Boy, I do a lot of AUs. But there's this collection of clips from Queer as Folk (US) circulating amongst Dave fans on Tumblr where certain parallels were drawn between character Drew Boyd and Dave (trivia: the maker of that video was specifically inspired by a certain Glee storyline; hmmmm). Seeing as how the fiancee in the QAF plot was Sierra, a name that begins with S and ended with A, I couldn't resist another fusion. Besides, it came out (pun intended) pretty quickly, so why not?

Hot tub next time, I swear.

Dave sighed as he twitched back the curtain. Didn't these fuckers have lives?

Fine, they did; this was their purpose in life: to get the story. And right now, unfortunately, that was him.

It still felt surreal, as if it'd happened in a dream, and not real life. He'd actually come out on live national television. Until the last second, when the word "yes" left his lips, he still wasn't certain he was going to do it. It was thinking of Kurt, of him watching, of him being disappointed if he denied it... It was almost an impulse. (Not that he was certain that Kurt would be watching, but fuck, if he wasn't, he'd be able to see it on any national news or sports channel any time between now and doomsday.) So there he was: the first openly gay football player in the league — though who knew for how long he'd have the game he loved? Still, he supposed there was a certain inevitability to it; from the moment he hired Hudmel Catering for that party, everything was building towards that "yes." It would've happened some way, some how. It made him feel a little better, but not much.

Dave was starting to wonder what the closest foreign country was where they hadn't heard of this already (Guatemala? Costa Rica?) when he heard the rapid beats of high-heeled shoes on hardwood rapidly approaching. He looked up, startled, as a beautiful Hispanic woman stalked towards him, a glower stamped over her features.

"Santana? How the hell did you get past—" The crack of his fiancee's hand against his cheek drowned out the murmur of the press outside for a brief instant. He didn't mind the physical pain — he'd felt much worse on the field, and besides, it was a welcome relief from the emotional turmoil of the past few months. "Nice to see you too," he muttered as he rubbed his cheek.

"We had a deal," she snarled.

"Right. Operative word being 'had'. As in not anymore."

"Why the fuck didn't you tell me first? Why did I have to find this out on TV?"

"Because I knew you'd try to talk me out of it," Dave replied calmly. "Besides, I hadn't really decided. Not until..."

Santana groaned. "Oh, fuck, this is because of him, isn't it? Your mincing little princess of a caterer."

"Hey, don't talk about Kurt like that..."

"I'll talk about him any way I want! He blew our arrangement! And you, most likely!" Santana huffed, running her fingers through her long black hair. "It would've been perfect. No one would've had to know. We could've just lived the way we wanted, and no one would've had to be the wiser..."

"Except for the little detail of us living complete and total lies."

"Because lying is safe," Santana hissed. "Look out there! There's your proof!" She waved her hand at the window, circular flashes of light piercing the glass at almost hypnotic intervals. "What's so great about the truth, anyway? What's so great about being out? That another little rainbow fantasy your precious caterer put into your stupid thick skull? How the fuck could you do this to me?"

She was as close to tears as he'd ever seen her. Dave hadn't thought her capable of them. He gently touched her arm; she jerked it away so violently she almost fell. Dave sighed, dropping into a chair. "I was just so tired, San," he rasped. "Tired of lying. Tired of fighting my feelings every single fucking day..."

"Feelings," Santana snorted. "Look where they get you. We had the perfect arrangement because there were no feelings to fuck shit up. Then you get involved with your caterer, and look what happens. Happy little gay feelings sprouting up all over the fucking place. You didn't even think about what this would do to me, did you?"

"I didn't out you, just me. Besides, you're seriously telling me that if you had a chance with that artist chick, you wouldn't have dropped me without a second thought?"

Santana sighed. "Okay, fine, I suppose not even I'd take myself seriously if I denied it." She draped herself over his couch, stretching her entire perfectly sculpted form over its entire length. She crossed her legs, smooth and gleaming in the overhead lights. Santana loved showing herself off, so Dave was constantly confronted with the uncomfortable fact that the sight of his fiancee in such provocative states did absolutely nothing for him. He ignored this for as long as he could; he supposed that's one big reason he became so tired. It just wore him down. "You seriously think this is worth it?" she asked quietly. Dave's head snapped up; he knew she wasn't asking the question just out of idle curiosity. "All that?" She waved at the window. "Everything else that still might happen?"

Dave rubbed his eyes, sighing. "I... I don't know."

"Then why do it?"

"I told you why..."

"Okay, fine, truth. People get to know the real you. You get to stop having to make out with me in public and pretend you like it." She paused for a moment. "Huh, I suppose that's a plus for me too." She smiled wryly; Dave couldn't help but chuckle. "But seriously, the shit hasn't fully hit the fan yet. I know you know that. So your soul is free to fly or what the fuck ever. But is it worth it?"

"I guess... I'll let you know."

There was a long silence. Dave could barely hear the muffled voice of an ESPN reporter taping an update outside. Finally, Santana rose, a put-upon look on her face. "Fine. That'll have to do for now. It's too late to do anything about it anyway. Just... next time, make sure I'm in the loop, okay? You owe me that much for having to paw you all this time."

"Hey, it's not like you got nothing out of the deal. Besides, once you sell your story, get on a few talk shows? You'll be hot shit. I bet you'll get more tail than ever."

Santana seemed to think about this for a moment. "Huh. You might be right about that. Nice." She smiled wickedly. Then the smile slipped off her face, and she opened her arms. "C'mere, you big gay dork." He took in the embrace; it was warm, comfortable — two words that actually couldn't be used to describe the seemingly affectionate hugs they shared in public as a couple. This... this was natural. This was okay. Because there was no pretense to it, no external purpose. They only separated after a long minute. "Well, back out into the feeding frenzy. Let's do lunch sometime." She picked up her purse and began to leave. As she strode towards the stairs, she tossed out over her shoulder, as if as an afterthought, "Oh, yeah, and tell that caterer of yours that if he fucks up, his next job will be serving his own testicles at an Old Country Buffet."

Dave laughed. "Sure. Whatever."

"He'd better be worth it!" And she was gone.

Dave exhaled, a long slow rush of breath. He knew exactly when Santana made it out the front door; he could almost physically feel the draw of the media scrum's attention focus on her. That, and the shriek of "Yo, media leeches! I got a statement to make!" He listened distractedly at the window, hearing only bits and pieces of what she was saying: phrases like "talked things over" and "we remain friends" and "leave him the fuck alone, you assbags." Or something like that.

He was still considering Santana's question. Yeah, there was probably worse to come, a lot worse. He'd probably be booted off the team — suspended at best. Some of the guys would probably be mad — real mad. He thought and hoped they knew him better than that, that they were friends, but in the world of pro sports? It seemed rather unlikely. The death threats were starting to trickle in. And the publicity wasn't going to be going away anytime soon, even if he did lose everything else.

So was it worth it?

His phone buzzed — his new phone, the one whose number only a select few people had, as opposed to the old one sitting in a drawer in his bedroom with the full-to-bursting voicemail and text message inboxes. Dave pulled it out; the "Sender" name made his entire chest jump. It was a name he hadn't heard from in a couple of days, not since the craziness began (not that they'd had much of a chance to communicate in the tumult anyway). His upper lip suddenly sweating, he nervously thumbed the screen, and the text opened.

It was short and simple.

I am so proud of you.

So was it worth it?

It was getting there.