All right, guys. This idea has been eating at me ever since I completed the last installment. And since I'm experiencing some down time with my other piece, I wanted to get this out before it left me.
Please keep in mind that I am currently working on another piece, and will devote all energy into this once the other is completed. Until then, check out the first installment, Fourteen Months, if you'd like to understand some of the concepts of this one.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or any of its characters.
Duh. Duh, duh, duh. Duh, duh, duh, duh, duh.
I grind against the lap of an older man, probably forty or so. His hands are as rough and calloused as the bass of this wretched song. They aren't the familiar smell of coconut and lavender that I've become accustomed to. Smells, however, do not deter any of The Club's patrons from copping a feel whenever they can. My backside. My chest. Hell, some are even brave enough to venture further down south.
"Brave" meaning oblivious. Not to the rules, which explicitly prohibit such behavior. But more so to the corner booth, where a silhouette occasional cranes its neck. Where a cloud of smoke consistently envelopes the area. Where servers continuously visit, delivering drink-clad trays. Two, sometimes three at a time. These touchy men with their touchy hands are oblivious to Santana, who's made it her job to monitor me while I work at mine.
I count to six in my head. That's roughly the amount of time each man has between my verbal warning and Santana's more physical presence. Six, seven, eight. Surely enough, she stumbles up, scowl plastered across her sunken face. "Hands, asshole," she snips.
The man, too fueled by a multitude of dark drinks, smirks at my best friend. My counterpart. My protector. The love of my life. His hands pop up in a surrendering fashion. I allow a breath. Just one, though. Hoping that we'll avoid a scene tonight. Understanding that we probably won't. "Hey," he grunts, smirk still as wide as ever. "She approached me."
I close my eyes just as a harsh clap rings throughout the area. Underneath me, the man falls out cold. To my right, Santana nurses her left hand. Cupped-palm-to-temple action. She usually doesn't get them on the first try, but nothing surprises me these days. Like when Bruce, The Club's head bouncer, approaches us, shaking his head. Or when Santana shrugs disbelievingly at him. "He had it coming," her grimace argues. I put a hand up, grab my best friend's arm, and promptly march out of the building.
"That's the third time this week," I sigh, cranking the car. It sputters once, twice, before turning over. God, we need something new. Thankfully, Santana hasn't tried wrestling the keys from me, or else we'd be even later in getting home. Which is a stretch, considering that "late" usually means staying past one's allotted shift. Anything past one in the morning. In the world of Santana and Brittany, though, being asked to leave my place of employment any time after eleven o'clock is pushing it.
She burps. "His hands were all over you. What else was I supposed to do?"
I don't bother mentioning the peaceful means that my boss has suggested time and time again. "Report the incident. Allow Bruce to do his job." He's been relatively cooperative, trying to help Santana and me out. Showering me with second chances. Extra hours. A larger tip-share than the other dancers. But try explaining that to the girl who struggles in sitting up right now. Who teeters like tumbleweed in the breeze. Try convincing her that handsy men mean more food on our table. An electricity bill that is actually paid on time. Clothes that fit for Eddie, who's growing daily, it seems.
Just try.
We pull into Lima Heights Adjacent just before midnight. Eddie should be fast asleep, but I know that he is not. He will undoubtedly be up and about with Carey, waiting on our safe return. He won't ask about the nature of Santana. Not anymore, at least. Not when an angry, liquor-fueled Santana is as common as the one he first came to know. The one that loved him dearly. The one that would go to the ends of this very earth to see that he experienced no pain.
These days, she's the number one source of it.
She can climb the stairs on her own tonight, which is a blessing, considering how tired these past couple of nights have left me. The end of the month is coming, though, which means that rent will be due. And when the diner Santana works at takes a major plummet in sales, we all suffer. I'm just doing what I can to pick up the slack.
Speaking of slack, Santana's legs give out about halfway to the door. I nestle my back into her front, take hold of both arms, and lift. "I'm good," she groans once we're inside. "I'm good."
"I'll say," Eddie chimes from the dining room table, closing his notebook. It's a practice Santana instilled in him early on, doing homework immediately after school. Granted, as she's fallen apart, so have her rules for conduct. We're lucky if the boy completes half of his assignments. At least, that's what the teachers have explained to us in countless meetings.
But the Latina marches over as she always does if she remembers, flips the notebook open, and scans his work. Sometimes, in moments like these, the real her will shine through the cracks, breaking my heart even more. "Hey, B," she begins, taking a moment to burp, "what's twelve times twelve?"
"One hundred and forty-four," the boy groans, snatching his paper away. "Now go crack yourself a Four Loko, Count Boozy von Drunk-a-Ton. Put your feet up. Relax a little."
The Latina's hand reaches out to catch the back of his head but misses. Instead, she stumbles forward, knocking into the baseball bat we once kept around as a protective presence. Nowadays, Santana and a bottle of rum are enough to ensure that no unwanted visitors swing by the Lopez-Pierce residence. Even Carey, who's been quietly standing in the kitchen until now, seems uncomfortable. I flash her a look of "I'm sorry" as she leaves the apartment.
I do the same to Eddie, who hesitantly leads Santana by the hand towards our couch. He then meets me in the kitchen, where I try tidying up before bed. Words aren't necessary at this point. They haven't been for quite some time. An understanding nod of aged faces is the most either of us needs. Considering that tonight has been an unpleasant one for Santana, both Eddie and I are well aware of what's to come. More importantly, I see to it that the boy is safely tucked away in his room before it does.
The door clicks locked before I dare venturing to the sofa. Santana, who dumbly stares at a static-ridden television (we haven't had the most basic cable for months), snaps to attention when I begin massaging her shoulders. She's still hunkered over, but more aware. And as I climb over the back of the couch, nestling in behind her and peppering light kisses across the girl's neck, she appears almost human. At least, for the split-second when her hand gently rubs across mine.
What comes next is routine. On her good, less agitated nights, Santana's far gentler in our endeavors. On nights like this, where she takes it upon herself to singlehandedly combat the slimy creatures of Lima, my best friend isn't really my best friend. She's someone else entirely. A forceful, troubled soul. Someone whose hand typically reaches back, sliding across and coaxing me in front. Someone whose hands could paint the most beautiful portraits if she wasn't so busy destroying everything in her path.
"Anger management," the therapist said.
"Angry sex," Santana heard.
I'm eased onto my back, brown eyes cutting into mine. "You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen," she brokenly says. I trust her, even through clouded judgment. The sincerity of her tone, her expression, her features, is enough to convince an Eskimo that he should buy this ice for one reason or another. "I just hate it when those assho—"
I kiss her fervently to suppress the building rant. It's far too late. Eddie needs his sleep. No sense in yelling. No sense in prolonging the inevitable.
Few words are exchanged after this. Instead, gentle pecks turn into hot, open-mouthed kisses. Shirts are shed and tossed across the room. We topple from the couch to carpeted floor. Where she was unstable before, Santana hovers over me with great ease. She then wastes no time in looping two fingers through my jeans, tugging them down hurriedly. A thigh presses into my center. A mouth meets the nape of my neck, nibbling just a little too hard.
I suppress a wince, not wanting Santana to cry. She undoubtedly would, just as she always does when she believes me to be in slightest bit of pain.
If this were high school, I might get into the act a little bit more. But this isn't high school. This isn't McKinley and this isn't just some hook up at a party. This is what's become of Brittany and Santana. This is a scene that plays out almost nightly.
"How about you let me top tonight?" I ask, trying to smile as I flutter a hand across the side of her neck. "Allow you to enjoy yourself for a change. How does that sound?"
My answer comes in the form of a dismissive grunt. Santana, with hot breath that reeks of alcohol, doesn't bother with foreplay. Instead, she merely ignores a swollen left hand, plunging two fingers into me. Seconds later, she's writhing against my body. I usually try to stifle the pleasure, the swell of heat; this sends coursing through my veins. She should know that I'm tired. She should understand the separation of physical and emotional. She doesn't.
My back doesn't help the argument, either, as it arches into her, trying like hell to deepen her hold.
We continue like this for the better part of a half hour. Each fighting for dominance. My eventual submission. Hands clawing at whatever flesh they meet. We both possess red marks that heal and are torn anew each night. Scratches the lengths of our backs. I accidentally draw blood when Santana pushes me closer to the edge. She ignores her own obvious pain, continuing deeper and harder with each thrust. And with a final brush against my clit coupled with the last plunge of her fingers, I'm forced over the edge.
Blood litters the undersides of my finger nails as a white light fills my vision. If Santana notices either, she doesn't seem to care.
As I've said before, this is the same scene that unfolds each night. She never wants like treatment. Most of the time, she flips me onto my stomach, not even wanting the slightest bit of eye contact. Most of the time, we might make it to the bedroom. Most of the time, Eddie doesn't have to witness the before. But like everything else that might've once fallen under the category of "most of the time", our relationship is constantly changing. Evolving. And most of the time, it's not always for the best.
One thing remains consistent, though, and it's how she'll pull the quilt from the back of the couch over our bodies. Cradling my head on her chest, she doesn't bother with a pillow. Not if I'm already comfortable. We simply lie on the floor, naked bodies formed against each other, shivering against the early October night chill.
They say, "All you need is love." Yeah, right. Love and a heating unit that actually works.
Santana usually drifts right off to sleep. Sometimes she might cry for a moment or so, but it's mostly just guttural snores that keep me awake. I use the moments to think. It's the only time that I'm free of an otherwise constant state of worry. As my head bobs up and down with her struggled, smoke-tainted breaths, I reflect on Brittany and Santana. The people we used to be. Where we used to be. How in the hell we ever ended up this way.
Where, exactly, did we begin? Was it in the second grade, underneath that playground slide? Or the night she took a major fall for me? Could it have been my drunken night of wandering around, searching for my best friend, only to be found passed out nearest a dumpster? What about that night on her parents' roof, when she swore with the most sincerity and belief that we were going to be okay?
It's been a wild ride. A train wreck, more appropriately. Constantly moving. But moving doesn't necessarily mean in a positive direction. What I would give for just a minute of stillness with Santana. Quiet. Peace. Serenity. As my science professor might say, we're too busy serving as the North ends of a magnet. Desperately trying to connect. Constantly forcing ourselves together, only for the laws of attraction to say otherwise.
But I try. God, do I try. If I could just pinpoint where everything started, then I should be able dissect our issues. Root of the problem, right? It's somewhere in the past, obviously. Somewhere on that roller coaster of a fourteen month span, where I spent every waking moment trying to win my best friend back. Lies, heartache, and betrayal. Sex, hospitals, and tears. Even the drinking. We'd sworn it off altogether. Particularly when it so threatened to tear us apart for good.
These nights on the floor, where I do just about all of my thinking, they beg the most obvious, heartbreaking question of all. How am I supposed to defeat the past when it's become such a large part of our present?
Not alone, surely. Surely.
Santana snores loudly this time. I inspect her face. On the verge of wrinkles. Black bags underneath her eyes. Boney. Sunken into itself. Most of all, I can see the turmoil. The internal war. You don't have to stare into those once mesmerizing eyes to see that she's not the same. There's pain. There's conflict. There's a struggle between who she is and who she should be.
And I guess that I'm to blame for that.
Is it possible, though, to miss the girl lying next to me more than anything in this world?
We won't go into too much detail. Not now. There are far too many angles of approach. Soon enough, though, I'll try giving you a specific answer. Give a name to our suffering. Our strife. One day, I'll deeply dissect the once very-in-love girls known as Brittany and Santana. One day, I'll give you a definitive answer.
But since you're asking—not like you've got a gun to my temple or anything—I'll just say that it began somewhere in the vicinity of fourteen months ago. How fitting, right? But it was a little over a year since our night on her parents' roof. After Santana convinced me that everything would be okay. That we'd be okay.
We were lying in bed. We'd just made love, as we frequently did back then. Eddie accidentally popped in the doorway shortly after we'd settled underneath the covers, and Santana threw a pillow, smacking him square across the forehead. We all got a big kick out of that.
Then he muttered something in Spanish (Santana had been teaching him). I recognized it as maybe a cuss word, but they never would tell me. They enjoyed those kinds of secrets. Inside jokes or whatever.
We were all happy then. Santana made a point of telling me when she took hold of my hand, caressing the crook of each finger. We just laid there, soaking in the beautiful silence. Listening to the other breathe. Having our breaths fall in sync. Then her head cocked over in the slightest. I even remember the way that an inlet of moonlight reflected off of her eyes as they met mine.
I was never more in love than in that moment.
It was also more than likely right here that our issues arose. Where everything came crumbling down. Because she muttered four simple words that carried so much. The weight of our entire relationship. Eddie's weight. The weight of our futures. Yes, there in that dark room, staring at me with as much love as one person can, Santana muttered:
"Marry me, Brittany Pierce."