your absence has gone through me, a glee fanfic

summary: 'Your father leads you into a large, quiet, private waiting room. Judy is already there, sitting in the corner, and you imagine that she is numb, that she is at once living in the hyper-real that Quinn thinks about so much; that it will destroy you all.' santana's pov during the accident. brittana and faberry, with definite nerd!quinntana friendship.

an (1): like, i don't even know which characters to file this under. just know that romantically it's faberry and brittana, with no debate there. it's about quinn and santana though, more than anything i think, so there you go. i've been 'almost done' with this for a long time, and just now discovered it saved on my mac. also, this will solidify my immense lit nerdiness (and probably snobbery) if it wasn't solidified already.

an (2): title from 'separation' by w.s. merwin. listen to 'river love' by angus stone.

...

your absence has gone through me (like thread through a needle)

everything i do is stitched with its colour

...

You like math—mathematics—which is something most people don't know about you, because you fly under the radar in class and no one really pays much attention after that.

But you like it, you like how it can be solved, how it's absolute, how it's even more empirical than science and how it's frustrating and how goddamn rewarding it is to find a solution to a Taylor Series that wasn't assigned for homework.

You tell Rachel, "Face it. Quinn's not coming."

You're kidding—you just like to irk her, ruffle her feathers. You're also completely honest, because Quinn's your best friend.

You tell Rachel, "She probably not answering because she's a law abiding citizen and all that. I'm sure she'll be here soon."

It's one of Quinn's weirdest, most annoying and impractical quirks, you think, how she refuses to use her cell phone when she's driving.

Rachel's phone never goes off and Quinn never shows up. Neither of these things really rock you, surprise you—they're logical, simple functions; xs yielding expected ys.

What does surprise you, though, is that Rachel tells Finn that they're going to reschedule. Just tells him, calmly, without tears or foot-stomping or—thank Jesus—song.

He starts to fume; your phone rings; it's your father.

Brittany squeezes your shoulder and then an infinite amount of ys are suddenly possible from just one horrific x. You comprehend it in the worst way.

You think of Quinn explaining how language is an imperfect tool of communication: a word can never actually be the object it signifies; objects exist in the real, which we can never achieve because doing so would remove the incompleteness of our complete humanness, based on our existence as beings of language itself; to this you rolled your eyes.

You think of mathematics and how Lucy Quinn Fabray is full of shit, and you frantically squeeze yourself together and fight a rocketing sob into Brittany's shoulder.

Rachel doesn't even ask; you're silently appalled that you hadn't known something was wrong.

Brittany takes your keys from your hand and steers you toward the parking lot.

"Santana," she says, a lifeline, the only solution. "Santana."

When you get to the hospital, it smells like your father when he comes home. He meets you in the lobby; he's a cardiologist, so he doesn't really know much of what's going on.

His refusal to completely meet your eyes causes you to start shaking. You're not angry; you are incredibly, crushingly afraid. It's a fear you've never felt before.

You have imagined what it would be like to die. You have imagined what it would be like for Brittany to die. You have imagined what it would be like for Quinn to die.

You realize: You have never imagined what it would be like for Quinn to die.

Your father leads you into a large, quiet, private waiting room. Judy is already there, sitting in the corner, and you imagine that she is numb, that she is at once living in the real that Quinn thinks about so much; that it will destroy you all.

Brittany sits down next to her; she has strength there will be no way of ever understanding, only acknowledging. She takes Judy's hand with a sure, peaceful smile. From anyone else, right now, it would seem garish, grotesque.

From Brittany it is merely beautiful.

Everyone comes into the waiting room. They mill about; they pace; they get coffee. You understand surrealism.

Your legs are numb. Brittany's hand exists because you touch it. Your hand exists because Brittany touches it. The sun sets. The lights never dim.

Quinn was texting. Quinn was texting and driving. Quinn never texted and drove.

Quinn was texting and driving.

Some people go home. You still haven't stopped shaking.

Brittany stands and starts walking; you follow without choice.

In the waiting room of the children's ward, it is dark. How Brittany gets in the door, you don't know, but soon you are alone, the only two inside.

There are glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. You think about counting them, but it seems like too many. You wonder if Quinn is up there now. No one has told you she has died yet, and a part of you thinks—hopes—you would feel it.

Another part of you is aware that you would only know that Quinn is dead due to her absence, her lack, like a black hole. There would be no way to ever see it; its existence would only be proven by the things around it.

Brittany lies down on the floor. She pulls you with her. You put your head against her chest and her heart beats with the number of stars that fill the universe.

You whisper, "Is she going to disappear?"

Brittany is phenomenally wise. This is why you love her.

"There are places so much better than this," she says.

Quinn has been in surgery for hours. Quinn is now out of surgery. Quinn is still alive.

You don't get to see her yet; she's critical but stable, in the ICU.

Your father chronicles a long, long list of injuries.

She will not be the same; this you know with unwavering immediacy. You don't need proof.

Rachel has stayed the night. You know what this would mean to Quinn. You also know that Quinn reads meaning into everything, and it's brave and foolish at the same time.

Rachel hasn't stopped crying.

Brittany falls asleep on your shoulder and Rachel looks at the two of you and seems to take it as some radical reassurance, because soon she's asleep too, eyes closed and hands resting atop a veil balled up to act as a pillow.

It obscures part of her face. She thinks this is her fault.

Judy's hand is on your shoulder. Your father is behind her. You wake up and it is early in the morning.

"She's not awake, but you two can see her now for a few minutes," he tells you.

Brittany stands—a simple act, something incredibly complex—and tugs you with her. You see her look at Rachel, who is sitting up and staring at the wall.

You look at Rachel.

"Can she come with us?" Brittany asks.

Rachel's eyes snap to yours.

"Sure," Judy says.

Rachel follows the two of you into the hallway.

"Thank you," she tells Brittany.

Brittany looks at you when she says, "Quinn would want you there."

Quinn does not look like Quinn. She looks younger, and she has bruises everywhere, one particular one blooms purple over her left eye and over her glamourous, high cheekbone.

Around her lips is tape, which is holding a clear plastic tube in place.