Not quite sure about this pairing, but there aren't many, so decided to give it a try. Just a oneshot drabbly thing, but reviews would be much appreciated :) My first fanfic, so please be nice-ish!

Warnings: Non-explicit sex, infrequent use of language

Disclaimer: Glee is not mine, to my eternal chagrin.

Simple

It was simple really. Well, no, not really, it was about as complicated as love got, but simple in the quintessential elements of it. I needed her; she needed me; we cared about each other. Simple as, yeah?

It wasn't destructive, wasn't hurtful (or so I told myself). Both of us could stop anytime we wanted. It wasn't like there were any real feelings tied in there, knots to trip over and tangle everything up. It had started as a bit of fun, was all. Heck, it wouldn't even have happened if Mercedes hadn't been sick for the theatre trip and there hadn't been had a spare bed in her room. It could very well not have happened at all, just continued in its non-existence in the oblique realms of What If.

As in, what if you get back from a show at 12.30am, giddy from fatigue and too much caffeine. What if you stay up laughing in the foyer, too dizzy and wired to go straight to sleep. What if, eventually, everyone trails off, Britt and San forgetting you as they lope after the guys. What if you and Her are left alone, still splashing in the dregs of the evening's frivolity. What if, in your room, you stay up a little longer, testing each other on tomorrow's songs.

What if you watch her lips, fighting not to stutter over the words? What if you feel, in your tiredness, inexplicable guilt for the times that you've taunted?

And, leaning over, press your lips (slicked with gloss, you know, smelling of watermelon) against her chapped ones.

And if, after that, matters had progressed further than I had anticipated in one, loose-minded moment, if it had ultimately ended up with us kissing, touching, finding each other (her legs around my hips, her fingers clutching my back), then what happened happened; it hadn't been at home, where my life was, therefore it didn't really count. Did it.

Nor did the next night (her head against my shoulder, the way her breathing evened as she slipped into sleep). Or the hug in the morning (waking up in the sunlight, back to stomach, bleary eyed). Or the kiss before breakfast (toothpaste and bitterness, sweet to the tongue). None of it counted.

We got back to Lima, to the day to day rush and brush of school, and it disappeared again. Had never happened, just because it couldn't have if we wanted to get through.

Simple.

I pretended not to notice the red eyes, how they failed to hide under latherings of kohl. When we were partnered up for songs, I made sure to stay well away.

When April came and Glee went away to New York, we shared a room again. When we fucked (because really, that was all it was, I couldn't let it be anything more) she cried, and I stroked her hair and held her afterwards, hating her tears, hating myself for my inability to spare her them. That night, for the first time, we lay in silence, not speaking. I think maybe she didn't want the effort of words, of struggling to mold them until they came out flawless.

I wanted to tell her that she was, always would be, flawless to me, perfect in her imperfection. I didn't. I wanted her to kiss me hard on the lips, and for once be the one to tell me that everything would be okay, that there was no need to be scared. She didn't.

Instead, her fingers cold in the darkness as she touched my sternum. Then curled up at my side, face close to mine on the pillow. I put my arms around her and wondered how we could fix this mess.

In the morning, I told her that this couldn't happen any more. That if it went on for much longer it would become specifiable, something that could end. And endings hurt more than fading does. They're sharper, blunter, somehow more permanent.

"I don't want to hurt you." I said.

She looked at me, hard, her eyes too baffled to pin down. Then asked, Why Was I, Then?

I walked away.

She didn't cry during the journey back, or afterwards as far as I know, but Kurt and Mercedes didn't see it as such. For a while, I was the most hated girl in Glee.

Only Rachel seemed to understand. Manhands, RuPaul – ironic that she, the girl I'd thrown slushies at uncountable times, was there when everyone else turned their backs. For a while she ate lunch with me everyday. We never talked about much – I don't think we had much in common besides my misery. Still, I was grateful for the company.

She only broached the subject once, when we were alone in the music room.

"You kind of love her, don't you?" she asked, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. I don't know what I replied; something along the lines of, "Um, kind of", or "I guess". There's a reason that I tend to voice myself through song. But that question made me think.

After a while things calmed down somewhat, and it was no longer an ordeal to be in the same room as her. We could talk, joke, even hold eye contact. But it was miles away from what it had been, and we both knew it. I felt as though I were living a faded cast-off of my life; the colour had been hers, and now she was gone.

Neither of us were happy. But we weren't noticeably unhappy either, so that was all good. Right?

No, to be honest. Wrong wrong wrong. But nevertheless, I could cope on my own well enough, and she had the rest of Glee to look after her. 'Nuff said. So yeah, life went on.

Until Mr Schue. Decided that a trip to Broadway would be a good idea. Guess who ended up as roomies. Whoever said God doesn't have a sense of humor. Or Mr Schue., for that matter.

But then again, maybe he knew what he was doing; he'd seen her drooping at school, noticed the fastidiousness with which we avoided each other. And rumors aren't choosy about who they're heard by.

Rachel offered to swap. Mercy offered to swap. Kurt offered to swap. But no. She wouldn't. For some infallible reason, she was still willing to share with me.

I won't pretend it was the least awkward conversation I've ever had, the first real talk we had, after getting back late from the theatre. But it wasn't the worst. The only real cringe-worthy moment arose when she looked me pointblank in the face and asked me how the Chastity Club was coming along.

I felt my face flame and wondered if this was where the conversation turned into a bitch fight – but then saw that she was smiling, kind of uncertainly, but heck, it was a smile. I can't quite say why, but it was then that I did what I had been wanting to do for months, every time I saw her eyes fill, every time she hunched as she looked away from me.

I crawled over to her and hugged her. I thought for a moment that she was just going to sit there – that this was her way of punishing me, rejecting any affection or reconciliation that I tried to initiate. But slowly, slowly, her arms came up to rest on my back and her head fell to my shoulder.

We stayed that way for quite a long while, even though my neck began to crick and I was feeling a little uncomfortable, kneeling up like that. But to be honest, if I let go I had no idea what I would say. So I did what I had been too scared to do the first time, what I had avoided at the cost of hurting the person I loved.

I held on. And holding on, uninhibited, just for the moment, I dared to tell her the truth.

"I kind of love you, Tina."

Thanks for reading :) Reviews much appreciated.