People. They think they're smart. They think they know things. They think they know everything.
People think they know Lucy Quinn Fabray. People don't know Lucy Quinn Fabray. She's the one with the great job and the nice place. She's the one who's gone to hell and back to get to where she is now. She's the one that people can't help but gravitate towards, powerless against her natural beauty and charm. She's the one who's tried so hard to perfect the facade that they see. She's the one they imagine their lives with, but can't get because they are single bodies making up a sea of nameless suitors that drown her in their foolish attempt at courtship. She's the one gasping for air, grasping onto a love that's drifting away. She's the one who's so very put together. She's the one who's been broken too many times.
She's the one who's happy. She's the one in love with someone as messed up as she is.
Tandem.
There were rules they would follow, an accepted and unspoken reality between Quinn Fabray and her lover. Stay away to stay together. Ironic.
She wakes up early in the morning. If you wake up first, then leave before the other wakes. She works long hours and comes home late. If you come home at all, it should be to an empty bed or a sleeping back. She pretends she's needed at work on weekends. If you have time alone together, you're not following the rules.
Quinn always followed the rules. Tonight she was the only one to do so.
It's half past one on a Friday night, a Saturday morning. She was safe.
As soon as she enters her apartment and the front door closes behind her, she realizes that something is off, something that will join past mistakes as a painful reminder of their failing relationship. The vibe was different. She could hear them. She could feel them. A foreign presence had invaded her home and so easily cracked the walls she had built. The low moans and sensual giggles were not her own or that of her lover, though familiar was the touch of she who induce them. They were faint, deafened by the pounding of her heart and the boiling of her blood.
She had no right to be upset. This occurrence was even to be expected, a matter of time really. It was actually surprising that it hadn't happened earlier. Though her mind possessed reason, her body did not. She found herself violently reacting to her lover's infidelity, despite knowledge of their current circumstance and of her own wrongdoings in the past. Their relationship as lovers has long ago been void of meaning, reduced to empty words.
Beauty marred. Her rose-colored lips bit into one another, its hue fading under the pressure. Her vibrant eyes grew dull and cold, a dam in keeping her tears at bay. Her hands clenched and unclenched rhythmically with the inner workings of her vivid imagination.
She drops her bag at the door next to her already discarded heels and walks through the moonlit living room, towards the kitchen. She opens one of the more frequently used cabinets to retrieve a bottle of alcohol, any bottle of alcohol. It didn't matter which as long as she acquired that wondrous, mind-numbing effect that she longed for, that she needed. She walks back into the living room and settles her godsent elixir on the coffee table in front of her before unfastening the buttons of her blazer with a single hand and sitting down on her favorite armchair. She looks at the bottle with tired eyes that grow wearier with time. She closes them as she takes in a deep breath, easing back into the chair, letting her head finally rest against chilled leather. In that brief moment, she is content. Though as that breath is released and her eyes open again, she is brought back to a life in which she is broken.
She grabs the bottle by its neck and unscrews the cap. She hesitates as she brings it to her lips. So she pauses, closing her eyes to bring herself back to that peaceful place before indulging in her heavenly remedy.
She's not an alcoholic. She's not like her mother, she would never allow herself to be like her mother. It just takes the edge off. Promise.
After several casual swigs of the throat-burning liquor, she sets the bottle back onto the coffee table and sits there waiting. She doesn't know what she's waiting for, or even if she really is waiting. At this point, all she could really be doing is putting off the inevitable, their confrontation. Different scenarios run through her mind as to how this was going to play out. None were definite. It scared her, fear of the unknown.
In a heightened state of carnal ecstasy, moans hitched, dying in the intruder's throat, only to be replaced by an erratic and sensual exhale. It was now or never. She chose now, not wanting to give some warm body the pleasure of finishing in her bed.
Her feet made their way stumbling, in an almost faux tipsy manner, down the dark hallway towards the master bedroom on their own accord. Her eyes are fixated on the sliver of light that escaped from the crack of the door. When she reached the wooden surface, all other motions ceased, only a faintly trembling hand slowly moved forward, fingertips barely grazing the smooth grain before the slight pressure caused the door to open. It didn't open much, but it was enough for her to confirm with her very eyes what she had already known to be true.
Her lover, Santana Lopez, lay upon the stranger's naked body, head resting on the pillow, concealing the other woman's identity, and hand thrusting in and out of said woman's spread legs. Usual. Her lover is dressed. Unusual. Though her lover's shirt was torn from the neckline down to her midsection, that was as severe as her state of undress became, all other articles of clothing were still intact.
Though it was difficult to watch the scene that unraveled in front of her, she found that she couldn't look away. There was something strange, or rather, uplifting about the way that her lover had handled taking on this one night stand. One would think in taking the time to bring home a potential conquest; it would be all about self satisfaction, the satisfaction of feeling another warm body in the throes of passionate sex. Though it seems, by the distance in her lover's body language and roughness of her touch, that her lover wasn't after something as trivial as getting either of them to their sexual peak. It seems that her lover was searching for something that the feel of another couldn't solve, something that she herself sought after… something, anything to stop the pain and mend the hole in her heart.
She has found light in the darkness of betrayal. That even though there is an ever-growing rift between the two of them, she will hold solace in knowing her lover's heart and body have remained untainted by the hands of another.
She stepped forward, allowing her weight to shift and the floorboards to creak accordingly, making her presence known. Her lover didn't look back, she didn't need to. Motions slowed, coming to a complete stop. Silence takes over, uncomfortable for all.
Her lover detaches herself from the woman beneath her, shifting to sit in an upright position at foot of their bed. They make eye contact for the first time in what seems like an eternity. Their connection is powerful; they can read each other well. They could lie with their words, but never with their eyes. There is truth in the eyes; they mirror the emotions of the soul.
Sets of hazel and brown merge together in their fleeting gaze, each conveying to the other a different form of the same weariness and vulnerability they both shared. A smile makes its way across her lips, but doesn't reach her eyes. She walks forward, taking control of the situation. Her lips graze the cheek of her lover for a brief moment, it burns the skin. She's marked what is hers.
She looks over her lover's shoulder at the woman lying in their bed, engrossed by their interaction. "Leave please." The woman snaps out of her trance at the sound of Quinn's eerily calm voice, their eyes connect and they share a silent understanding. The woman quickly gathers her discarded clothing off the floor of the room, eyes never meeting those of the other two women again as she leaves without a word.
Alone, they are alone and it is unnerving. Santana looks as if she were about to speak, but Quinn isn't going to allow that. She is not having this talk, not now, not ever. They were breaking the rules, the rules were meant to keep them together. They were breaking themselves, each other. She takes her lover by the forearm and guides her to the bathroom. She doesn't explain, just turns on the tub's warm water and begins to strip. Santana is dumbstruck by the naked flesh that seems to be only a distant memory.
Quinn finishes and begins to strip Santana of her own clothing. There is no protest, no struggle of any kind. She had given up long ago.
They're naked together in the water, trying to cleanse themselves of their sins. It's a hard thing to do. Santana is leaning back against Quinn, whose chin is resting on her lover's shoulder and whose arms are wrapped possessively around her lover's waist and chest. It's a nice feeling, something they haven't felt in a while. Both women almost lose themselves in the moment, thinking for once that things could just be simple, that they could just be happy and together. Though one moment of warmth can't take back what they've done to each other and to their relationship. Some things are irreparable.
They finish bathing and get dressed. There are no words exchanged, Quinn leads and Santana just follows. She takes her lover to the guest bedroom to avoid sleeping in a bed that reeked of a stranger's sexual essence. In the dark, they make their way under the sheets to their respected sides of the bed, a gap between them as always. Santana turns on her side, facing away from Quinn, increasing their physical and emotional distance. Quinn looks at the back of her lover's head, debating on what her next move should be. Her mind is blank. All she wants to do is hold Santana and tell her that they'd be alright, that everything would be okay. But she couldn't, so she didn't. She leans over, placing a kiss on the skin of her lover's exposed shoulder. "I love you, Santana." It was said in a whisper, but was amplified by the silence of their home. Her lover had heard her. There is no response. Quinn shifts back to her side, willing herself to fall asleep.
Hours into the night, Santana leaves the guestroom and settles on the living room couch. There she curls up in her throw, holding a pillow to her chest, and cries. For the first time since the start of their circumstance, she is allowing herself emotional release. Salty tears stream down her face as she's trying to hold back her cries of anguish. Her body moves in small increments, up and down, back and forth. She finally gives into her weariness.
There will also be humor, I promise. If you've read any of my stories, you'd know I can't write without humor!