Four: Tina
Three phones go off at once. Tina knows it's not hers; her ringtone is Bad Romance. It's not Artie's either; his is some shitty rap song.
They ring a second time, obnoxiously loud in the dim room, lit only by the pre-dawn sky outside of open curtains. Not all of them are puppy-piled across the twenty or so sleeping bags they managed to bring between them. Finn and Brittany are having a bath together; she can tell from the harmonious rendition of "Rubber Duckie" she hears lilting from the bathroom. But enough of them are dozing or actually asleep that those who own the phones should be scrambling and apologising.
"No seriously, is someone going to get those?" Tina grumbles. She's always been a light sleeper, and each ring is making her more wide awake.
"Sorry," Finn whisper-shouts from the bathroom. "All the towels are sopping wet... Sam."
"My phone's in my purse. Anyone see a crimson purse?"
"Could whoever's closest to Puck pinch his nose? The Lenny Kravitz Klezmer-rock is definitely his."
Five minutes later everything's gone to voicemail, and Tina's on her back, staring at the ceiling. She would laugh, if she wasn't so tired. Her lovers are incompetent, down to the last one.
"That was weird," Puck says, staring at his phone. "That was mini-Puck. All he said was thanks."
Santana hums her agreement. "Marley said thanks too."
Finn's got a blanket poorly tied around him like a toga. It slips when he nods. "Ryder. And yeah, same thing."
Tina sighs. "Great. You guys got the New New Directions to hook up. Rachel will hand out gold stars in the morning over breakfast shakes. Can everyone shut up so I can go to sleep now?"
A few of them laugh, but it quiets down again. All but Blaine, who's snuggling up to her, one leg thrown casually over hers. "You're happy it's worked out for them," he whispers, "and you know it."
"Yeah," she whispers back, nestling in a little closer. Everyone deserves love, even if it's complicated.