A/N: Written for this prompt on the glee_angst_meme

"When they crack open the liquor cabinet at Mercedes' house, they learn that if Kurt takes it slowly he doesn't head straight for weepypukeyville. Instead, he gets flirty and willing to experiment a little.

With Quinn.

Not Mercedes.

Who doesn't know if her heart's ever felt more broken."


Boys Will Be Boys

"It's stupid. We should have more people," Kurt bitches, and the girls roll their eyes.

"Yeah. Let's have a party like, half an hour before my parents get home. I'll just go make the funeral arrangements," Mercedes says.

Quinn absentmindedly rolls the empty whiskey bottle on the floor. "Hate to say it, but I've been kicked out of house and home once. Really rather it not happen again."

It's remarkable, how flippant she's become about the last year. Kurt and Mercedes aren't like that – what Quinn says makes them fall silent. Quinn observes this. "Wow, awkward."

"Sorry, Quinn," Kurt says, and just like that, the atmosphere is back. "Is there any more booze?"

Mercedes gapes at him in exasperation. "More? You've damn near drunken me out of my house!"

"How are you going to explain that to your parents?" Quinn asks curiously, and Mercedes frowns.

"Huh. I really should have thought about that before now."

"Probably, yeah."

"Oh well," she says, and reaches for the bottle, trying to pour the last drops into her mouth.

"Hypocrite," says Kurt.

"I'm not like you. And it's my house."

"I'm suing for discrimination."

"Wait, what?"

"You are discriminating against me by not letting me have the last of the booze."

"...There's like, none left anyway. You're confusing."

Quinn watches them, trying desperately to keep a straight face. "It's okay, 'Cedes," she says, "just pull the Bambi eyes on him–" she cracks up in helpless laughter at that point, and Mercedes follows suit, while Kurt buries his head in his hands in shame.

"I will never live that down, will I?" he moans in despair, and the girls laugh harder.

"No way," says Mercedes.

"Oh Bambi, I cried so hard when those hunters shot your mommy..."

Kurt reaches over and grabs a cushion, throwing it at Quinn. "Shut up," he says as Quinn dodges and half-shrieks, half-laughs.

"Violence against women! Violence against women!"

"Damn straight," says Kurt, unable to help his grin. Mercedes grabs the cushion from behind him and tosses it back.

"Thought it was straight boys who did that. You monster."

"Do we have to go ask Brittany some questions?"

Quinn's statement makes Mercedes frown. She doesn't like thinking about that thing that happened with Kurt and Brittany – Kurt usually doesn't either. He's admitted that he used her, and even if Brittany doesn't take such things so seriously, she genuinely liked him. Plus, it's not right that Kurt should have felt so driven to change his persona – and she feels like she should have been there for him and helping him, not so distracted by her ill-fated pseudo-'romance' with Puck.

Not that it makes her jealous. Not at all.

Kurt grimaces, snapping Mercedes back to reality. "Don't remind me."

Quinn pouts. "Aww, don't be mean. Brittany's hot for a girl."

Kurt rolls his eyes. "Emphasis on girl. You're straight, I'm gay – it works out fairly similarly. Would you want to make out with her?"

Quinn shrugs. "Maybe," and then she thinks it over a little. "Wow, I really am drunk."

Mercedes stares at her a bit. Quinn looks back skeptically. "What? Don't tell me there's never been a girl that made you look twice, just for a second."

Mercedes blushes and looks down. "Shut up," she says.

It's not her fault Rachel's skirts are that short.

"What about you, Kurt?" Quinn asks. "I know you're our token gay guy, and in the interests of political correctness you cannot publicly admit to it, but has there ever been a girl who..."

Kurt thinks this over for a second. Mercedes bites her lip, staring at him.

Don't be stupid. You've been over him for months; don't even think about it.

"Well, Brittany's a fairly good kisser. And she's quite extraordinarily beautiful. Sure, I picked her as my beard mostly because she was the only girl dumb enough to actually believe me, but there was a thing sometimes. Very, very rarely."

"So, Brittany is the key to defying sexuality. Good to know," Mercedes says.

And she's not disappointed. Not in the slightest.

Kurt shrugs. "And I'll admit, Quinn, you've looked damn fine since you've gotten out of that Cheerios uniform."

"Including the baby bumb?"

Kurt hesitates on that. "...No, but I think if I say that it will sound incredibly sexist in one way or another."

Quinn thinks this over. "You know, it does, but I'll pardon you because I can't figure out which way."

Mercedes can't help but stare at them. "...Okay."

Kurt and Quinn crack up. "Wow, you should really look at yourself, 'Cedes," says Quinn. "Anyway, we blabbed. You so have to spill one in turn."

"I do not. There isn't one."

"Uh-huh. Haven't you ever heard of the Kinsey scale?"

"Can we not talk about this?" Mercedes says. "Jesus. No-one here's even sexually compatible and we're acting liking horny teenagers."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "It's a girl's night; this is how they work. Everyone humiliates each other and it's put down as a bonding experiment. Learn it, live it, love it."

"I'm offended," says Kurt. Quinn 'comfortingly' pats him on the shoulder.

"There, there, dear."

Kurt grasps her wrist, pulling it off his shoulder. "No touching. This cost five hundred."

Quinn nods. "Your father doesn't secretly run a crystal meth lab, does he?"

"Quinn!"

"Kidding!" says Quinn. "Your dad's awesome, really. I just don't know how he affords, well, you."

Kurt shrugs. "Mechanics make a lot better money than people tend to assume. And we own a majority in the business or something; I've never quite understood, but the point is – we can afford my clothes."

Quinn pouts. "Lucky."

"I know."

"You've gotten litigious, Kurt," Mercedes says.

"Well, since you guys keep bringing up sexuality and how it works, I'll stick close to mine."

"Hey, that's her fault, not mine!" Mercedes points at Quinn, who raises her hands in submission.

"Okay, fair point. Guilty as charged."

"Bring her to the stocks!" and Kurt takes Quinn by the shoulders, gently pushing her over the couch.

"Hit her with various fruits and meats!" Mercedes adds, which earns a good-natured ribbing from Quinn.

"Nerd."

"I concur," says Kurt.

Mercedes pouts, even though maybe her Buffy marathons have gotten a little tiresome in the past. Damn, she needs to hang out with Tina more – girl gets it. "You're ganging up on me."

"We noticed," says Quinn brightly. "Wow, I am the worst head bitch in charge ever."

"But we love you anyway," Kurt says, pulling her back up with his hand.

"Thank you, kind gentleman," she says, head collapsing on his shoulder. "You know, we really ought to go sometime. Like, Dr. Jones is scary."

"Yeah," Kurt says absentmindedly, and pulls her off his shoulder. "Not so forward, Quinnie."

She laughs loudly and brightly. "Sorry. As upper society, we must be refined and everything?"

"Essentially," he says. And then they really must be drunk, because Kurt quickly grabs Quinn's hand and wraps one around her waist, and they begin to waltz around the room as Kurt hums the music. Quinn quickly finds the place for her hand on his shoulder, and Mercedes can only watch them, giggling like idiots.

They look good together. In this context, Kurt's strange outfits stop serving as their usual reminder of how he is, uh, different. If Mercedes squints, he looks like he could just be wearing some kind of formal outfit. Quinn's short pink dress is fairly casual, but the way it twirls when she moves reminds Mercedes of all the ballroom dancing she's ever seen. The way they look together makes her think of the old south; romantic and structured and beautiful, and something she's too fat, ugly, abrasive, and well, black to ever fit into.

That's a bit whiny, but whatever.

Kurt and Quinn break their dance apart, dissolving into fits of laughter. Mercedes tries to follow along, but it doesn't work out so well. Kurt and Quinn don't notice. "Wow. Victorian era much?" Quinn asks. "That sort of behavior was suspiciously heterosexual."

"Yes, but that sort of thing probably happened a lot with gay guys in the Victorian era," Kurt said. "I mean, it was illegal back then?"

"I was thinking more of the old south; like, Gone With the Wind," Mercedes adds. Kurt just shrugs.

"Still – illegal, bad."

"And I bet a lot of girls like me got used as the beard?" Quinn asks.

"Probably. Sweet, pretty girls who were too dumb to figure it out."

"Which means you have a type."

Everyone laughs. "It's not really my fault," Kurt defends himself.

"Eh, true," Quinn says. Then she turns on the doe-eyed stupid debutante act, complete with Southern accent. "Ah, take me, yah fine old-fashioned man, you."

There is laughter, but what happens next takes them by surprise. Kurt grabs Quinn by the waist, and kisses her. Quinn shrieks, and Mercedes checks to make sure this is real – no, Kurt's not covering her mouth with his hand. He's really doing it. From the looks of it, she's kissing back and – crap, is he using tongue?

When they break apart – after a full thirteen seconds, Mercedes counted in her head – Quinn lets out a loud "Whoo! Go Kurt!"

"Still gay!" he reminds everyone. "You really shouldn't get me drunk like this. At this rate you might wind up pregnant again."

Quinn and Kurt break up laughing again, and Mercedes forces herself to grin along with them, even though the effort of keeping it on her face makes her physically ache.

"You guys really ought to head home soon," she says, and prays it doesn't sound half as bitchy as she's dying to make it. "And I need to go to the bathroom."

She does her best not to run, or break down in tears. Once she gets there, she slams the door shut and collapses against it.

She's not over him.

She never has been. She knows it's hopeless and pathetic because he's gay, and that will never change, and she has no right to want it to, but – she can't help it. She fell for him so hard and so fast, and sure she loves him as a friend too, but she can't say she wasn't hoping if he ever got curious about the other side she wasn't lining herself up to be his first option.

Except she wasn't. First Brittany, now Quinn – the boy does have a type, and Mercedes doesn't fall anywhere near under it.

She shouldn't have quit the damn Cheerios. She shouldn't have started eating again and ditched the damn concoction Sylvester gave her; who cares what Quinn said about taking care of herself? It wasn't like Quinn ever really knew what it meant to look like this, be like this – a dark, fat whale. It's Quinn's fault anyway; what did she do to deserve being Kurt's walk on the straight side? If only for a second? Kurt told her she should keep it up; why didn't she listen? Maybe she should have just turned her head and looked away at Puck throwing those nerds into the dumpster; fallen into the high school caste system, which was the only reason she was worth using, after all. That was what her best friend wanted, right?

It just strikes her as funny – even the guys who like other guys prefer pretty blond things like Brittany and Quinn.

Gentlemen prefer blondes and all.

Kurt and Quinn laugh from downstairs, and she hates the images they fill her mind with – Kurt drawing Quinn back into his arms, taking that kiss further, his soft hands snaking up her white, ticklish thighs and making her lips part on a sweet, sultry, undeniably sexual giggle–

It's not happening. She knows that. But that doesn't mean she can stop thinking about it, or that it doesn't break her heart.

She doesn't cry. But she does wind up throwing up – she's drunk, after all.