss before sitting down.

* * *

_**Kurt Hummel.**_

Rachel sits down and I can tell that whatever it is, it is something big and I can only hope that it doesn't entail the rapid growth of her ego that generally accompanies any 'good news' she receives in regards to her career. Despite her status as a true diva, Rachel has managed to achieve some sense of control over the sociopathic tendencies that defined her teenage life and were pretty much the sole reason that I couldn't stand her.

Oh, how times change; but every now and then she relapses and falls back into her 'Rachel Berry must control everything' way of life and as her friend, it is my civic duty to metaphorically bitch slap her back into reality. Unfortunately, I am not in the mood for a round of 'truth talk' or berating her for becoming too obsessed with whatever whimsical fantasy is currently performing the can-can in her twisted mind.

Rather than exploding into one of her overly flamboyant monologues detailing every aspect of the life of one Miss Rachel Barbara Berry, she just sits there staring at me like I'm some kind of bomb about to detonate. I don't even bother trying to hide the fact that I roll my eyes; if there is one thing about my best friend I can tolerate even less than her inherent talent to make every situation revolve around herself, it is when she tries to cast herself in the role of 'concerned friend' and make me feel like a five year old.

"So, Rachel… what's the good news?" Best tactic for dealing with Rachel is to talk about Rachel, it never fails. Straight away the look of concern disappears and is replaced by one of her wide smiles that only appear when she is the topic of conversation, I suppose this could be classified as a pro of having a friend who is entirely too self-involved.

"Oh Kurt, it's amazing. I've been booked for an audition for Davenport's revival of West Side Story; and we both know I'm perfect for the role since I played it back in McKinley? I was great then, but now I feel like I could identify with Maria on a whole new level; the adversity I've faced has given me new perspective and I am so excited to be sharing it with the world…" I don't even try to point out the fact that she hasn't been cast yet; trying to cut in when Rachel is talking about herself is about as effective as trying to douse a fire with gasoline. I take a sip of my mocha and nod along with her as she continues to list every reason as to why she is the perfect Maria and how she deserves to win the role above everyone else. If she wasn't so talented I would consider having her admitted, but her faith in her abilities is justified even though it is insufferable at times.

"…And that's not even the best part; not only is it a show on actual Broadway but the whole cast is going to be assembled of solely newcomers to the scene, well actors who haven't been in the spotlight per say. This is it, my platform, my chance to be recognised. I mean Davenport is such a respected director that if I impress him, then everyone will be wanting to cast me." I finish my coffee and snap my fingers to get a waiter's attention; Rachel is acting like an excitable puppy and if I'm going to be dealing with her, I am going to need caffeine and lots of it.

"That really sounds great Rachel; if they aren't looking for established actors it gives you a better chance of being noticed and getting more work. I'm really happy for you but I can't say it's unexpected: I've been telling you for so long that it was bound to happen. I still stand by what I said all those years ago, you may be one of the most annoying people I have ever met but you're destined for stardom." I try and sound enthusiastic, I really do. I am so happy that something like this has happened; she deserves it more than anyone, her sheer ambition is unrivalled and it will spare me God knows how many hours of her moaning about how she is constantly overlooked and that the casting directors don't understand her talent; or how she was beat out of a role by someone who is skinnier than her, or was a blonde.

Unfortunately my acting skills seem to have diminished somewhat since my NYADA days; although moving into costume design and then beginning to design my own fashion line may have been great for my bank balance and my relationship, it doesn't appear to have with my ability to deceive my best friend. Not even the flattery was enough to distract Rachel which is definitely a surprise, her forehead creases in thought which is something she should stop doing; I have warned her about the dangers of frown lines many times, so she can't blame me if she is wrinkle-ridden by the time she is 35. The silence stretches on; a battle of the wills, she wants me to start blurting out what's inside my head and I'm more concerned with where my caffeine refill is and avoiding the conversation I know Rachel is moments away from initiating.

"So what's wrong?" And there she goes, sticking her overly large nose into my business as brazen as ever; shouldn't she pick up that whatever 'it' is, it is obviously something I don't want to talk about since I'm currently looking at anything and anyone that isn't her. I know I shouldn't get cranky about this, in fact I should be glad that she cares but I just don't feel like loading all my baggage on her; especially when she is riding on the Rachel's 'Journey to Fame' high. But she can be as persistent as she is narcissistic and the fact she has known me for 13 years means she is pretty good at getting me to talk, no matter how much I try to deflect or simply ignore her questions.

"It's nothing, I'm just being stupid. A little bit nervous, that's all." She raises her eyebrow and I am more than a little offended; that's the truth, so she can't give me her 'don't lie to me' look without me fixing her right back with my 'Don't push it too far' bitch stare. Rather than trying to incite World War Three, I just raise my eyebrow back at her; she can sit there sighing as much as she likes, it doesn't mean I'm going to tell her anything. Maybe I'll remind her that curiosity killed the cat.

"Kurt, you can't lie to me; I've seen you nervous: At the NYADA Winter Showcase in freshman year; your debut fashion show; 2012 National Championships. And yes, you've been snarky and you'd stare off into the distance moodily but you'd never look as if your seconds away from throwing yourself under a bus." I forgot she has a flair for being over dramatic; I know that I need to reassure her that I am definitely not suicidal or else I'll be exposed to the unique torture of Rachel's 'Suicide Watch' which is an experience I could live without having to undergo ever again.

"First of all Rachel, I'm not suicidal so breathe; we don't need you going into cardiac arrest because of stress. I'm just nervous about the meeting with our lawyer on Wednesday, you know; about the adoption. I've just got a bad feeling about it and it doesn't help that Blaine is always pre-occupied at work, I barely see him anymore and I can barely remember the last time we had sex…" I almost die of embarrassment on the spot, I never talk about sex. It's an unspoken rule that I don't talk about any intimate relations between me and Blaine, especially with Rachel because she might be one of my best friends but she also has an annoying knack for speaking without thinking. I mean, where did that come from? I can feel my cheeks burning a vivid scarlet and I'm 100% sure that if I look at her, the Cheshire Grin she's bound to be wearing will burn my retinas.

"Well, I'm sure everything will be fine. You'll go and talk to your lawyer, the adoption will go through and by this time next year we'll all be celebrating; plus if you are having a baby, either you or Blaine is going to have to spend time off work to look after them. He's probably just trying to earn as much as possible so that you won't be as stressed when a baby does come along." I'm shocked and I wouldn't be surprised if Ashton Kutcher jumped up from behind a trash can and told me I'd been Punk'd; that sounds intelligent, and it came from Rachel. I've never doubted Rachel's intelligence, but hearing her give logical advice rather than trying to turn every little thing into some elaborate 'performance' is a little too much for me to handle without more coffee. I snap my fingers and gesture for the waiter to bring a refill.

"Now that was actual helpful advice; so who are you and what have you done with Rachel Berry?" We both start laughing, and I realise that this is why I love Rachel; however worked up I might get about something she always manages to make me laugh with her bubbly optimism. She just shrugs her shoulders and takes a bite of her vegan-friendly flapjack.

"I don't know, maybe in the last 13 years I've grown up. Or I've gained magical powers and I was channelling the immortal Ms. Streisand in your time of great need." Damn me, I should never have taught Rachel the delicate art of sarcasm; I thought it was bad when she wore those awful animal print sweaters and decided to commentate every aspect of her life through song. If only we could go back to those days is all I'm going to say.

"Yes Rachel, you have grown: What are you now? 5'2''? But that doesn't change the fact that there is a distinct possibility that we won't be getting the chance to adopt anytime soon…" I see Rachel take a deep breath and I know it's best to get it all out now before she gets on a roll. "Gay couples are especially lucky to adopt, they constitute approximately 9% of adopting couples; do you know how many of these couples aren't married? Less than 1% and newsflash Rachel, me and Blaine aren't married; we've been together 12 years and I know I always said I wanted to wait for marriage but I'm 28 and I'm not even engaged. In fact, he doesn't even seem to care about getting married at all; it's like he's bored or something…" I'm trying to shut up, I really am, but it is like verbal diarrhoea; every little thing that's been bugging me as of late has escaped. So all my cards are on the table, I look like some obsessive freak that is drowning in a sea of insecurity; and I'm sitting in a public café, thank God I had the sense to be quiet. Seriously though, could this get any worse?

Yes it could, Rachel could start laughing as she is right now; well thanks a lot Rach, just demolish my dignity while you're at it. I don't mind at all, I kick her under the table and feel a rush of satisfaction as she jumps in her seat and pouts like a little girl who had all her candy taken away. I've always been the most mature, but something doesn't bode well; I can tell by the grin Rachel is wearing. She shouldn't be grinning, she should be whining about the fact I kicked her.

"So, you're nervous about the adoption; understandable, but this Blaine issue is something we need to talk about. I mean, I could understand why he'd want to stay away from an abusive partner; maybe I could talk to him for you… ask why he's being neglectful in the boudoir" Despite my status as an atheist, I suddenly find myself wishing that God or some other 'omniscient force' would strike me down; my cheeks are burning so much that I genuinely think my head may just combust at a moment's notice. Her eyes glimmer with amusement and I'm sorely tempted to gouge them out with my teaspoon or any other blunt object within reach; I suppose this is my reward for constantly outwitting Rachel over the years. A taste of my own medicine although I am adamant that I do it in a much more refined manner.

"I am not an abusive partner, you just need a little nudge in the right direction every now and again; I'm just not averse to giving you that nudge. And I will never expect you to talk to Blaine on my behalf Rachel, I remember the train wreck extravaganza that was your party in junior year; the horrific image of you trying to eat his face will be forever burned into my mind's eye and plague me in the realm of dreams." I see her pretend to flinch at the not so subtle reminder of when Rachel was infatuated with Blaine; she shivers and grins in my direction.

Gradually, we settle into our usual conversations about celebrities, Broadway, pop culture and gossiping about people we know; let's just say I'm extremely surprised that Jacob Ben Israel managed to bag himself a supermodel wife. I personally haven't ruled out brainwashing or some other sinister way that Jew-fro managed to pull that one off; I'm about to explain my hypnotism theory when I notice Rachel twiddling her hair and chewing her lip. What does she want now? If she tries her Dr. Phillipa routine on me again, I may just scream.

"What Rachel?" She looks a little uncomfortable, but I'd rather she just say whatever is on her mind. She smiles at me nervously, and now it feels awkward; if it makes the shameless Rachel Berry nervous then it is likely that whatever it is will give me a hernia.

"Well, I know you don't want me talking to Blaine; but maybe you should. He'd want to know if you're feeling down, he really loves you. You know that right?" Well that was a bit strange, it is sound advice although it is blatantly obvious I was going to have to talk to Blaine; but then it hits me, that Rachel must've thought about it. As in she had put my needs above her own, I'm not saying this is the first time it has happened but it is nice to know that I've always got Rachel to unload to; even if it's only 10 minutes to her 10 hours.

"Thanks. I know and I'm going to talk to him; now hurry up with that coffee. You've got a big audition and we need to get you something to wear; plus, I haven't been shopping in a long time and my plastic is starting to feel neglected." And suddenly we return to the girl and her gay dynamic, with Rachel clapping her hands together while I settle the bill. We link arms and we're on our way; I know I'll have to talk to Blaine later but right now my biggest priority is finding the perfect jacket to wear to Blaine's work party next Saturday. See, no matter how bad you feel, a bit of girl talk and retail therapy will always make you feel better. Temporarily anyway.

* * *

_**Yes, this chapter was difficult to write and I know it is only one little moment; I promise the next chapter will have Blaine and Kurt's chat as well as setting up more little plot points. **_

_**Anything/ anyone in particular you'd like to see? Or anything you think is missing or needs improvement?**_


	3. Arguments and Resolutions

_**Now on with the story…**_

* * *

_**Kurt Hummel.**_

6.07pm, this is the third time this week that Blaine has been late this week; what makes it so much worse is that it's only Wednesday. Thankfully, my intense session of retail therapy with Rachel has allowed me to retain a certain degree of sanity but I can't escape the gnawing feeling that I'm missing something or rather, Blaine isn't telling me something. Logically, I know that Rachel may have been onto something with working overtime to earn money; but Blaine is a music teacher and last time I checked teachers weren't given many opportunities for overtime. I shake my head and concentrate on the pile of dishes that need to be washed, if I spend too much time thinking about this I will end up on the Paranoid Express and start accusing Blaine of being unfaithful; which wouldn't end well, that's for sure.

I hear a key in the door, 6.09pm; Blaine should've been back about 5.50 making allowances for traffic. 19 minutes isn't long enough to have an affair is it? I feel like slapping myself, I'm acting like a hormone riddled teenager in full on bunny boiler mode and Kurt Hummel is nothing but sophisticated. Blaine loves me, I trust him, he trusts me and after every little bump in the road we're still here and as strong as ever. While I was pre-occupied with my Rachel-esque 'Ode to oneself and one's own insecurities' Blaine must of came into the kitchen as I feel him wind his muscular arms around my narrow waist and place his chin on my shoulder.

"Honey, I'm home" Blaine lowers his voice and the gruffness just sends a shiver down my spine but I ignore it and continue with rinsing the dishes; but that doesn't stop me from imagining how this scenario would usually play out. I'd turn in his arms and see his hazel eyes twinkling with the promise of things to come which would automatically trigger a blush on my part before I'd give him a coy smile and make some form of sarcastic remark before running my fingers through the dark curls; the end of the story is always the same, a heavy make out session followed by a long session of passionate love-making. Well until recently, when the sex part of this particular equation seems to have vanished. I feel Blaine pull back, and I know he is hurt; being with someone for over 11 years tends to give you a sixth sense regarding these things.

"Is something up, Baby?" And like a bomb, I just explode without warning. I feel like I'm having an out of body experience, like I'm watching myself from across the room. I see myself slam the casserole dish into the sink; I watch as I turn and fix Blaine with a bitch glare I reserve for hateful fashion journalists and anyone else unfortunate enough to have stumbled onto the bad side of Mr Kurt Elizabeth Hummel; I see Blaine's look of confusion, his brow furrowing and his hazel eyes looking to me for an explanation like some poster boy for 'An Advanced Guide to Puppy Dog Eyes'.

But I am just so pissed off, and although I'm usually a lot more eloquent than resorting to expletives to surmise my mood; I just can't think of a word that is as effective at this current time. I am pissed off and however irrational it seems, I'm pissed off at Blaine. Why? 1. He knows for a fact that I'm annoyed; I've never been one to smile and wave when something is wrong; it's simply reductive and never leads to a resolution. So bearing in mind that he knows how to 'read' me, rather than trying to approach this issue like an adult he 2. Makes a joke of things like a Neanderthal teenager with no emotional depth, 'Is something up..?' This is not a laughing matter which brings me to point 3. The use of the word 'baby', a pet name I find repulsive and simply demeaning.

"Why no Sweetie, everything is just fine and dandy." I almost cringe at how cold my voice sounds, with none of my usual inflection it sounds ruthless and almost intimidating; Blaine flinches as if I've physically struck him and I can practically hear his mind whirling, trying to find something that could be the cause of my 'not so pleasant mood'.

Almost instantly I just want to cradle him in my arms and apologise, as always the only people I lash out at are those closest to me and unfortunately Blaine is the closest person to me; but I'm also a Hummel man, genetically predisposed to be irrationally stubborn and right now I feel like venting. I take a deep calming breath; however much I might to throw a primadonna tantrum, it isn't the right thing to do and it would be selfish to just lash out at Blaine for no other reason than 'because I want to'. Now that I can confidently say that I've regained the majority of my sanity I turn back to the washing up and continue to the dishes as I swallow my pride.

"I'm sorry Blaine, I'm just stressed and I really shouldn't have lashed out at you." Although my voice has returned to normal, I still feel a little freaked by my earlier monotone, my words are still clipped. Blaine comes to stand beside me and picks up the tea towel, beginning to dry the dishes; an image of domestic bliss, which is something I'm proud to say we emulate a lot of the time. The silence stretches on, but it never becomes awkward. It's obvious I need a little time to calm down properly and Blaine, being as conscientious as ever, is giving me that time.

Once all the dishes are done, Blaine gently takes the washcloth from my hand and puts it on the drying rack before giving me a warm smile; now that I have taken the time to think about my little outburst I just want to crawl into a corner and die of embarrassment. I feel my cheeks begin to glow a startling shade of scarlet and look down at the floor, hoping it would just swallow me whole but Blaine tilts my head so he can meet my eyes and seeing the blatant love and concern that shine within his hazel orbs makes my heart melt.

"You were saying something about being stressed, love. Now why was that?" I'll never know how Blaine can remain so calm and collected throughout my diva outbursts; but his unyielding patience is something I'd never take for granted. He cares about what I have to say, and I trust no one else more than I trust the man before me; my soul mate. Especially when it's something that involves him, and I know that he is the only person who can empathise with this.

"I…ermm, I'm scared about the meeting next week. I don't know what'll happen… if I say something…wrong, and then I've dashed our chances of ever having a child." Kurt Hummel doesn't stumble over his words, he has an opinion about everything and he is never reluctant to share said opinion. Unfortunately that is just the public persona; I on the other hand have an annoying habit of stumbling over my words whenever I get too flustered or if I'm nervous. A great example would be my inability to give an interview the night my very first fashion line debuted; I couldn't form a coherent sentence and opted to communicate with nervous yelps and sporadic whimpers.

Blaine is well aware of this, he's the one who takes my hand and whispers assurance while I feel like I'm falling to pieces; my anchor, my safe haven but right now he looks as if he's about to burst out laughing. I can feel my teeth gritting together as he loses his cool and laughs openly in my face, right now I'm debating whether to burst out in hysterical tears or beat him to death with the nearest kitchen appliance. Since crying would just leave me with swollen eyes and the nearest kitchen appliance is the coffee maker, which is something I could never bring harm to since it is my consummate saviour in the mornings, I settle for a scathing remark.

"Pray tell what you find so amusing about this situation? I can't seem to understand your eclectic brand of humour, enlighten me." The laughter stops instantly, and I can see Blaine's hand twitching as if he wants to beat himself across the forehead; it is very rare when Blaine has a tactless moment but I see him realise that his laughter may have been 'interpreted' as a way of ridiculing my worries.

"Kurt I'm sorry, but we have nothing to worry about…" I believe my eyebrows have migrated far north and are currently vacationing with my hair line; although I've always admired Blaine's 'courage' and his optimistic attitude, this is simply naïve. He should be worried, he needs to be worried; is he unaware that the future of our family rests on this meeting? I'm flabbergasted at his ignorance for a few moments before I can even form words.

"Nothing to worry about? There's the fact we're living in a one bedroomed, second floor apartment; where will a child sleep? And a second floor is not the safest place to raise a child: What if he or she fell out of the window? And although the whole apartment is decorated in minimalist chic, it is still cramped. Do you see any space for a toy box? A baby walker? A play pen? Because I don't. And who'd look after the baby? I can work from home admittedly, but I'd still need to go into the office every now and then; and you have regular hours as a teacher. Would it help our application if I gave up my job and acted solely as a house-parent? Does it hinder our chances that we're not married…"

The whole time I've been ranting I've been wringing my hands; I can literally see some faceless lawyer laughing in our faces as he says we can't have a child. I mean, I've thought about these things but it's only just now I've realised that they could all be serious aggravating factors in the adoption process. I feel as if I'm about to have a panic attack, I reach out and grab the counter top at the same time Blaine rushes over and takes me into his arms. I feel his breath in my hair; I relax as he rubs soothing circles along my back and places a quick peck on my cheek.

"Shhhh, Kurt. They are needless worries, adoption takes a long time and I know there a lot of small things that we need to take care of, but we will do it because we want a baby so badly. You are going to be the greatest father Kurt, how could anybody not see that? You're the most caring, loving person I know. And together, we can do it: The townhouse, the work situation; we're destined to raise a family Kurt and nothing will stop us becoming the best parents we can be. And when we get our baby, before we begin spoiling them rotten of course, we're gonna sit here and laugh about this." And there it is. Blaine Anderson swoops in like my very own Superman and saves the day; I suppose I was being a little rash, the adoption process can take years in some cases and we've discussed moving into a townhouse a few times. I mouth 'Thank You' before crushing my lips to Blaine's, his tongue travels the length of my lower lip; inviting me to deepen the kiss. Which I do of course.

Kissing Blaine is as easy as breathing; our tongues perform a flawless rhumba as our hands explore each other's bodies with unadulterated desire; caressing Blaine's broad shoulders as he trails his fingers along my lower back, eliciting a groan of pleasure as I feel his hands take a firm grasp on my hips. I pull away to catch my breath and run my hand across his muscled chest, studying every contour of his defined body with my finger tip. He purrs as he presses himself to me, teasing my neck with his teeth as he undoes one of my shirt buttons.

"I love you, Blaine Anderson." He pulls away, his eyes appear almost black as his pupils dilate with a sensuous craving; his primal desire encourages my own arousal as I deliberately catch my lower lip between my teeth to prevent a whimper of yearning to escape escape as I use every facet of self-control to stop myself from leaping at my boyfriend. Blaine just grins and licks his lips greedily.

"As I love you, Kurt" As he takes my hand and drags me to the bedroom, I feel myself beaming like the cat that got the cream; not only has Blaine managed to soothe my nerves. I'm also pretty sure the sexual draught that had taken residence within the Hummel-Anderson residence was about to come to an end, and if I'm not mistaken it is going to end with a torrential downpour.

* * *

_**Leonie McKee.**_

Despite my intolerance for incredibly cliché teenage films, I think I may be living a real life cinematic disaster. In this current screenplay in which I play the tough as hell heroine; I am being berated, but it's all in slow motion and I can't hear a word that he's saying. Not that I give a shit about whatever this person is saying, all I need to know is that he is a 40 something, grossly overweight man with an obscenely large nose, a receding hairline and has spit gathering in the corner of his mouth. It's just not a pretty sight, and while he continues to rant I try and focus on not showering him with what I had for lunch while giving him a smile so sickly sweet he should be getting a cavity a minute.

I know his type, leather briefcase and a poorly fitted suit: Some 'businessman' who feels the need to walk around with a superiority complex. And as the 'lowly barista' that I am, I should be the victim of aforementioned complex. He leans closer in closer and I almost gag, his breath is like garlic roasted dog shit; what the fuck did he eat for lunch? Fuck me; I hope he doesn't have a wife or anything. Nah, no matter how much this man earns no self-respecting woman would go near it. Well I hope not anyway, while I ponder the possibilities of how anyone could survive kissing this being in front of me, I can see my boss Remi looking over and I just wave him away. I'm more than capable of dealing with one asshole of a customer.

"ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?" The man is screaming as if I've castrated him, not that I've fucked up a coffee order. I'm about to get him his bloody 'double shot' Americano when the greasy bastard has the audacity to reach over and grab me with one of those slabs of meat he thinks constitute hands; every muscle in my body tenses with my fervent longing to take that briefcase and ram it so far up his arse that it'll come out of his big mouth. Thankfully, I am able to force my lips to resemble something like a smile while I pull my hand away and discretely wipe his sweat off on my apron.

"I'm sorry sir; I'll get you your replacement now. But I must ask you to refrain from grabbing the members of staff or you will be asked to leave." Did I ever say that professionalism sucked? I would've liked nothing more than to kick his stupidly large ass but 'company policy' prevents me from doing so. I note the queue has gotten pretty long and people are getting restless; their moaning like an incessant buzz that just won't end. 'God, she's taking for like ever' 'Does she even know how to make coffee?' but to top it all off; my favourite business twat decides to make yet another demeaning remark.

"A woman's place is in the kitchen, this girl'll amount to nothing. Bloody useless these drop out types…" Well, I'll never know how he would've finished that sentence. Because he is currently wearing the Americano, yes I snapped and like some elderly woman in a Soap Opera I ended up dashing his hot drink at him. All I can say is that he's lucky I hadn't made his new drink before he made his smart ass comment, because he'd probably have third degree burns and if you ask me; he bloody well deserves it.

And so we return to the clichés of cinema, when something happens and everyone falls into an instant silence; allowing them to digest what they've just seen. In this case, a woman who won't be spoken to like shit depositing the contents of a coffee cup over the man's head who was trying to make her feel like a complete idiot. If I were the one watching I'd applaud my actions but alas, no one else thinks along the same lines as me. In fact it's like a riot people screaming and shouting, I almost smirk when I hear someone liken me to a rabid animal. I threw a coffee at someone; I didn't start hacking people down like weeds with an axe for God's sake.

"In case you hadn't noticed sir, in my last official action as an employee of Stumpton Coffee Roasters I would like to tell your ugly ass that you're banned. And yes, I can do that because no matter how much my boss is glaring at me; he hasn't fired me yet. As for the rest of you, go home and make your own fucking coffee." I rip off my apron and throw it into the crowd like a prize fighter entering the ring and the majority people in the shop have enough sense to leave pretty rapidly; Remi is glaring at me and I know without a doubt that my sorry ass is getting fired, but to be frank I really don't care.

It's not like I was going to work here forever serving coffee to the snobs and dickheads that haunt this place, I'm going to get a 'proper job' soon enough; I just don't know exactly what that is yet, but rest assured that my soon to be status of unemployment will result in a hasty decision. See, every cloud has a kind of silver lining; and people say I'm not optimistic. I push the door to the staff room open and rip off the horrid polyester t-shirt we have to wear, open my locker and pull on my turquoise silk shirt that Annalise brought me for Christmas.

"And where do you think you're going?" I roll my eyes and turn to stare at Remi; I'm genuinely worried he might have a heart attack since he is currently a garish shade of puce, which doesn't look very good on a man of Latin descent; I'll tell you that now. But if he thinks switching between growling and panting at me like a coffin dodging Rottweiler is going to intimidate me, he's got another thing coming.

"I'm getting my things together and leaving, although if you took time to notice things going on around you rather than stare at that espresso machine as if you want to fuck it, you might've noticed." I give him a big smile before turning to put everything in my purse, I even give myself a spritz of my favourite perfume and apply some lip gloss. I turn around and laugh at the incredulous expression on his face , he looks as though he's just witnessed a goat performing a tap dance while dressed in drag.

"This isn't funny. You can't talk to me like that." I cut him off with a wave of my hand, and take a step towards him; I give a satisfied smirk when I see he has backed up against the wall, and I had always taken the dumpy little man for having no sense at all. I've still got it, I close my locker door slowly and walk towards him very slowly like a lioness stalking her prey and however sadistic it sounds; I kind of enjoy watching the man who has bossed me around for the past six months flounder like a fish out of water. We're almost nose to nose, and I almost giggle when I realise he isn't breathing.

"Then why am I laughing? Oh yeah, and I quit. Plus, if you give me a bad reference I might have to pop in and see Mrs Martinez and tell her all about how you've been screwing skanky Alice in the store room after work, every Tuesday for the last three months. Oh yes, I know about that and believe me when I say I have proof I can show her; so you're going to write me a glowing reference aren't you Remi?"

I don't even wait for him to find his voice box, I take one last look at the pock marked skin, the leering brown eyes and his brow that no matter what sweats profusely. I give him a wave and walk out of the staff room with my head held high, to bump into none other than skanky Alice with her horrific peroxide blonde hair and squinting blue eyes. I've always thought she looks a bit like a prostitute-rat hybrid. I grimace at her and walk on by while she is probably checking on her 'lover'.

"You're a bitch" I hear your nasally voice as I leave the shop. Wow, she's brave shouting when she's out of my immediate presence; someone give the skank a medal. I turn around and put my hand against my chest in faux hurt.

"Oh, what a burn" I give her a flash of my two fingers and I'm on my way. Once again, I'm an unemployed graduate in search of work in the Big Apple; not so different from when I had just left college really. I whip out my phone and quickly compose a text to Anna. Even though I hate admitting it; I rely on my perky, blonde best friend to help me in times like these. I mean she's a successful advice columnist who has begun branching out into TV and radio and if the rumours are true: Annalise Beaumont is soon to be wedding planner/couples therapist to New York's finest. Seems NYU did prepare us for life on the outside, I must've just slept through that particular class or it was taught in a language I didn't understand.

_To: Annabitch_

_A, shit has hit the fan and I'm unemployed again. _

_Please pity me and have a bottle of wine waiting, and some chocolate if possible.:D_

_I'll be back in about 30 mins, I'll explain what happened; you can lecture me and then we can decide what's happening in regards to my future then. Ok? :/_

_Muchos love,_

_L xoxo_

I've just ordered a hot dog when I hear my phone vibrate in my bag; I fish it out and open the text message while taking a bite of my little snack. I almost choke on my onions when I see what she has to say; that girl is always surprising me. I expected her to hit the roof and lecture me about my innate ability to not be able to hold down a job as simple as a barista; but that is not what I got.

_Lee-Lee,_

_Wine is already being chilled, but in congratulations. You're way too good to be serving coffee._

_So tonight we celebrate the beginning of your new life. I've got some ideas, some I think you might actually like._

_Pick me up this month's Vogue while you're out and some popping candy. I can see some Slambuca's at the end of this tunnel ;)_

_Spose I love you, _

_A xxx_

* * *

_**Santana Lopez.**_

I've always been the hottest bitch; I was HBIC at McKinely and I've been dominating New York since then like a hormonally charged Sue Sylvester. I've never been nice, in fact I've always been a complete and utter bitch but not to be mean; I'm trying to help people, if they can't handle the fact that I might be the only person who's willing to ladle them a scorching hot serving of Auntie Tana's famous 'this is how its gots to be'; then I pity their ass, cause that is the first step in Snix emerging and going all Lima Heights on someone's ass. In my official memoirs, title is still under consideration although it may be something along the lines of 'From Lima Loser to Hot Mess', I can say that Santana Lopez fought tooth, nail and the razor blades she carries in her hair to come out on top; without having to resort to something as sleazy as making a sex tape, gets me?

So right now I'm not appreciating this whining little bint moaning under me; Chubber McChubton here has got no stamina and she's 18, I'm 28 and I know I could still run laps around this bitch while singing the National Anthem and performing a high octane Cheerios performance. Oh well, Sue Sylvester might have been the devil incarnate but her constant regime of cheerleading meets black ops style torture does wonders for your figure even all these years later; I wonder if the old bitch has snuffed it yet? Nah, Sue Sylvester will live to be about 116 and make sure that everyone suffers for every last second and if that walking crypt can still manage to torment the Mid-West like a female Hitler than this bitch wants to get her act together or she's gonna gets to see me go all Lima Heights.

"I can't do it… it hurts too much" I don't even bother trying to stop myself rolling my eyes. Pathetic, I can tell you now that this girl would probably end up taking a long run off a short pier if she wasn't some trust fund brat whose parents could buy her the minimal success the unmotivated slob could ever hope to obtain. I just grunt and stare at the clock on the far wall, another 30 minutes of listening to this bitch whine and I can guarantee that only one person will be leaving this gym alive and it won't be her.

"Suck it up, if you wants to get rid of that flabby ass tyre around your waist; I suggest shutting up and doing your crunchies or you might as well resign yourself to being the fattest debutant this year." Harsh, but if your parents hire Santana Lopez as your life coach; then you better expect some long, hard hours of coaching. Chubs can't seem to hack that basic fact as she collapses onto her yoga mat like the beached whale she is; pouting like a child and muttering to herself about how this isn't fair or that isn't fair. I count to 10 in my head before replying because I'm sure my clients wouldn't appreciate their daughter returning home with her two front teeth missing.

"Now whatever your name is, it's time for some real talk. You're fat, you know you're fat and I'm trying to help you not be a fat so that you have the slightest chance of finding a man rather than living a life full of pity fucks. Don't like my methods, I don't give a shit; your parents are paying me to make you look like the daughter they want you to be. So one way or another, you're gonna do as I say and drop the weight. Gets me? Cause if you fuck this up and I don't get paid cause you still look like some balloon who is ready to pop. I won't be happy, and Chubs I'll let you in on a secret, you don't wanna see me angry."

I would feel bad that this girl was moments away from wetting if her petrified expression is anything to go by, but I've learnt that fear is the best form of motivation and trust me when I say this girl needs some motivation. I gesture for her to roll over and she begins to do what she must think suffices as push ups, I on the other hand thinks she resembles someone in the midst of an epileptic fit; I crouch down by her side and place my thumb beneath her stomach, you don't try and take short cuts with Santana Lopez.

"Right, every push up is only gonna be counted when your stomach touches my thumb; and I wanna feel it, not the flab, I wanna feel your abs. If you don't do it properly we go straight back to square one, so suck it in and breathe cause you're not getting anywhere until you hit 30." I can only imagine the list of names Chubs is calling me in her head; whinging about how this isn't fair and that isn't fair. Please, what's not fair is busting your ass trying to establish yourself and having to deal with whiny brats on a daily basis; it's not fair that after 11 years my abuela still refuses to acknowledge my existence because of whom I love and it sure as Hell isn't fair that I haven't seen the girl I love for over 4 years as she gallivants around the world doing God only knows what.

"Yeah, I'm a bitch but look at it this way; I'm trying to help you by not lying to you like your little sycophants do. Resent me for it, respect me for it. I don't really give a shit, you gets me? Cause I'm going to make your life better." I never excelled at making people feel better about themselves in general, even living with Porcelain and Man Hands for 5 years wasn't enough to turn me into the typical 'motivational figure'; my methods are more extreme but the methods work. And once again I'm proven right as Chubs starts to push down further and further until I place a hand on her stomach.

"You're doing better but not good enough, slowly. Lower yourself slowly, feel the burn; luxuriate in it cause it means it's working. The longer you tense, the more your muscles build and the quicker those pounds will be vanishing. K?" She grunts, probably could be translated into 'you're an evil bitch and I'm plotting 101 ways to kill you' but I couldn't care since she actually takes me advice and slowly but surely manages to rack up 30 push ups in the time it would take me to do 150. She just lies flat on her stomach, wheezing as though she's smoked her way through 150 cigarettes in the last 10 minutes; I quirk a perfectly manicured at the pitiful girl, really? She thinks it's over.

"That was sloppy, but good enough for now. Now get up, we're not finished." Despite the fact she begins to sniffle and huff like a child, she manages to clamber to her feet and I almost smirk when I realise her whole body seems to be shaking with over-exertion. This is only the beginning baby, you're with me for the next 3 months. She just stands there with her blue eyes watering and her strawberry blonde hair plastered to her forehead with sweat; despite being overweight she has flawless skin, pouty lips and underneath all the blubber I detect a hint of some killer cheekbones. She may not be on the Santana scale of hotness, but she's got potential and when I've given her both a physical and attitude adjustment she'll be breaking boys hearts.

"Ermmm…what's next?" And now I do smirk, the look of apprehension on her face gives me a glimpse of what she's imagining I might make her do: Run laps, pull ups. And although all of them sound appealing, I think my plan is even better. The look on her face transforms from trepidation to complete bewilderment the moment she realises I'm taking off my clothes, and by the time I'm standing there in nothing but black hot-pants and a red sports bra I can see a glimmer of jealousy in her cerulean eyes. Good, that works just as well as fear.

"This is what you could look like, or some resemblance anyway. You've neglected actually exercising for too long to ever get as defined as my hot piece of ass, but you could look a little bit like this. Imagine the way people would stare; the lust filled expressions and the blatant desire to get in your pants. Imagine how powerful you'll feel when you can tell them to do one and get with someone that little bit hotter; imagine how much of a total twat anyone who ever called you fat would feel. Looking like this would be a total fuck you to anyone who cast you in the role of the 'fat friend' as they try and boost their own self esteem. How bad do you want it?"

To emphasize my point I begin to stretch, showing my toned abs and bending over to show my long, lean legs; so, I'm a bit of an exhibitionist but I know that with my flawless, olive skin; my dark, flowing tresses and a figure that swimwear models would more than likely sell their soul to get. I look good, no I look fucking fantastic and they 'if you got it, flaunt it'; it's just an added bonus that I like to flaunt it. My chubby protégée just watches in amazement as I drop into perfect splits, and I'd tell her to close her mouth or she'll catch flies but I like the attention; I like how her eyes travel the length of my body drinking in every curve with barely restrained desire. No, I'm not saying Chubs wants to pin me to the floor for a rowdy session of lady love-making but she desires a part of me; she wants to be like me, have a little bit of what I've got and that feels great. Eventually she is able to forge a flimsy connection between her brain and her vocal chords.

"B-but… I'll never l-look like that; I'm not g-good enou-…" My bitch glare shuts her up pretty soonish, I don't tolerate self-pity or defeatist attitudes; they're pretty damn useless and I haven't got time for that. I climb onto my feet and Chubs recoils as if she thinks I'll go all Lima Heights on her not-so-skinny ass. I check the clock, 2 minutes; let's wrap this up then, I wanna go home and soak in a bath before reading my lesbian subtext blogs and going to sleep.

"Right, this is how it is. You can and you will, not only are we going to the gym; you're gonna exercise in your own time and trust me I'll know if you haven't. Then we're going shopping, you can tell a lot by a girls wardrobe and I don't needs to look to know that your hiding some fashion skeletons in that closet of yours. Then we'll work on confidence and how you carry yourself; bottom line is you'll living la vida Lopez. Gets me? Now get out of here, I've got better things to do." She nods so fiercely I wouldn't be surprised if she dislocated her neck or something, but she waddles out of the room like a duck with a firework up its ass. Thank Paula Abdul, I haven't got any more appointments until tomorrow so now I'm a free agent.

I've collected my things from my locker and I'm about to leave The Sports Club at Chelsea Piers when I hear the door open and I don't need to turn around to know who it is; footsteps as heavy as an elephant on steroids and the lingering stench of mediocrity and cheap aftershave. Gregory Horowitz, personal trainer and my own personal sex fiend; yeah, if I were straight I'd probably fuck him and fuck him off but as I've told him many times; penis just doesn't do it for me. But his under-developed brain can't seem to comprehend that.

"Ah, so what're you doing tonight Lopez?" The way he tries to growl at me seductively is about as arousing as taking a bath in custard; but he is a member of staff here and since my rich ass clients make me bring their kids here I need to maintain some semblance of diplomacy. So I don't cringe or kick him right in the balls like I'd want to; I settle for trying to not grimace and a flippant shrug of my shoulders.

"Nothing much, bath and bed, Horowitz" If I thought that would've been enough to deter his clumsy advances, I should've though again. He leans against the pillar like some over muscled underwear model, but with how ridiculously tight those shorts are I can tell you now that he ain't packing much in the downstairs depot. His eyes are fixated on my tits and if they could they'd probably flip him the middle finger, but he'd probably take that as an invitation taking into consideration his record of 'misreading signs' such as how I'd never sleep with him, even if it was our civic duty to repopulate the Earth.

"Must be cold in that apartment, you must need something to keep you warm. Or someone." I almost gag at the awful innuendo, if I need to be kept warm I'll use central heating and if I wanted to have someone between my legs I'd pick up a _woman_ at a bar. Diplomacy, Santana, diplomacy.

"That's why they invented electric blankets." Your move dickwad, I glance pointedly at my wristwatch to let him know I kind of need to leave before I tear him a new asshole but he just stands there blocking the door with his steroid enhanced shoulders and ignorant to the fact I'd rather be talking to anyone but him, or dying a slow death of being eviscerated by wild hyenas. I think I need to count to 10.

"Ah, but that blanket can't do what I can do for you, sexy." Oh, this needs to end. Dealing with delusional perverts is not my speciality, but this boy needs to get the picture.

"Right Pec-tacular, Imma say this once. Gets me? So tune in and you better listen and understand. I'm never gonna fuck you, even if you had a V where you hav still wouldn't fuck you because you smell of burnt plastic and desperation. So, listen: Go back to peacock parading around the gym and getting ogled by snobby, middle aged women who would give you the time of day. Cause this this hot bitch ain't got time for dealing with pin dicks like you." I leave him with a look of confusion on his face as he tries to digest what I've just said, pushing past him and escaping. Unfortunately I only get 2 seconds to myself before my phone starts ringing; just great.

"What?"

"_Is that you Santana? It's Rachel… I've left voicemails and text and you haven't got back. I've got big news_." Deep calming breathe, you've dealt with Berry for this long without killing her so you can deal with her now.

"Yes, who else would answer my phone? Now I'm busy so spill whatever news it is and get back to singing your scales or whatever it is you were doing before you phoned me." Okay maybe Chubs and Horowitz wore out my patience a little more than I expected, but Berry will just have to deal; even if her little gasp means she thinks I'm being a complete bitch.

"_Well, that wasn't very nice. But I'll let you off because this new is ground breaking…"_ Blah, blah, blah. I skim through a magazine at the newsstand while she blathers on about this being the beginning of the Berry legacy and other bullshit I couldn't give two fucks about. But it's best to let her get whatever it is she wants to off her chest or she sulks like a child, which is somehow even more unbearable than when she won't shut the hell up. I pay for the magazine and a kit kat and making sounds of agreement every time she stops for a breath which is pretty rare; I'll give her that, she has amazing lung capacity.

"_Santana, are you even listening to me?" _Shit. Despite the fact she isn't observant when she's in the Berry Bubble; Rachel is astute as Hell when it comes to someone ignoring a direct question. Despite the fact that I don't fear her whatsoever since I could kick her man handed ass from here to Timbuktu and back without breaking a sweat but it's not worth the hassle and Hummel would probably have me hung, drawn and quartered for ending his hag.

"Of course, I'm just hyped about your….audition for the play?" Success, I'll have to send the gays a bouquet to thank them for teaching me this 'deflection' business; hell of a lot less messy than my usual method of bitching out people.

"_Yes, for West Side Story; Kurt helped me find the perfect outfit. Remember when you played Anita opposite my Maria? It's open auditions, maybe you could…Anyway, I was thinking of having a little get together this evening? I know Quinn is in town for some press conference and Mike and Tina might be around since he is doing Alvin Ailey and Blaine and Kurt will…"_ I listen as she babbles on about where the rest of the McKinley High alumni; I was kind of set on my earlier plans but cocktails and a night of dancing on tables is starting to sound more appealing. Ha, letting out some Latina heat might help the stress of dealing with the stress of my everyday life.

"Yeah got it; we'll meet at Flatiron Lounge about 9 and then either Pacha or Rebel. And remember to wear your dancing shoes, cause it's go hard or go home. Gets me?"

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**Okay, this chapter was a bit longer to compensate for the wait… Next chapter is half finished; Annalise/Leonie bonding and then the Glee kids hit the NY nightlife! I know it seems a bit all over the place now but I've plotted how everyone will meet and then some of the shenanigans. Get ready for catfights, love and drama that would make the Bad Girls Club look like Heaven on Earth.**


	4. And So The Night Begins

_**So hopefully from now on, as well as having regular updates; the characters will be meeting and I can start progressing plot lines.**_

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_**Annalise Beaumont.**_

…_And being a bicorn means I can't settle for any less than another unicorn. What makes me and Lord Tubbington II sad is that I found my perfect Lebanese unicorn but I lost her and I don't know how to find her again…_

Unicorns? Lebanese unicorns? I've worked at Harper's Magazine as an advice columnist for 3 years and this is hands down the strangest letter I've ever received, what advice do you give someone in regards to finding an ethnic mythical creature? I'm stumped. This is like trying to decode the Da Vinci Code, maybe it's a symbol of some sorts; I rub my temples to try and stop the migraine I can feel coming on in its tracks.

I put the letter away to be looked at tomorrow and if I can't make any sense of it then; well, I've have to break the cardinal rule of being an advice columnist and either disregard the letter completely or give some meaningless reply like 'maybe this unicorn doesn't want to be found'. I hear the door to our apartment slam shut and start packing away my mac and the ginormous piles of letters which seem to have accumulated on the kitchen table throughout the day; work can wait while I focus on my best friend who I'm guessing has had a truly shitty day. She walks into the kitchen and throws her bag on the side.

"Where's the wine then?" I feel my reassuring smile slide from my face and breathe a sigh of exasperation. Lovely to know that what Leonie requires after becoming unemployed is a glass of bloody Shiraz rather than the support of her best friend. Unlike the masses of New Yorkers who'd love to have someone like me there to bestow wisdom on anything from love to the possibilities of alien invasion, the one person who I'd like to give advice too is as responsive as a brick wall.

"Oh you know, I'm great thank you. I've been having a great day. How are you?" Sarcasm isn't my strong point, it never was but my attempt is enough to put a smile on my flat mates face which is a small miracle itself. She throws a magazine across the table and I blow her a kiss when I realise it's the Vogue I'd told her to pick up; she opens the fridge and lets out a whistle. Bear in mind that we are two twenty something, single women and it shouldn't come as a surprise that our fridge is piled high with a fair few bottles of wine.

"Now what shall we have tonight my friend? Rose or white?" I flick through my magazine, 'ooohing' and 'ahhing' over some of the latest fashions; monochrome, masculine tailoring and leather seem to be upcoming trends. And then I see it, the dress I have actually fantasized more about than men in the last few weeks; a raspberry shift dress with a halter neck, fitted to perfection and made from the softest silk. Kurt Hummel is nothing less than a fashion God, and it's almost affordable; $2,200 sounds like a lot but that's why we have credit cards. Leonie clears her throat and I realise I've been staring at my dream dress like a sex starved primate. I push my glasses up my nose in an attempt to try and make myself look a tad classier but Leonie just narrows her eyes.

"Errm, how bad was it?" In Leonie Land, the amount of alcohol to be drunk is proportionate to how 'bad' whatever it is that happened to either of us. For example, a chipped nail warrants a vodka and tonic but if it is the night of a date or work function and you chip a nail; then you're drinking the whole bottle of vodka with a side serving of long island iced tea. She strokes her chin like some cartoon villain as she thinks and I can't help but giggle at how ridiculous she looks.

"I'd say a solid 7, I mean it was pretty bad." I take a second to ponder, shuffling my papers in a 'professional' way before I look at her over the top of my glasses. I stand up and walk over to the cupboard and pick out 2 very large wine glasses that can hold half a bottle of wine easily and head towards the living room, calling over my shoulder as I go.

"Well as your doctor, I think it's only fair to prescribe both bottles of wine. Therapy begins in 2 minutes in the lounge." Her airy laughter follows me as I take a seat on the settee, I hear the fridge door slam shut and she comes in holding the two bottles of wine I was expecting, now that's a surprise I was thinking she'd come in with two of each; she pours two glasses of our finest pinot grigio to the brim and hands one to me before knocking a large portion of her own glass back and I giggle as she cringes at the citrus taste. I decide to take small sip as she collapses onto the chair as if she's been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders; rolling my eyes at her habit of being slightly over dramatic at times.

"So what happened then?" She rolls her eyes and begins to tell the tale of being fired, yet again. We end up sitting facing one another with our legs crossed as she describes how some 'heart attack waiting to happen' started giving her some hassle before she decided that he should wear his coffee rather than drink it; I end up shaking my head at her tactics but I can't help but smile. Then she divulges about her staff room stand-off with Remi, who is simply detestable; I mean the man gives me the creeps. If you have a vagina and a pulse then you can be sure he is undressing you with his eyes, in fact the pulse isn't compulsory.

"Hey, that isn't bad. I mean he definitely won't be giving you a bad reference after your little blackmailing scheme. And if I'm being honest, you were too good to be working there anyway; he was a pervert and if I had to work in close proximity to that Alice every day, I'd be worried about getting a venereal disease or something." I feel warmth in my chest when Leonie snorts and starts to laugh; it feels great to make her happy when she spends so much time being so brusque and angry at the world. She tops up both of our glasses and I'm shocked to see the wine disappearing a lot quicker than I'd anticipated.

"Yeah, it was a bit of a shit hole but it put money in the bank. Fuck, its rent week next week. Shoot me now." And bam, the happiness is replaced by pessimism. I've told her time and time again that work isn't a means for making money, it should be fulfilling as well. Plus, I don't mean to brag, but it is always helpful to have Annalise Beaumont as a friend when you're down on your luck because I have a logical and practical solution to everything.

"Lee, I can cover you rent for a while and you can pay me back when you've got another job. Maybe even a job you enjoy." She cocks her eyebrow at me disbelievingly, she's ranted time and time again that there is no such thing as an 'enjoyable job' despite the fact she lives with me and I have no reservations about the fact that I may be borderline obsessed with my job.

"I cannot have you paying my rent, I don't wanna take advantage. The problem is getting another job; I mean jobs aren't exactly plentiful." I roll my eyes at her defeatist attitude; I can't comprehend how people expect to achieve anything if all they do is expect the worse. Despite her slightly rough exterior, Leonie has a lot of valuable skills which can translate into the workplace; it's just that most people wouldn't want to take the time to get to know this part of her since she scares them away with her no nonsense approach to well everything. I could try and list all of these qualities but she'd just roll her eyes and dismiss everything I say as pandering to make her feel better.

"Well you're not going to get a job if you're always being so negative…" Leonie rolls her eyes while she knocks back the rest of her glass before popping another cork and filling her glass yet again to the brim, she offers a refill and I nod my head. Once she fills my glass, she looks at me and rolls her eyes again. Sometimes she frustrates me so much, so I pick up one of the scatter cushions and beat her across the head since I am renowned for my consummate maturity.

Any hopes of having a mature conversation disappears as we start having a pillow fight like the twisted sexual fantasy of some business man; so instead of contemplating the direction of Leonie's life we decide to watch trashy TV and shout abuse at the stars of America's Next Top Model; calling them buck toothed bitches surprisingly doesn't improve your self-esteem but it's sure as Hell funny seeing how many times Leonie can insert the word 'fuck' into one insult. Not so surprisingly, the wine seems to evaporate and everything gets a little blurry and I'm sure my words start slurring as I proclaim that by the end of the year I will have married a billionaire or something else just as impossible. The last of the wine is gone and I'm lying with my head in Lee-Lee's lap giggling while I enjoy the post alcohol buzz before it becomes the next morning hang-over; Leonie is telling me a story about someone she had sex with and when they told her to pretend to be dead, she clocked him around the side of the head with a lamp before fleeing like a bat out of hell and that sets us off for another round of hysterical laughter.

Soon after my nemesis, Sambuca makes its dreaded appearance and just smelling it makes me cringe. This won't be pretty and as Leonie lines us up a round of 3 shots each, I actually start shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. Me and Sambuca have a complicated history; it lead me to having a night of less than satisfactory sex with a lecturer a matter of days after graduation but at the same time I decided to become an advice columnist after an affair with the liquor. But before I can decide if I want any part in this game of Russian roulette, Leonie is ramming a shot glass in my face and I have no choice but to swallow it or snort it; as usual the instinct to gag almost overwhelms me but I manage to swallow. Leonie just laughs at my scrunched up face; I just give her the middle finger since I'm afraid that if I open my mouth, the shot may make a surprise reappearance. I shiver as it burns my throat and then my chest and I curse whoever is responsible for creating this bottled insanity.

But somehow, my little aversion to Sambuca seems to pass after shot number 3 or it might have been 4, and now we've resorted to drinking the liquorice concoction directly from the bottle and putting popping candy on our tongues so that we can hear the crackling sound. For some reason we find this to be the funniest thing ever and are rolling around with laughter as the candy continues to snap, crackle and pop; the not so funny thing is that if we were quiet I reckon I could hear my liver whimpering and begging for mercy. Too bad we're not quiet though, and it starts going downhill from here.

"Eeesh, Annie… I've got to get a job and jobs are shit. Why can't I just win the lottery or something… and then we can live in Milan, have Italian husbands and drink MORE WINE!" That is such a good idea; I've always been partial to Italian wine and the Italian Stallions. I just giggle to myself and tap my best friend on the shoulder, see: Alcohol helps you see the silver linings; it is genuinely the key ingredient in optimism. It just makes everything black and white; decisions are easier made, the world is pretty and loads of really cool, good, nice things can happen.

"I know, Angelo and Rosario are waiting for us… he he he, do you reck-… OH MY GOD!..." And it's happened again, one of my EUREKA moments. Thank you Sambuca, I'll never profess my loathing for you ever again. Leonie is looking at me like I've got a screw loose, which makes me giggle but it can't distract me because this idea is dynamite. I swear they need to get gold miners inside my head because these nuggets of wisdom are priceless.

"What you on about you nutter?" I hold up my finger, and struggle to my feet; maybe I should've not had that last shot because my legs feel like jelly. But this is my one moment in time and I need an audience, Leonie looks a tad bit more sober than I am so I can count on her to catch me if I fall. I think anyway, what was I gonna say again?

"AHA, I am not a nutter Lee. I am a genius, and I'm gonna change your life…" I stumble a bit as I point at Leonie like some psychotic TV host from the 80's; she shakes her head and laughs at me. Wouldn't be laughing if she knew that I was like Superwoman to her Lois Lane, she tries to get me to sit down but I wriggle out her way. I point at her to sit down, which she does after a lot of sighing and shaking her head, but eventually she gestures for me to continue; or she was scratching her head but I don't care. I play a drum roll by smacking my belly.

"You, Miss McKeeKeeKee are gonna work for me, me, me… No, listen. You can my PA; the weirdo's at work told me to interview some people and choose one and I choose…YOU! I mean, it's the same shit you do anyway like listening to my bullshit and fetching my coffee and reminding me of stuff I gotta do. You get paid shit loads too…well not as much as me though, but more than the coffee shop…and you'd have time to look for other jobs, and focus on your musical stuff that you wanna do… And I can like get us backstage passes at gigs so you can network and stuff…yeah, see…" Leonie just stares at me like I've handed her a gun and told her to shoot herself, I'm confused. It was a good idea; she gets up and flies at me. I scream and close my eyes thinking I'm too young to die, but it doesn't hurt. She's hugging me and crying; I give her a big hug back cause we're best friends and that's what we do.

"Yes, thank you… you're the best…what would I do without you? AHHHHHH, for once my life doesn't fucking suck..." Aww, Leonie sounds excited and I made it happen. Annalise-1, Perpetual Pessemism- 200 and something; but still one step at a time. We collapse onto the settee and both start laughing, until Leonie stops suddenly and turns to me with her eyes wide open. I jump up expecting to see a fire but Leonie just laughs.

"Anna, I don't think you can just…hire people off the streets; I'm sure you'd have to have interviews and stuff." Shit, pessimism is back but I just shake my head; they told me to find a PA, I've found a PA and so they can't say anything but I can't be bothered to explain that. I just put my finger on Leonie's lips to get her to shut up. This is why she's been getting grey hairs, too much stress; she should know I won't let her down. I never have unless you count the time I refused to get with Henry Goddard so she could shag his brother, but that doesn't count because they were ugly.

"Shhh… it's happening and we're gonna celebrate. Text Sandra and Violet, we're going out and we're gonna have fun and all that." Leonie rolls her eyes and sends a quick text, the replies are almost instantaneous; Sandra has palmed her kids off on her ex-husband for tonight anyway and Violet is always up for a night out. I clap my hands excitedly and give Leonie a big hug, because when she's a little tipsy she likes hugs and I don't get to hug her enough. I slide off the settee and put my hands on my hips a la Buzz Lightyear.

"To the walk in wardrobe and beyond." I take a few steps before face planting on the floor, that wasn't what was supposed to happen. I hear Leonie laugh and I join in, cause it is a little bit funny even if it'll hurt in the morning. She pulls me to my feet and puts an arm around my shoulder.

"Before we get ready, you'd better sober up a bit you lightweight." I brush off her comments and stumble into my bedroom when I hear her running the tap; probably to get me a glass of water. I take off my house-robe and put on some old school Black Eyed Peas 'I Gotta Feeling…' and dance around while singing along at the top of my voice; and if the neighbours complain they can kiss my ass. Leonie comes in and forces me to drink some water because she's a bit of a buzz kill but I do it to keep her happy while I try dress after dress, walking the length of my bedroom like it's a runway and posing for my best friend who either gives me a thumbs up or mimes being sick.

"I gotta feeling that tonights gonna be a messy one…" Leonie's crappy change of lyrics makes me roll my eyes, it doesn't matter if it's messy as long as we have fun. To prove my point I open my blinds and pull up my top for the college students who live opposite us who begin to cheer as I dance around wearing nothing but my underwear. Eventually Leonie drags me away and shuts the curtains before collapsing on the bed and laughing, I think she's taking a picture but I don't know; I'm more concerned with trying to find the perfect shoes.

"Annalise, tonight is gonna be girls gone wild isn't it?" I don't even dignify that with a response I just give her a cheeky wink before grabbing my toiletries bag and sashaying off to have a shower. Watch out New York, we're coming for you and Lee Lee was right; it's going to be messy cause these girls are going wild.

* * *

_**Blaine Anderson.**_

There is nothing more fulfilling than lying in bed next to the man you love. Staring into Kurt's mercurial blue eyes is like staring into a vast ocean with hidden depths; he is a diamond, strong and multi-faceted and I'm the luckiest man in the whole world to have him in my arms right now. I stroke his back and smile when he snuggles closer to me and begins to trace elaborate patterns across my chest and I don't even try to supress my shiver; Kurt is well aware of every reaction he invokes in me, the potency of the spell he holds me under but I wouldn't have it any other way.

I may be a 'dapper' young man but I'm not afraid to say that once again, Kurt Hummel has blown my mind and closing my eyes to remember every lingering touch and every satisfied moan doesn't only put a smile on my face but provokes a reaction in another part of my body. I hear Kurt's intake of breathe and I kiss his temple, his hand travels further south and I know without a shadow of a doubt that within minutes we'll be back where we were 30 minutes ago; on the fast track to an Earth-shattering orgasm. Without warning, Kurt grasps my erection that begins to throb with need and I can't hold back the groan of pleasure that bursts from my lips as he begins work along my shaft with slow, languid movements.

"And what is it we have here Mr Anderson?" Kurt leans over to look down at me, his eyebrow quirked teasingly and a glimmer of mischief shining in his eyes. He presses his lips to mine and I groan when he slips his tongue inside my mouth and catches my bottom lip between his teeth; I grind into his hand, creating a bit more of that delicious friction that lights the fire inside my stomach. I grab fistfuls of our satin sheets as he begins to pick up the pace, he leans down to whisper in my ear.

"Calm down, you'll need to last longer than this. Imagine my lips wrapped around that thick cock of yours; imagine how you'll fuck my throa…" He doesn't get to finish what he is about to say but the best thing is I know that he can deliver on every erotic promise he could of made. I claim his lips with my own, pushing him onto his back so I'm kneeling between his legs; only breaking away to catch my breath before continuing the sensual assault on my man's body. Tracing my tongue along the sharp ridge of his collar bone and littering his subtly muscled chest with kisses, before trailing my tongue down his chest and across his toned abs before I take the tip of his pulsating member into my mouth.

**BANG! BANG! BANG!** We spring apart as the crashing sound ricochets throughout the whole apartment; I chuckle at how Kurt appears like a rabbit in headlights. I wonder who it is though because they obviously have the worst timing in the world; Kurt slides away from me and climbs out of bed. I take a second to admire Kurt's physique, long lean legs and a narrow waist; the way every limb is lined with delicate muscles that dance beneath his flawless pale skin; I'll express my earlier sentiment yet again, I am the luckiest man ever. But when Kurt begins to pull on his briefs, I crash back against the pillows; seems that the train to an orgasm has been officially derailed.

"Can't we just ignore it?" I know that whining is annoying as hell, but it isn't as annoying as being left with blue balls. Kurt however doesn't find my suggestion worthy of note as he walks around the room collecting all his clothes; he just shakes his head at me so I pull out the big guns and lower the quilt, exposing my bare body which Kurt spends so much time admiring in a shameless last attempt to coerce Kurt back into bed. To hopefully continue where we left off; for a split second I think I might have succeeded as his eyes travel up and down my body, pupils dilating in a want so primal it is basically a need and he licks his lips.

**BANG! BANG! BANG!** And my last attempt is proven futile; I roll my eyes and pull on my pants, Kurt throws me my shirt and chino's before checking how he looks in the mirror. You'd never known that mere seconds ago we were both stark naked and enjoying the lascivious activities that go along with being in bed with your partner; the only indicator is his slightly swollen lips seeing as he is styling his hair to its usual perfection.

"Well are you going to answer the door?" Kurt looks at me nonplussed and just shakes his head before returning to dousing himself in hairspray; I finish buttoning up my shirt before I head over to try and tame my own hair, my curls are plastered across my forehead and are sticking up every which way. I try to grab my pot of gel when Kurt slaps my hand away; my confusion must be evident as he puts down his hairspray and takes a calming breath.

"Blaine you need to go and answer the door; if anyone sees me like this, there will be no questions as to what we were up to. Whereas you being the alpha gay can say you were lifting weights or something. Now hurry up or whoever it is will break the door down, plus you know how much I hate it when people don't answer the door quickly enough." And with my marching orders I leave to go and get the door, even though Kurt looks a hell of a lot better put together than I do right now; my clothes are creased and my hair is like a lions mane.

I pull open the door to find Rachel and Santana standing there, both wearing tight fitted dresses and stilettos and in Santana's case a pretty pissed off expression. Did Kurt and I miss something? Rachel immediately pulls me into a hug and I tell her congratulations before she totters into the apartment like a baby penguin wearing heels; Santana stays in the doorway, her eyes looking me up and down and when that knowing smirk makes itself known I almost bang my head the doorframe. Santana can smell sex like a shark can smell blood , and as she walks past me and throws a wink in my direction and whispers 'wanky' it is pretty obvious that she knows exactly what me and Kurt were just up to.

"Gays, however sorry I am to come in here and break up this sickening display of homoeroticism; you needs to get ready cause we are going out." Rachel is nodding along excitedly but I'm still confused as Kurt comes into the room looking as perfect as ever and doesn't look shocked in the slightest to see his former flat mates invading our apartment. He gives Rachel a quick hug and air kiss whereas he just nods his head towards Santana who just winks and looks at his groin. Kurt looks down and a raspberry blush appears along his cheekbones, he quickly does up his fly before walking to stand by me and winding his arm around my waist.

"So, what were you just saying?" Santana just smirks and Rachel is looking between all of us, fully aware that she's missing something. The awkward silence just stretches on until Santana leans over to whisper something in her ear; if it weren't my sex life being discussed I would've found it amusing how Rachel's mouth popped open and she looks between me and Kurt with wide eyes and shaking her head. I turn to look at Kurt and see him glaring daggers at Santana, his jaw set; I need to do something before Rachel suffers an aneurysm or Kurt tries to murder Santana, because that would be nothing short of a blood bath. I clear my throat and Kurt snaps to look at me, Santana smirks seeing the fact he looked away first as some small victory in the never-ending 'How much can Santana annoy Kurt?' game she likes to play every now and again.

"Santana and Rachel were just inviting us out for the night." Kurt looks at Rachel who now resembles her normal, bubbly self although every so often she'll look between us as though we're about to rip off one another's clothes; he cuts his eyes at Santana who pouts and pretends to cry and then he looks at me, expecting me to make the decision. Ideally, we'd send them on their way and be back to having an all-night sex session but when the two people showing up at your door are these two, it's pretty impossible to do anything but what they want. Kurt must sense my hesitancy because he folds his arms and cocks his hip, a signature 'Do not mess with me' pose that I think he may have gotten from Santana herself.

"Seriously? It's a Wednesday, some people have work tomorrow. Blaine can't stroll into work as a teacher drunk, it's unprofessional and I have to pop into the office to compile a list of materials to be bought. So, I hope you have a nice evening but we're just getting ready for bed." Rachel looks as though she might start crying and for one second I feel a bit bad for letting them down, but the temptation of getting Kurt back into bed is just too great. I squeeze Kurt's ass and he gives me a discrete wink knowing full well that his logic is a more than suitable reason to skip out on tonight's festivities. But whereas Rachel is resigned, Santana just strolls down and sits on the sofa; deliberately putting her feet on the coffee table which is a thing she knows Kurt can't stand.

"Oh well then, we'll bring the party here. I mean, Quinn is in town and when was the last time any of us saw her? And we need to celebrate Rachel's big audition; I mean we are her best friends. Plus we all know teachers come to work hung-over because they have to drink to be able to tolerate the snotty brats they're paid to try and teach. Plus Blaine works in some private ass school for geniuses, the kids don't even need a teacher." She flutters her eyelashes, trying to look innocent but we all know Santana is as innocent as I am straight. I see Kurt blanche at the idea of having a houseful of people when he hasn't had the chance to clean the place from top to bottom, and as always Santana hasn't only shot down his excuse; she's also managed to make it look as though if we don't go we're being negligent of Quinn and bad friends to Rachel.

She's very good at manipulating a situation; I'll give her that. I turn to see my own submission mirrored in Kurt's gaze. Santana can tell she's won as she reapplies her lipstick, Rachel is still looking at us for an answer; Kurt's sigh of admission is all she needs to start clapping and squealing about how much fun tonight is going to be and I'll admit it her exuberance is infectious. Kurt looks at me, to see if I'm alright with this, I just shrug my shoulders and it's settled. Santana storms over and grabs us by our arms and practically throws us inside our bedroom with the command to get ready.

"You can't push us around in our own home Santana, or make us go out if we don't want to." Santana's laughter travel through the door, and moments later Kurt's phone buzzes with a text message from Satan herself _'I can, I have and now you better get ready before me and Berry empty this liquor cabinet of_ yours'. We hear the slam of a wooden cupboard being opened and Kurt runs straight into his closet and begins to pull out clothes as if his life depends on it. He looks up at me and raises an eyebrow.

"Why are you just standing there, Blaine? Get ready so we can get out of here, there isn't one thing in that cabinet that costs less that $100 and I don't doubt for a second that Santana will work her way through it like a bulldozer and we all know that Rachel has a taste for alcohol." I shrug my shoulders and head over to search through my own closet; this certainly wasn't how I expected to spend tonight but nothing goes as planned when our two friends are involved. Seconds later we hear the unmistakeable sound of a bottle smashing, Kurt just sighs and tries to get ready even quicker while the girls laughter picks up again; maybe a few beers won't be too bad.

* * *

**I thought I was going to include the whole night, but this is a bit of a filler I suppose. **

**The night will be split into 2 chapters and will involve Quinn; and all of my characters will meet… I suppose the next few chapters could be seen as the 'proper' beginning in regards to plot.**


	5. It Started Off As Quiet Drinks

_**Hey guys,**_

_**I'm back again; with the first of what I think will be a two part chapter that will set wheels in motion for the whole story. Luckily, I've been on a writing spree as of late and since my bank balance is being wholly uncooperative at the moment; it seems I have a lot of time to write.**_

* * *

_**Quinn Fabray.**_

If someone would've told me 10 years ago that I'd be sitting around a table with these four people; I would've probably punched them in the throat or told them they were going straight to the second circle of hell for blasphemy. But times change and so do people; I can gladly say that I'm one of those people that have changed, I was once a wannabe Prom Queen whose main priority was being socially desirable.

Now I'm an independent woman who knows that there are so many more important things than being popular or being defined by whichever man whose arm you're hanging from, and these are some of the people who made me realise this. These are some of the people who are responsible for me being a Yale graduate rather than a Lima loser, married to some deadbeat while all I do is stay at home all day and be the trophy wife. Thanks to the band of misfits who along the way become my friends, I learnt a little lesson about something called self-worth.

"Q, remember when you went all skank in senior year; bitch, you were a mess…"

"…and then when Sue wanted to fire Brittany from a canon…"

I am sitting here happily sipping on my amaretto sours while everyone tells stories from our days at McKinley; I can't believe some of the things I'd done and the way I'd paraded around on a one woman mission to demolish everyone's confidence within a 10 mile radius. Thankfully, the days of guilt have passed and we can all laugh about some of the debacles we'd been pulled into while wading the treacherous waters of high school; looking back and realising how young, and in my case, foolish we all were.

Eventually, we move on from our past and we're talking about where we are now; how our lives are different from our teenage expectations and how we came to be where we are now. I'm so proud that each and every one of us has become successful, how every single one of us has surpassed the expectations of people who had deemed that our generation would amount to nothing. To think Rachel is on the precipice of becoming the Broadway Diva she's aspired to be since anyone can remember; Kurt is a fashion icon whose designs can be seen on the catwalks of Milan or Paris; Blaine is a music teacher in the finest school in the whole of Manhattan and then there's Santana who's fast becoming one of the most desirable 'Life Coaches' in the whole of the US.

Blaine is telling us about some of his students' antics and some of the scandals he has seen covered up throughout his years as teacher for the Trinity School; makes my teenage pregnancy look like an everyday occurrence. Kurt bitches about some of the designers his been working with and how the 'garments' and he used the word extremely loosely were nothing more than crimes against fashion which would make Alexander McQueen turn in his grave; it all seems surreal, that we're not those teenagers from western Ohio anymore. Everything seems so relaxed and the conversation flows so freely that I'd be content to sit and listen all night, but eventually I know I'll be pulled into the spotlight, however much I am planning to avoid it.

"So Q, what's been going in your life?" Santana quirks her eyebrow and I just take a sip from my drink. "Well actually, I've just been offered a job as a current affairs writer for the New York Times. So I'd say things are going pretty well." Santana nods approvingly and everyone gives their congratulations; I just smile, proud that this is something I've achieved entirely on my own.

"But tonight isn't about me, it's about Rachel about to become the next Lea Salonge and I couldn't be happier." Rachel looks shocked that I've paid her a genuine compliment, Santana on the other hand catches my eye and rolls hers; I just shrug, no matter how much I talk to Rachel and how much I've come in terms of being able to tolerate her she still seems to think I will punch her in the face at any point for no reason. We may not have had the smoothest of starts, but we got there in the end and surprisingly Rachel is one of the few people from my 'former life' that I purposely try to maintain contact with.

"Oh Quinn, thank you so much; it's been a hard road on my way to stardom and I know I'm not there yet but I can just sense that this is it. Everything has culminated into this one audition…" A derisive snort from Santana cuts Rachel off and yes, she may have been about to rant for 30 minutes about her journey to becoming the next big thing; but, we're meant to be having a nice evening to catch up and have a few drinks and somehow I don't think that'll be possible if Santana causes Berry to have one of her trademark breakdowns.

"It's fine Rachel, we all know how much you want this. Even Santana, though she is acting like a complete and utter bitch." Santana doesn't glare, she just smirks; she's always been capable of bringing out my less 'savoury' side and I know she gets kicks from watching me lose my carefully constructed composure. Kurt is watching the exchange like a tennis rally as if we're about to launch ourselves across the table at one another like wildcats, which could have been the case about 9 years ago; but instead Satan just tries to stare me down and I simply flutter my eyelashes giving her the Fabray smile which roughly translates to 'I might look sweet, but you know this kitty has some major claws.'

"Q, Q, Q. I've always said we're from two ends of the same bitch spectrum; well played." She tilts her JD and coke in my direction and I clink it with my own glass. Yes, we're both bitches but I do pride myself on being a little more subtle than Santana with her brutal honesty and vicious put downs. Blaine goes off to fetch another tray of drinks and we make idle conversation about the monotony of everyday life which basically involves Santana moaning about having to spend so much time in close proximity to the next generation of spoilt Upper East Siders, or Rachel having to give vocal tuition to people who will never match her calibre of talent. Eventually Blaine comes back with the drinks, and I help myself to another sours and a shot of some fluorescent green concoction that looks as though it was made in a hidden laboratory somewhere.

"So Quinn you gonna be living in New York now then?" I'm still reeling from the sweetness of whatever shot Blaine just gave me, I just smile and nod; trying to wash away the taste with a swig of my sours. Judging by the way Kurt and Rachel are both grimacing, the melon liquor wasn't to their tastes either; Blaine seems unaffected but Santana lines up three and takes one after the other without batting an eyelid.

"I've been scouting apartments actually, I'll have to spend a lot of time in the office but I'd also be traipsing around the world following stories. So I just want somewhere cheap and easily maintained." If only it were as easy as that; cheap and easily maintained are two very rare qualities in New York properties, but that isn't their problem. After all, I was Quinn Fabray; I have come from bitchy cheerleader to respectable journalist so I am more than capable of finding my own place. I love my friends, but if one of them offered me a 'place to stay while I get on my feet' I would scream.

"Oh, are you looking for a place in Chelsea or?" Kurt directed the conversation towards the various areas of Manhattan; discussing the pros and cons of everywhere from Brooklyn to Hell's Kitchen and while the advice was definitely helpful, I didn't come out to listen to the many trivialities of real estate. I manage to keep a smile fixed in place while Kurt is holding a one sided conversation about advantages of getting a mortgage over simply renting.

Santana laughs at my expression which she has seen so many times throughout the course of our friendship, the glazed look in my eyes that shows I'm not really listening despite my outwardly attentive appearance. I raise my eyebrows in a silent plea for help; thankfully she decides not to be difficult for once and winks in my direction. She slams her glass down on the table top and the sudden noise ensures everyone's attention is on her, allowing me to breathe a sigh of relief when Kurt finally shuts up.

"Sooooo Berry, you've got your career on track but what about a man. Is anyone tapping that ass?" I feel bad as Rachel begins to turn ten shades of crimson while Santana just sits there with a gloating grin marring her striking features. But however empathic I may be in regards to Rachel's current situation, I can't help but be a tiny bit relieved that the focus is off of me for two seconds. Plus, old habits die hard and I still feel a thrill whenever I see Rachel lost for words.

"Um..I-…" Everyone burst into laughter as for the first time, Rachel Berry had no control over her vocal chords. She babbled on nonsensically, turning redder by the second until eventually she folded her arms and gave us all a haughty look; cue Santana rolling her eyes and Kurt laughing even harder. Blaine and I seemed to be the only ones who shut up after Rachel seemingly reached her limit and just sat there looking away from everyone, her ignorance tactic would of worked if she wouldn't huff and puff like someone suffering from chronic asthma every few seconds.

"Well, I've decided to focus on my career; I've had my fair share of epic romances as you all well know and now it's time to focus on myself. I need to become the best that I can be and like so many of my famous predecessors I must travel this road alone. But what about you Quinn? I mean, we all know Santana is never left too long without a bed partner and I learned today that Kurt and Blaine like to act in a way befitting of teenagers, but I haven't heard anything about your love life."

It's at times like these that I remember why I used to adorn the toilet walls at high school with pornographic images of Rachel; why I had the insane urge to just punch her in the face whenever she opened her mouth. To say she loves the spotlight so much, she has no problem forcing someone else into it if it suits her; I just take a deep breath and look around the table. Kurt is practically buzzing with the excitement of potential gossip, Blaine is trying his hardest to act disinterested but I can see the way he's leaning towards me expecting an answer, Rachel is just smiling since she was able to use the old 'one, two' deflection technique we've been using on her for years and even Santana isn't trying to mask the curiosity in her gaze. I think I may have to revoke my earlier statement that we'd all managed to grow up since high school.

"Well since you're all so obviously interested, I am seeing someone at the moment but before you start trying to plan a wedding; we're taking it slow." I am instantly hit by a barrage of questions, even Blaine is asking who this 'mystery man' is; but I just answer every inquiry with a coy smile. A woman never spills all her secrets, plus there are some things these people don't need to know.

"I noticed that…" Thankfully whatever backhanded comment Santana was going to send my way is cut off when we hear a ruckus emerge from the front of the bar; raucous laughter floats throughout the room. I look over to see four women stagger into the bar, laughing manically and unable to catch their breath; well it seems some people are already on the road to a hangover from hell. But I can't help but smile at Kurt's reaction as they wobble over to the booth behind ours, his mutterings about 'drunkards' and 'lack of class' accompany a bitchy roll of his eyes.

"Oh Kurt, get your head from up your ass. They're having a good time, which is what we're supposed to be doing. And on that note, I need another drink" Her whisper made Kurt stop in his tracks and sigh in defeat, he ordered a cosmopolitan and struck up a conversation with Rachel about the latest revival of some Broadway show that had them as excited as Sue Sylveser dancing on Mr. Schuester's grave. I just finished my drink and asked Blaine about his job, he was describing the 'satisfied feeling' of witnessing your students success and I almost laugh at the horrific similarities he seems to share with our old Glee Club Director.

"…I will not take sides, I am Switzerland. You've made a good point, but so has he…"

"…nah, he is a total dick babe; I mean the bastard knocks me up straight after college and then moans when he's gotta have the kids. Kiss my fucking ass, did he have to push a watermelon through a hole the size of a grape? No, he didn't so he can fuck righ-…"

"…funny, always said she was into kinky fuckery, but like sexual favours are not tax deductible right? So it isn't charity"

However pathetic it sounds, we have resigned ourselves to listening into strangers eccentric conversations and silently giggling while we sip our drinks; despite Kurt's earlier reservations about the women, it doesn't stop him maintaining a running commentary 'so one is at war with her ex, one was fired…' I almost feel the need to remind him that he is truly living up to the 'gossip queen' stereotype of gay men but decide that whatever drama could ensure really isn't worth it; Rachel and Blaine both look a comical mixture of appalled and in awe at the subject matter of the conversation. Santana just looks like she's sitting in the front row of a Kevin Hart show.

"…So I told him that he shouldn't hate me, he should hate the fucking guerrilla tactics I use when dealing with pricks like him…" And that was it, we all burst out laughing as the woman with auburn hair started ranting about men's uselessness in modern society. I almost cringed when they turned in their seats to look at us, we all tried to look distracted; I was looking over the cocktail menu despite the fact I had a half full glass in front of me.

"Oh shitake mushrooms, Kurt is that you?"

* * *

_**Kurt Hummel.**_

I almost cringe when I hear those words, I'm almost tempted to bang my head against the table for not recognising that voice earlier; I mean not everyone's voice sounds like a mismatched blend of Oprah Winfrey and Paris Hilton. I close my eyes before turning to greet my PA, Violet Trenston; with her greyish coloured eyes and ash blonde pixie cut she looks like a true sophisticate. Unfortunately, her attitude is that of an airheaded bimbo who got lost in the National History Museum. I arrange my features into what I hope is a polite smile and turn to greet her with excessive enthusiasm.

"Vi, how have you been? It's been so long." We exchange the customary air kiss and she's clapping her hands like a deranged seal; I can tell everyone is shocked by my outrageously 'gay' actions as I simper along with her, I just squeeze Blaine's hand to make sure I don't squeeze her throat and he just gives me an uneasy smile. I mean, usually I can tolerate someone being scatter-brained, I went to high school with Brittany S Peirce for McQueen's sake and with her it was endearing, but Violet is not like that at all. She's as fake as Pamela Anderson's breasts and uses this ditzy façade to manipulate people and to dodge the blame if something goes wrong. But I saw right through her like I'd see through a fake Gucci handbag.

"Oh, I missed my GBF too and it's only been a few days silly. I was on a business trip with Tony to Milan, didn't you hear?" Of course I heard, her and Tony had been all over each other like a bad case of the herpes for the last few weeks; plus she wouldn't shut up about how a junior member of staff was able to earn the chance to do something 'soooo fabulously important'. I suppose it was my own fault, although I am a senior member of Hummel Haus; I delegated control to a team of managers in order to focus on my designs. Unfortunately I trusted Tony Adams, a man who thinks with his supposedly undersized penis than with the best interests of my label at heart.

"Ah, yes…so how are you and Tony? I've heard that you two were getting pretty close." Yes, close enough to be found in a less than innocent position in the photocopying lounge. Her friends all look over with their eyebrows raised and I smirk when I see Violet begin to turn a garish shade of red; but obviously it doesn't faze the blonde for long as she simply laughs out loud and slaps me on the shoulder. A little harder than what could be seen as friendly, but my forced grin remains in place.

"Oh well, after Milan he started to get a little too needy. And if I'm being honest, if he were properly 'equipped' to satisfy me then it wouldn't have bothered me. But he wasn't." I can practically feel bile churning in my stomach at the thought of Tony's 'equipment'; but Violet's friends seem to find her double entrende more than entertaining as they begin to literally roll on the floor laughing. I look over at my own friends to see them all concealing smirks, if they had ever laid eyes on Tony Adams I am sure they would share my immense disgust at the mere thought of his anatomy.

"That's nice Violet; well you wouldn't want to keep your friends waiting." I give her a sickly sweet smile, hoping that she'd disappear at my not so subtle dismissal. Not so lucky, she simply shuffles into the booth causing me to have to slide into Blaine's lap; usually this wouldn't bother me, but being practically manhandled by my PA kind of lessens the 'romantic' effect of finding myself in my boyfriend's lap.

"Don't be silly K, we so need a catch up. OMG, you should meet the girls. GIRLS COME OVER HERE." If it were possible to die from embarrassment, I'm pretty sure that I would be a goner. Unfortunately I have to endure the stares of everyone as Violet's motley crew bumble over like a horde of Jersey Housewives who have had one too many Pinot Grigio; Blaine just forces a smile as Violet beams at everyone around the table. Rachel seems dejected that the attention isn't solely on her; Quinn seems disinterested as she looks at her nails and as always, Santana is smiling gleefully at my discomfort.

"Okay, so everyone it is time for introductions." Violet is clapping her hands enthusiastically. One could mistake her grin for being infectious, but I can't help but think that it is nothing more than a divine signal that this night is on the precipice of a downward spiral to a complete and utter disaster.

* * *

_**A shortish one, so they meet….thinking that a night of debauchery follows **_


End file.

Glee