7
It's late-September before she decides to acknowledge he exists - that they're neighbors, or even live on the same planet anymore. He's tried, but not really because he's been kind of busy, too. There's been adjusting, and reading, and football - but he'd at least tried a little. He'd knocked on her door once, and sent her a few texts that she'd promptly ignored, and...well, she'd been tricky - she'd made sure she stayed out of his way around campus. Her whole life, it almost felt like, had become this huge game of stay-away-from-Finn - she planned her meals, her showers, her library time, everything around the times he wouldn't be there. It was to make the transition easier, she told herself, so he wouldn't rely on her or think she was going to be there when he missed his little pocket-sized nuisance, or generally care, because she didn't.
What? She didn't. She did these things more for her benefit, she didn't want any of her clothes ruined with his little baby girl tears about whatever he was whining about these days.
It was a lot of work for a person who really believed she couldn't give a shit either way about Finn Hudson, though, which is why when it hits like the third week of September, she decides to pay Mr. ex-QB a visit. She's got a pack of menthol lights tucked in between her boobs - a habit she's picked up from her wreck of a roommate - and she flicks the wheel of her electric blue lighter with her thumb while she waits for him to answer the door. When he does, she notices his bleary eyes blinking at her in disbelief as she smiles up at him, "Well, look at this," she grins, leaning against the door frame, "fancy seeing you around these parts, isn't it?"
"San?" He grumbles, rubbing at his eyes. His t-shirt is rumpled and emitting a strange odor, and she smirks to herself when she notices he's only wearing a pair of navy boxers. She looks back up at his face, furrowing her brows a bit when she notices how tired he actually looks.
"Glad to know you still recognize me," she rolls her eyes, leaning against the door frame, "So, I feel kind of bad for depriving you of my presence for the past few weeks," she flounces her hair a bit, rolling her eyes at herself, "and thus, I came to say hi. ...Hi," she furrows her brows at him, forcing herself to stop talking. He blinks at her in confusion, rubbing his eyes and shifting his weight between his feet.
"Now...isn't a good time, San," he mumbles, trying to shut the door - luckily she's already wedged herself between the door and the frame.
"What's up with you, Hudson," she grumbles, looking up at him, "roommate let your goldfish die?"
He stares blankly at the ground, "I don't have a goldfish. Or a roommate," he mumbles, licking his lips and looking back up at her, "Santana, I'll...talk to you later."
She rolls her eyes, "Come on Finnocence, it can't be that bad," she plants a hand on her hip, raising a brow at him. She's not exactly sure what she wants out of this, here - because it's not like she needs to talk to him. It's not life and death - she just kind of feels bad that she's been avoiding him like the plague, and all of that. She's trying, here, can't he just give her a fake five minute conversation about classes, and possibly a bottle of water? Or even better, a beer? She bites the inside of her cheek, annoyed, and keeps her eyes on him, raising her other brow slowly, "Well?"
He runs a hand through his hair, ushering her into the darkened room and shutting the door behind her.
She lights a cigarette, and he grabs it out of her hand, dropping it and stubbing it out on his linoleum floor with his flip flop covered foot. They sit in awkward silence for what feels like thirteen and a half hours, and then he says it. "Rachel dumped me."
Well, color her shocked, "...You didn't realize she was going to? C'mon, Hudson, we all saw that from miles away. We put bets on it." Nice and sensitive never got anybody anywhere - that was what she'd figured out early on. Apparently not him, though - he glares at her, rolling his eyes.
More silence. She watches the tip of her cigarette - he totally fucking owes her a cigarette - make the transition from red to orange to dead.
"Did you win?" She furrows her brows, looking up at him as this tiny, lazy grin twists onto his lips, "The bet," he specifies, "did you win?"
It's the first time she's genuinely laughed since she got to this stupid fucking place, and before she knows it, she's doubled over, clutching her sides. "No," she rasps, a bit wheezily, "I gave you at least another month, figured you'd cling to her for at least a little more time."
He's not exactly sure whether to be happy that she gave him a shot, or pissed that she thought (er, knew) he'd get dumped on his ass.
Even more silence, which Santana's had more than e-fucking-nough of, until Finn stands up and walks to the fridge, swinging it open with his foot, "Want a beer?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
They get drunk (she goes back to her room to retrieve the good shit, because his nasty Keystone Light isn't doing it for her, and it's kind of warm and gross anyway,) which isn't at all surprising.
What is surprising, though, is that as she's leaning out his window, a cigarette hanging between her fingers, he pulls her upright, presses her body against the wall, and kisses her sloppily. She keeps her eyes open, because it's kind of gross and she's focused on keeping the cigarette outside, and eventually knees him lightly in the balls to get him off of her. "Don't do that," she grumbles, flicking the stubby rest of her menthol out and hoping it doesn't smack someone in the face, "when I'm not ready."
"What about when you are?" His face is contorted into this weird, drunk Finn kind of smirk, one that she doesn't think she's seen since junior year of high school, and she's got to admit, he looks hot. The fact was that in the like, four-ish months they'd been out of high school, he'd somehow transformed himself from dorkish-but-cute-looking-tall-guy to please-fuck-me-sideways-muscle-guy, and it wasn't like she hadn't noticed. In all of that time she'd been staying away from him, it'd been hard not to catch glimpses of his new bod - and it wasn't like she'd been looking for him, but it was a nice reward, or whatever. Like, even though she'd successfully escaped him noticing her, she still got to look at his whole Adonis situation. It was a win-win.
Now, it was still kind of a win-win, as her eyes flick from his crooked smirk down to his tree trunk sort of legs and back up again.
She shrugs, "You'll just have to find that one out on your own, Finnocence," she quirks a brow, challenging him. This was the true test - because dorkish-but-cute-looking-tall-guy would probably have just blushed, and turned away, possibly blown his load because a hot girl even stood in the same room at him, but this new guy? He wasn't intimidated by anyone, especially not her.
He's got her shirt off, and he doesn't even fumble around with the hooks of her bra this time - not that she notices, really, because his lips are on her collarbone, and he's hard against her thigh, and okay, this is totally happening. She needs this - and you know what? She'd rather it was him than any of the nasty guys at the frats her roommate had dragged her to for the past few nights - a little bit of something old never really hurt anyone, did it? Besides, he reminds her of home, and even though she'd never fucking admit it, she kind of misses home. At least a little.
He's like half fucking way inside her when he leans down, his lips brushing her ear, and mumbles, "I don't want to care right now." At first, she kind of wants to slap him across the face - say whatever shit you want later when I'm passing out - but she gets it. Berry was his first love, or whatever, and she knows his whole emotional state is a train wreck, or something, so she figures she'll cut him some slack. She wrenches his face away from his ear and arches a brow, making sure he's looking at her when she says it.
"You don't have to - that's the point."
For like a whole week after, he follows her around like a lost puppy. And it's not like she can avoid him, this time, either - because somehow he's figured out all her patterns, the ones she deliberately created so that she could avoid him, and she refuses to stop taking them now. She can't just change everything once it's set in stone - she isn't going to do that much damn work twice - so fine. If he wants to follow her around like she's his master, fine by her - it doesn't mean she's going to acknowledge him, though.
"Santana," he says, his voice hushed because today he's stalking her in the library, "we can't just ignore this."
She looks at him in confusion, her brows knit together, "I think ignoring this is precisely what we can do," she laughs, shaking her head and walking in the opposite direction. She finds herself in front of a stack of books and begins searching through them absent-mindedly for something on animal cruelty - she wonders if ghost's-of-hook-ups-past count as animals, especially when she can feel him breathing over her shoulder like a damn bull. "It's not like we haven't done this before."
"Not in years," he counters, "that was different. This was different - we're older, now."
"Just because I had sex with you doesn't mean I actually like you," she whirls around, shooting him a glare, "now leave me alone."
She's not entirely sure how they get from that, to her pushed up against a wall in the back of the basement stacks, her skirt hiked up around her middle and his hand over her mouth to keep them from being found out. It probably has something to do with the fact that his t-shirt doesn't really fit him right, and she can see his muscles, and fuck. But then again, she doesn't really know - and she's not entirely sure if she cares.
That night she shows up at his room wearing nothing but some skimpy bathrobe her mother sent her. He asks if this is going to become a routine, and she shrugs.
So they're fucking on the regular now, who cares? Sex is sex - at least she's getting some.
They're eating dinner - or, more accurately, he's shoveling heaps of nasty looking food down his throat while she picks cautiously through the pile of lettuce on her plate - when he looks up and scratches his head. "What's today?"
"...October twenty third," she's not really listening, trying to figure out if the hair on her fork was hers or not was a bit more pressing.
"What are you being for Halloween?"
What is he, seven? She wants to tell him that Halloween is a stupid, made up fairy tale holiday, and that she's not being anything, because they're in college, and it's not like she can just pop a costume out of her ass. Besides, like she already said, it's dumb - she stares at him for a second, then gets an idea. She pops an inedible looking crouton into her mouth, crunching it with a smirk on her face, "Naked."
She's surprised he can keep it in his pants long enough for them to get back to the dorms.
By the way, on October 31st, she doesn't put clothes on. Not once.
They start doing shit together, like studying. They're not dating, though - she just doesn't like to be around other people, because they piss her off. He pisses her off, too, but she deals with it because...well, because he looks good naked.
Anyway, they're sitting on his bed, her books spread out around them, and he's reading some stack of papers, huddled in the corner so she can have room. He's got his glasses on, and she fucking loves his glasses. They make him look smart, which is some kind of weird turn on for her (weird because more or less every fucking guy she's ever been with - including him - has been dumber than a sack of rocks) - that, mixed with this sort of scruffy not-beard thing he's been growing - god, he's driving her fucking nuts. She's not paying attention to literally anything in any of her books, because she's just staring at him as he reads, his glasses falling to the bridge of his nose.
"I have to read this, Santana," he warns, not looking up from the page. She licks her lips. "I have to read this," he warns again.
She presses the ball of her foot into his ankle, slapping one of her books shut. She pushes all of her shit to the floor, then crawls to his tiny corner of the bed, snatching the papers out of his hands, "You can read later," she mumbles, cocking a brow, "right?"
The lump in his throat is visible as he thinks, then agrees.
She makes him keep his glasses on.
They start doing other shit together, too - like grocery shopping, going to parties, working out. They're still not dating, though - he's still totally ego-bruised over Berry. They both know that, and besides, who the fuck said she wanted a relationship? She still catches him looking at this hideous posed picture of them at graduation, all done up in their caps and gowns. It kind of makes her want to gag, but she also kind of feels bad for him - having your heart broken wasn't really something she was fond of, even if she was sort of a masochist.
Whatever, she can blow him for sympathy-related-purposes or something, so it's okay.
One morning, she's late for class and decides not to wake him up for a ride (and to kick him out of her bed) - she can walk, it's not that big of a deal, and it's not that cold out. Besides, he looks kind of cute when he sleeps, and they'd been up like, more than half the night, anyway, so he should probably get some rest. He'd made some sort of snide comment the day before about how the only person he had in the damn world was himself - boo fucking hoo - so on her way out she decides to be even nicer (seriously, someone should just call the fucking Pope, she's obviously becoming the second Mother Theresa, or something) and scribbles him a note to leave on the pillow before sprinting out the door.
When he rolls over almost four hours later, his face crinkles into a sheet of notebook paper. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and reads, "There's a big bag of salt and vinegar chips and a beer in the fridge for when you wake up. Don't say I never did anything for you - S."
It doesn't even matter that he's drinking before noon, it's the thought that counts.
Some girl in her Ethics class asks if they're together. She accidentally knocks her into the professor, sending his hot coffee flying through the air on their way out.
What? It was an accident.
He forces her to go to a party at the football house, because his teammates bitch that he never does anything fun. "Football parties aren't fun," he grumbles, as they make their way up the street.
"No, that's you - you are not fun. Football parties are fun," she smirks at him. He shakes his head, but she knows that he realizes she can make absolutely anything fun - at least, she can for him.
Six and a half shots later, they're sitting on the floor of an upstairs bathroom, her forehead leaning against the toilet bowl. He hands her a wet wash cloth, and she presses it to her forehead, taking deep breaths.
"Why do you act so tough all the time?"
She's not even fucking sure that she's conscious, and he's asking her deep personal questions. Great fucking idea, Finnocence, honestly. She rolls her eyes over to him, quirking a brow.
"You can't ask me questions like that when I'm this drunk," she mutters, ignoring the eye roll he shoots her.
"You don't let anyone close enough to hurt you anyway." What the fuck is he trying to get at, here? Does he want a medal? She doesn't let people past her guard - is there really a person in the world who doesn't know that already?
"Oh, interesting. Just let me write that down on my list of things I don't give a shit about."
He leaves her in the bathroom, muttering something to the effect of, "Stop being such a bitch all the time," and waits for her in the car. She decides this is getting way too fucking heavy, and lets him wait while she finds some football player she can fuck. He doesn't invite her back to his room, just helps her into bed and says to sleep on her stomach.
The next night (because the entire next day is reserved for her hangover-slash-pity party,) she tells him it's over. He knows there's no fighting her - she figures, because there's nothing to fight for - so he just let's her tell him that he needs to get the fuck over Rachel already, because it's been like six months.
He ignores her, shaking his head, "For what it's worth, I think you're gonna miss me," he reasons, raising a brow as she scoots off his bed.
Unfortunately, she knows he's right - but, silver lining, he really doesn't...or, so she hopes. On the way out, she notices that cheesy graduation picture is sitting at the bottom of his trash can, torn in half. She tries really, way too fucking hard to forget that part.
She fails a Chemistry test - and she's really fucking good at Chemistry. Apparently she studies better when she's in his room, than when she's in her own.
It's been like a few weeks, and some other girl is eating dinner with him like every night. The third time she walks past them (they were in the way) he's laughing at something, while she grins at him, and her blood turns to ice. She catches him looking at her like a quarter of the way into her third quesadilla, and hopes for the life of her that he doesn't realize she was looking first.
It's late on a Tuesday, and she finds herself at his door. There's some guy waiting for her in her room, courtesy of her roommate who'd noticed her mood-shift, but he'd reeked of pot and his beard (full fucking beard) had been itchy, and she'd felt like at any second a spider was going to crawl out and plant itself on her face.
She walks in when he opens the door, grabbing him by the shirt and pushing him onto the bed. She was allowed to relapse, okay, all addicts did. Not that she was addicted to him, or anything - but she liked to do what they did. The whole sex, sleep, whatever thing was appealing to her - she liked to have someone warm in her bed waiting for her. Was that such a bad thing?
"You smell different than usual," he mumbles, after, his face in her neck. She fucking hates that she feels guilty.
"Let's go somewhere," he mumbles, brushing her hair out of her eyes. It's like a week later, and all she ever does is feelthings when she's with him. She can't tell if she really likes it or not, but there are some times that she kind of does more than others. Like now, when his hand's on her skin, and she feels extra-warm. Ugh.
"We are somewhere," she rolls her eyes, flipping over onto her stomach and propping herself up with her elbow, "we're in your room."
"No," he shakes his head, "somewhere real. Like, out. Go to eat, or whatever. A movie, or…I don't know, a park. Something nice."
"If you're asking me on a date, you can just stop your bullshit right now," she shoots him a wary glare, even though her words are weak, like if he were to even question them they'd probably crumble into dust. He stands up, holding up a finger and pulls on boxers, then jeans. He tosses her one of his t-shirts, and then stands between her legs, forcing her to look at him.
His hands cup her cheeks, and she's not sure if she wants to run or if she wants to stay, so she just stares at him.
"I'm not going to ask you again - this is the last time," his voice is serious to the point where she's actually kind of scared or something, as his eyes searching her face. Why does he have to be such a fucking girl all the time? "Want to go somewhere with me?"
No. Maybe. Yes. "Only if we can come back here after," she keeps her voice light, "and you have to pay."
"If you're asking me on a date, you can just stop your bullshit right now," he teases, sticking his tongue out at her. She glares at him, but it's not bitchy for once - it's actually kind of nice, as far as her range of glares go. He kisses the tip of her nose - eye fucking roll, even though it feels…kind of good.
They're walking out of his room, and he grabs her hand. That's when she decides that maybe, avoidance wasn't the best strategy after all.