Title: This Show is Over, Say Goodbye
Author: Awkward Turtleduck
Pairing: Brittany x Santana
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Up to 'Duets'
Summary: Brittany has always been in love with Santana, and she has also always believed that her best friend feels the same way. However, all this pretending is slowly breaking her heart.
A/N: Title from Madonna's 'Take a Bow'. A one-shot, maybe two, if I get around to it.
Blue light washed out all the other colors in the room. Brittany's eyes travelled to the window and saw the sky slowly slowly bleeding out the dark color of the night, indicating the coming of dawn. She slowly breathed out a soft sigh before turning to her side to gaze at the figure beside her. She let her eyes roam at the dark skin of the other woman's shoulders that peeked over the blanket, then to the achingly beautiful face framed by black wavy hair. Brittany's breath hitched, as it always did whenever she looked at Santana's face.
It wouldn't be long before she woke up as well.
Brittany resisted the yearning of her entire being to keep on looking at her best friend. She had to close her eyes again and will herself to sleep, or at least, to pretend to still be asleep. Until Santana gathered her clothes and crept out of the house through the window, leaving no trace of the night before, except for her scent on Brittany's sheets.
It had always been like this, and Santana had preferred it this way. That one time when she woke up to Brittany's loving gaze, Santana froze up then hurriedly dressed herself, leaving the house in three minutes flat, without taking a look at Brittany or saying a word save for a mumbled see you at school. It broke Brittany's heart a little, just like those times when Santana would brush her off in favor of flirting with some jock; or when she would disappear in the middle of a party with a random hook-up, leaving Brittany to wander off and take the next guy who grinded his body against hers to an empty corner to quell the hurt; or when she would crawl on to Brittany's bed smelling of sweat and sex and another man's scent. But just like those other times when Santana would link her pinky with hers while walking in the hallways; or when, in those rare moments of courage lent by alcohol, she would dance with Brittany and her face would be soft and smiling; or when she would snuggle with Brittany, holding her so close and so tenderly, Brittany's breaking heart mended itself.
It was a sick cycle, Brittany knew. But she just couldn't find it in her to stop it. Santana liked to pretend, and yes, that hurt Brittany more than anything. But Santana also had a way to make her feel so loved. Like if Brittany pretended to still be asleep when she woke up, Santana would take her time dressing up, and before leaving, she would gently brush Brittany's bangs from her forehead, pressing a kiss there, and she would whisper you're so beautiful, Britt-Britt, or thank you. And sometimes, she wouldn't leave just yet, after whispering those words. Sometimes, Santana would press another kiss on her forehead, or on her nose, or on the corner of her mouth. Then with a sigh, she would get up from bed, leave through the window and climb down the tree, just like what she used to do when she was younger and freer. For moments like this, Brittany was willing to pretend as well.
During the first few times this happened, Brittany thought that she could live this way forever. Though she wanted more, she could be content with whatever Santana gave her. Not because what Santana gave was enough; but rather, it was precisely because it was Santana who was giving it. That was all that mattered. As long as she had Santana.
But what exactly did it mean, having Santana?
It was true that to the world they were inseparable best friends, a two-shot, so to speak. And that was already something, especially since Santana was known to be a star that burns solo: the beautiful fiery cheerleader who had most of the entire male population salivating over her, the female population envying her, and all the rest quaking in fear of her viciousness. Being able to stay close to her without being burned was part of what it meant having Santana.
And yet.
And yet, Brittany felt that she only had half of her best friend. Unlike Brittany who showed the same face to everybody, Santana had two persona: the stage persona and the backstage persona. The stage persona was what Santana showed in public, the cutthroat bitch-slut who got what she wanted, all the time. This persona, Santana explained, was necessary to keep people in check, an armor of sorts. Brittany nodded although she didn't really understand the need to keep that armor. Brittany didn't have that and she was okay. And she honestly believed that if Santana showed her backstage persona instead, the sweet, caring girl who had held Brittany's hand whenever there was a thunderstorm, people would come love her, too. But then again, Brittany wanted Santana all to herself, so for a time she guessed it was okay that her friend kept that part of herself just for the two of them.
Brittany had backstage Santana, and only a bit of stage Santana, the bit as her best friend. The other part, the large part, that Brittany could never seem to get, was the Santana who publicly made out with boys, the one who was proud to be a boy-loving cheerleader.
It honestly got more confusing when Santana started denying what Brittany thought she felt when they were together. Santana would sometimes bite harder on Brittany's neck, her hands would be rougher, her words cruder, and her actions altogether harsher. At first, Brittany thought it was because Santana's go-to male-trophy, Puck, had started to play up the monogamous-good-daddy card and Santana was just frustrated that keeping her show was now a bit more difficult. But, it wasn't long before Brittany realized that it wasn't just that; somehow, something else is driving Santana to be more vicious in private as well, to the point that both the show and the backstage persona have started bleeding into each other. When they both have sex now, it felt more like just fucking and no longer making love. The more Brittany thought about this, the more she heard the whispering doubts at the back of her mind. Maybe she built this all up in her head; maybe it had always been fucking and she just painted it with roses just because she was in love with her best friend. Hadn't Santana said this is just sex, Britt, and sex isn't dating when she asked that one time if they were a couple now?
Brittany had to know the extent of Santana's show. Though Brittany hated to make anyone choose, just as she hated it when people ask her if she liked boys or girls more—and honestly, she would have preferred it if they would just ask, all the boys in the world, or Santana? then it would be easier to answer—she knew that she had to give Santana an ultimatum. What was more important to Santana: the carefully fabricated lie of wanting every boy and not Brittany; or the truth that Brittany believed in, or at least what Brittany hoped to be the truth, that Santana did love her, much more than her sick show.
"I'm not making out with you because I'm in love with you—"
And there it was. Santana made her decision.