Right, so this is the first fic I've written since my teenage years (I believe my old stories are still floating around somewhere in the wasteland of this website). I've never taken on any of the subject matter that I'm about to deal with here before, so please bear with me. There are so many wonderful Brittana fics out there at the moment, but this story's been stuck in my head so I'm throwing my own into the mix.
This chapter is mostly to set up the story that is to come. Although I have a very set vision of where this story will be going, suggestions are always welcome!
Also, there IS a lot of swearing in this chapter. I've never felt the need to warn against this, but considering the number of 'F Bombs' about to be dropped (just in the first paragraph alone), I figured I should. But really, it's angry/heartbroken Santana- what did you expect? ;)
Hope you enjoy!
...
CHAPTER ONE
Santana Lopez is crying. Honest to god fucking tears streaming down her face crying, and Santana Evangeline Lopez does not fucking cry. Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck that blonde and her blue eyes and her wheelchair fucking boyfriend. FUCK!
Santana is so angry she could scream, but she doesn't. She doesn't. She doesn't because the mere act of opening her mouth to let out any noise at all just hurts too damn much. She's scared of what will come out if she lets it, kind of like sitting in a dingy in front of a dam that's about to burst with nothing but a broken paddle in your hands. Either way, chances are you're fucked. It feels like someone has been pulling at her flesh from the inside and is now rubbing salt into the wounds. The tears are burning a blazing trail down her cheeks, scalding her skin like rivers of burning lava- the salty liquid pooling in the crease of her lips being the only thing she can taste on her tongue.
For once she wishes her mother was around to hold her, stroke her hair, wrap her up in a warm blanket, give her a Bacardi Breezer or some hot chocolate or whatever it is mothers give their kids in these situations- and tell her everything is going to be OK. The one time she wishes she came from a normal family is of course one of the many times she remembers you don't live in a million dollar mansion in Lama frikkin Heights and ever actually get to see your parents. Fuck it! She doesn't need anyone. She's gotten through life alone just dandy until now and she's not about to stop just because of some Lima loser blonde.
But honestly, it would be nice to have someone there to hug her at this moment. Someone who cares that she is in pain, that she is hurting. The tears are still streaming down her face. Honest to god, she's not even trying, they just won't stop coming. From the corner of her eyes she can see a dark salty stain growing on her beige seven hundred gazillion thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets and she can't help her lips from curling up into a twisted satisfied smirk.
...
She can't remember the last time she used her tear ducts this much. Actually, she can. It was when Brit had made her come in the most gentle of ways after they had watched My Best Friend's Wedding in bed. Brittany had suggested they make a similar pact. It was meant to be funny, but when Santana thought about it, really, really thought about it- it just made her sad. She had locked herself in Brit's bathroom and cried for half an hour. This particular moment had come about after the duets fiasco and after Brittany had finally forgiven her. The blonde had never stood her ground so firm with Santana until that fight. It had taken a lot of coaxing and sweet-talking to be allowed back into her bed. When Brittany had unexpectedly lay on top of her that day, resting her head in her favourite position on Santana's chest, the brunette had been so grateful- immediately tangling her fingers in the blonde's hair, smoothing down some stray strands. Even with the weight of Brittany on top of her, Santana's breathing had not felt so easy in weeks as it had at that moment. She wrapped her arms around Brittany in a vice-like grip.
Brittany looked up at her and smiled with knowing eyes. It was one of the blonde's hidden depths that not many people got to know about or see. For all the talking she didn't do with her mouth, her eyes spoke volumes. Brittany had propped herself up on her elbows and leaned down to place a soft kiss on the darker girl's lips. Her curtain of hair fell down- framing Santana's face, letting the familiar scent of oranges catch her nostrils and she smiled into the kiss.
"What?" Brittany looked at her, amusement in her eyes.
"Nothing. Keep kissing." Santana smiled as she tugged on Brittany's top, bringing her lips back within kissing distance.
Santana had bought her that shampoo from Body Shop as a birthday gift when they were ten. At that time, Santana; stout and chubby with a faint mustache on her upper lip- did not run with the popular crowd that Brittany (even then); tall, blonde, gorgeous, absolutely malleable and without a mean bone in her body, ran with. 'The Strawberries' as they called themselves, run with an iron fist by ringleader Becky Anderson- made all members use only strawberry products; lip-gloss, shampoo, body butter, you name it. Santana wouldn't have been part of that group of bimboes even if she could. It was just too fucking retarded even for her ten-year-old self. And strawberry? Seriously? Santana couldn't think of anything more lame and girly if she tried. Yes, please set the female race back a hundred years! Strawberry! It's exactly what anyone would expect!
She made sure to point this out to Brittany, saying that just because Becky fucking Anderson (she'd heard her mother use this particular turn of phrase with 'Layla fucking Palmer,' her father's secretary) liked strawberry didn't mean she needed to as well. Brittany had shrugged as she accepted the orange gift set, but had immediately cut all ties with 'the Strawberries' the day they plastered photos of Santana with a stick-on moustache and a sombrero hat all over the girls' bathroom.
"From now on," she had informed Santana with earnestness in her voice, "I will always strive to be Oranges!"
Really, it was the most ridiculously lucid thing she had ever heard Brittany say, and it kind of became their motto. 'Strive to be Oranges,' they'd say with locked pinkies. She'd often find Brittany demurring after a particularly stupid comment with a wry smile visible on her lips, "Sorry, just having a Strawberry Moment." Again, that self-awareness that many people did not know Brittany possessed. Well kudos to you universe, you've just made Santana Lopez feel like the biggest fucking Strawberry in the world!
Just for the record ( in case anyone is in doubt), Santana made Becky Anderson pay. Oh yes she did! At fourteen, when suddenly she shot up, her boobs grew out, the braces came off, and she found a perfect bleach for that pesky hair on her upper lip, there was not a boy (and she now also suspects- a few girls) who would not walk barefoot over glass to cop a feel. Santana realised at a ripe young age the power of a pretty face. Having also been taught the power of vicious, vicious words courtesy of Becky Anderson (oh the irony), she was resident queen bitch of McKinley Middle School in no time. Meanwhile, 'Becky Former Bimbo' had transferred to a new school by mid-semester. Teach that bitch a lesson!
...
Santana has had enough of lying on her bed. Maybe it will hurt a little less if she stands up. She slowly pushes herself into an upright position, dangling her feet over the side of the bed and walks over to her mirror on unsteady feet. She examines her face in the mirror, red and blotchy from all the crying. There are tracks of black mascara streaked across her cheeks, with the foundation she really doesn't need to wear over her flawless skin only left in random patches on her face. Santana can rock most looks, but 'heartbreak' is one even she does not do well. She touches her hand to the heart necklace that has been a permanent fixture around her neck since fourteen. She feels for the inscription on the back- 'B&S BFF.' In a flash of anger she yanks at the chain with surprising force, the silver beads of the necklace scattering all over the floor.
The friction sears the skin on the left hand side of her neck, but Santana doesn't even wince. A small trickle of blood bubbles to the surface of the cut skin and Santana watches it run down her collarbone with a strange sense of satisfaction. She brings her index finger to staunch the slow trickle of blood making its way to the front of her spaghetti straps. No use in spoiling a good shirt. She looks at the red liquid on her finger and brings it to her lips. So this is what heartache tastes like. She looks at herself one more time, the beads on the floor, and her face crumples.
She doubles over as what starts as a small nugget of pain in her stomach explodes and soars through her body, up her throat, blasting in her mouth as she lets out a scream of sheer agony. An invisible foot kicks her in the back of her knees and she is brought to the floor, her body wracked with sobs, gasping for air.
...
She doesn't know how long she's been lying on the floor like this. All she knows is that when she is woken by the loud bleeping of her phone, her room is plunged in darkness, the only source of light being that coming from her cell. She picks up the device, the familiar name BSP (L) flashing across the screen. Her name's been saved that way since middle school. She has an overwhelming urge to delete it, but curiosity gets the best of her. She sees it's the latest of nine messages.
1. S pleez can we talk? I hate the way we left things. Cum over later?
2. Sa-Lo, pleez answr. Nethin, just lemme know ur alive.
3. Santana, u ok? Pleez get back 2 me!
She flicks through the next five messages, all voicing various stages of panic, pausing to read the last one.
S, I've tried calling but u know how bad reception is at my house. I'm really worried. If u dnt answr I'm coming over!
Santana is furious. She is the one who got shut down after baring her soul. To have Brittany being the one checking up on her- is unbearable! The thought of having her come over to stare at her with those puppy dog eyes is more than she can take. She grabs the phone and angrily punches in the reply with shaky hands.
I've been out. My whole life does not revolve around you you know. Don't come over. I have no interest in seeing you.
She lets out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding, adrenaline pumping through her system. That is by far the meanest text she's ever sent Brittany and she doesn't feel as great as she thought she would. She throws her phone down onto her bed and kicks at her dresser in anger. She yelps as pain shoots through her foot. Half of the contents is blown off the table by the force of her kick. After a few steadying breaths she bends down to pick up some of the collateral damage. Heartbroken she may be, but a slob she is not. She picks up her mother of pearl and ivory hairbrush- a present from her grandmother from when she went to Africa. It's one of the last things she ever gave her and one of Santana's most treasured possessions. She picks it up and feels the twinge of her heartstrings as the sees the strands of blonde hairs intertwined with her own. It takes all of her strength not to hurl the brush at the wall. Instead, she holds it gingerly in her hands, feeling a strand of blonde hair between her fingers.
She feels the tears push behind her eyelids as she takes a steadying breath. She remembers one of the last conversations she had with her grandmother.
"Mija, it's not who you fall in love with that matters- it's that you love them and they love you back."
She remembers this conversation, her twelve-year-old self cradled in her grandmother's embrace as they look at the photographs of the smiling girl on the wall. Their gaze both linger on the same photograph, the one of Selena with her arms thrown around Tash, her lips planting a smiling kiss on her forehead. Nana died that Friday. Heartbreak really can kill you. The memories of that day, of that week, is something Santana doesn't let herself think about too often because some things are just too fucking painful, you know?
Brittany is the only one who knows about those dark holes Santana sometimes falls into and one of the few who knows how to pull her out of them. Brittany. She hasn't thought of the blonde for a full thirty minutes, but right now, when the pain of past losses threaten to overcome her- she has the most overwhelming urge to call her, to sob into that space in the crook of her neck that is reserved just for her. But she resists. Instead, she heads out onto the empty landing, her footsteps echoing in the empty mansion.
She practically throttles down the steps into the dining room and over to the liquor cabinet. She takes a pin out of her hair and undoes the lock in the blink of an eye, a skill acquired long ago. The bottles in the Lopez house are replaced with such regularity no one ever notices if one goes missing. She pulls out a bottle of Kettel One, the least offensive looking of the bunch. She unscrews the cork and gags at the smell. She pinches her nose and brings the bottle to her lips, taking a deep swig. She splutters as the alcohol hits her throat, regurgitated liquid spilling down her chin and out her nose. Fuck! Despite appearances, Santana is not really the hardened drinker she makes out to be. Sure, she'll always be the one to bring alcohol to the party, but rarely imbibes herself. She feels that after everything that happened with Selena, it would be like disrespectful or something. Whatever. She has no one and she really wants a fucking drink.
She heads into the kitchen and goes to the cupboard to take out the most expensive glass from her mother's crystal glass collection. If you're gonna drink alone, might as well drink in style eh. She pours half a cup of Kettel, going to the fridge to pull out the diet coke which she uses to top off the glass. It goes down easy this time. One glass is quickly followed by two more. She feels wonderfully numb. It's like seeing the world through a Plexiglas cage. But the pain doesn't go away completely. It's just a little duller. She is drunk and walking around alone.
Alone, alone, alone, alone.
The word echoes through the empty house. She sways slightly and pumps into a side table. She manages to catch the vase right before it's about to shatter on the floor. Sweet catch! Santana does a little pirouette victory dance.
Her feet take her back up the stairs and she slips on the polished dark oak floor. Shit. She knows her knee will hurt like a bitch in the morning.
Instead of taking the right back to her room, she turns left instead, walking down towards the other end of the hall. Her hands slip on the handle to the door she hasn't opened in ages. The stale air hits her as she enters, choking her. She flicks on the light switch and the bulb casts a dim glow over the room. Some of the posters and photographs have started to peel off the wall, but otherwise the room is exactly the same. She sits down on the bed in the exact same spot as she sat five years ago. She pushes herself into the mattress, wiling it to be her grandmother's lap. She turns her head and stares at the photos hanging on the wall- taking in the eyes, the colour hair, the smile that is so like her own, but her vision is quickly blurred by tears. She heaves for air as agony explodes in her chest.
"Why?" She manages to choke out. "Why? Why? Why? Why? WHY?" She wails into the empty room. Empty house.
She begins to see stars behind her closed eye lids. She feels the prickle on her forehead. She feels the world spinning. Fuck! This is an amusement ride she wants to get off of and now! She manages to pull herself upright and launch herself to the bathroom door. Thank god all the rooms in this house are en-suite! She barely has time to open her mouth before the vomit projectiles out. The sweat shines on her forehead and trickles down her spine. Her clammy hands slip on the porcelain bowl as she tries to keep from collapsing.
...
Her stomach hurts from the contractions what feels like hours later when no amount of coaxing her fingers do down her throat will make more vomit come. She slumps against the cistern, exhausted. She takes a deep breath and pushes herself off the floor.
She takes unsteady steps out the bathroom, not glancing at the photos on the wall as she slinks out of the room shamefaced.
She slumps onto the bed when she finally reaches her own bedroom. She picks up her phone. 2:00 AM. No new messages. With what little coordination she has left, she opens her contact list.
BSP (L)- are you sure you wish to delete this contact? She pushes the 'yes' button and tosses the phone to the ground without setting the alarm.
'Fuck you.' Is the last thing she thinks before she passes out. 'Fuck you Brittany S. Pierce.'
