hell is a teenaged girl
- rating: T for language
- preview: You know what they say about desperate times: high school is the epitome of them. Pre-Glee, Brittana if you squint.
Santana's dresser is speckled with bottles of nail polish, constellations of colour with names like Brisbane Bronze and Greenwich Village. She doesn't know where those places are, has never bothered to Google them, because the knowledge would be a bruise-blue reminder that she's stuck in ass-end-of-nowhere-Ohio.
If Lima had its own shade of varnish, it'd be the hue of three day old slush, small-town sadness, too-bright lockers, and Santana has seen enough of that, thank you very much.
"Ooh, look at this one, San!" Brittany chirps, picking up a bottle. "It's like Valentine's Day."
The pink is lurid against Santana's skin, an explosion of Barbie dream houses and plastic ponies, but maybe a Dutch doll complexion will remedy that.
"You want me to give you a manicure?" she asks, catching a pale hand in her own. Brittany's skin smells like a bakery, drizzled vanilla and brown sugar, and her fingers curl against Santana's, instinctive and eager.
"You're kind of a spaz, S," she giggles.
"Listen, you, this is a sleepover. It's practically illegal to not paint your nails," the dark haired girl says, and her companion's mouth rounds. A thin palm is extended, no further questions asked.
A few clumsy brush strokes later, Santana smiles. "I was kidding, you know."
"Yeah," Brittany agrees, but does not move away. A handful of minutes pass and her fingertips are fluorescent. The worst of the imperfections are covered with stickers and sparkles, which Santana has had no use for since she was seven.
{-}
"You've got to take this off by Monday," Santana says. "For tryouts. I heard that the coach is crazy."
Brittany shrugs, unconcerned. She dances so fluidly that the air turns to water around her; even a tyrant like Sue Sylvester will see that.
"Britt, I'm serious. We've got to make it onto the squad."
A blonde head bobs in a nod, because Santana is right, always.
"'K, I don't think you get the gravity of the situation. When we're Cheerios, we don't need to give a fuck about anyone. People will just—leave us alone, I guess. Things will be easier that way," the brunette says, condensing years of uncertainty into Brittany-esque brevity. "You'll get to dance as much as you want, and nobody will say anything—"
The pause is awkward, speculative. Nobody will call you a fucking idiot, mock the things you say, slam you into walls hard enough to hurt. There must be dire reasons, Santana thinks, for wanting Coach Sylvester on your side, but the hell that high school will inflict upon her Brittany is justification enough.
"Got it, B?" she asks, knowing that Brittany's train of thought has derailed into whimsy a few minutes ago.
"No nail polish, because Sue Sylvester is crazy," she says, smiling.
"Exactly."
{-}
The sleepover is a case study in normalcy after that. Magazines are read, a horror movie is watched, and Brittany is a snuffle- snoring cocoon of flannel and duck-print pyjamas on Santana's bed by midnight. She does not notice, even a little, when a sweatshirt-clad arm snakes around her.
It'll be okay. I'll get you out of here.
Santana won't say that, won't even admit to thinking it, but the words are scarred upon her every move now, loving and hideous with perseverance.
First fic. Please be kind.
