A/N: Betaed by the delightful Isobel. This is Matt/Santana with Brittany/Santana and Puck/Santana overtones, neither of which are actually too too shippy (dark, but not actually shippy). Review if you like.
Santana furiously lights a cigarette, leaning up against the brick of the school building with itchy fingers and slow-burning paper and a need to explode, kicking at the loose gravel on the ground.
Matt laughs.
"This isn't funny."
He just grins at her. "You do the crime, you do the time," he says, with a soft laugh.
She narrows her eyes at him. "Fuck you."
He takes the cigarette from her then, his fingertips brushing along her knuckle, before inhaling deep; she smirks at him with her red, red lips. The smoke settles on his insides like fallout and he exhales slowly, holding himself back, delighting in the way his body reacts – like an opening flower, gradual, streamlined movements of a thousand different muscles. "What is it today," he says, changing the subject, "cherry red?"
Her lips curl into an artificial smile. "Bombshell berry."
He winces and shakes his head. "Who comes up with this shit?"
She shakes her head.
The past never stays in the past. She got community service once in the seventh grade – a three month sentence – all because she punched some pendejoin the mouth for beating Matt up. Santana doesn't live by many rules; she doesn't like to plan like Rachel Berry, every detail of her life falling into perfectly organized, perfectly labeled boxes, but make no mistake: fuck with Santana Lopez' friends, family, or name, and die a painful, violent death. Santana is many things, but she's not a turncoat.
But high school is different. She's different. Community service is practically a death sentence for her social life now and to spend time with some senior citizen ex-con who's supposed to show her how hard her life could have been on the streets? Ugh, please. As if she's supposed to pretend that her life is so much better just because she didn't grow up in the Bronx like J. Lo, middle-class and faking it. She's seen the after school special, thank you. Matt thinks it's hilarious.
He snorts, fist held up against his mouth to restrain his laughter. "What if you get some, like, weird old white dude?"
She crinkles her nose. "God, I hope not."
He feigns a serious expression. "This is Ohio."
She whirls around then, hands on her hips and anger on the tip of her tongue, curling her words at the corners with the slight accent of someone from the south side. "I didn't even do anything. Bitch shouldn't have run her mouth off at me." She rolls her eyes and reaches for the cigarette again. It hangs loosely between her lips at the corner, like the way the gangsters smoke in the old black-and-white movies, and she catches the way that Matt looks at her all of a sudden, half-awed; it makes her feel uncomfortable.
In their silence, the paper sizzles as she breathes in the smoke.
"Community service in Lima. Could be worse."
She turns to him. "How?"
He snickers. "Rachel could have been your mentor."
Santana pulls at her hair tie, her hair falling onto her shoulders loosely; the tension in her head subsides. "I think I would have killed myself."
He slides an arm around her shoulders. "It's okay. I've got your funeral all planned out."
"You're fucking weird, you know that?"
"And you're a bitch. You know that?"
"I didn't make it here by being nice."
And she sees his jawline set. He turns to look at her, hand on her forearm, fingers rough; he says, "Neither did I."
Santana drops the cigarette to the ground, stubs out what's left. "Where the fuck is your mom?"
He shrugs and sits down on the ground, staring out at the empty parking lot in front of them. "She's probably working late. I don't know."
Santana sits down next to him.
They see the other glee club members trickle out one by one. Finally, Mr. Schue, briefcase in hand, turning to them, sitting beneath the floodlight. "You kids have a ride?"
"Yeah, Mr. Schue," Matt says. "My mom's coming."
Mr. Schuester just squints at them, disbelievingly, for a second before heading out towards his car. "You want me to wait with you?"
"No, we're fine," Santana says.
They watch his car drive off, and Santana wonders at how much Mr. Schue actually thinks about them outside of his job. Maybe he cares about them and maybe he doesn't, but she's spent too much of her life depending on people who weren't worth a damn by the end of it, so she's not going to hang her hopes on him.
"You got another one?" Matt asks.
She bites her lip and unzips her jacket without shrugging it off, moving to stand toe to toe with him. Her eyelashes seem close enough to flutter onto his cheek. She says, "Get it yourself."
And his hand snakes into the warmth of her jacket, fingers brushing against her side to reach for the pack in the pocket. The carton lid squeaks when he opens it and he pulls one of the cigarettes out like it's a game of Jenga, slow movements, waiting for the blocks to topple. He holds it between his lips and looks at her.
She exhales sharply. "What, you want me to light it for you too?"
He nudges the lighter out of the front pocket of his jeans; the soft click and his face is hidden behind his hand and the gray start-up plumes of smoke. He snaps the lighter shut with his left hand, rubs at his eyes with the back of his right; he laughs smoke.
She manages that expression of both disgust, disdain, and a hint of sarcasm that she's practically trademarked. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead, he just tosses the cigarette to the ground and stubs it out. A car pulls up then – a rickety old station wagon ten years too old.
He slides in the passenger seat easily, but she stands there, white sneakers against black asphalt, staring at the door.
"Hey, San'," his mother says, cheerful with tired in the seams. "You want a ride?"
She slings her backpack over her shoulder. "No, I'll just—"
Matt rolls his eyes. "Don't be stupid. Get in the fucking car." His mom just smacks him across the back of the head ("Watch your mouth!").
Her hand slides under the handle of the door and she wishes for the jaunty bounce of the ponytail that protects her from all this. She just draws her shoulders back and slides into the car, mumbling soft words of thanks to his mother.
Times like these that she wishes she had Sue Sylvester's ability to be absolutely ruthless all of the time.
She taught him Spanish once.
On the playground after the sunset, sitting on the asphalt together, she went through the vocabulary and the daily sentences that she knew – the scraps of dirty gossip she overheard at the Dominguez shop, the lectures her father gave her, kitchen lessons from her mother. And Matt just held stones in the palm of his hand and repeated back everything she told him to say, nodding, as if this was just another secret language that they could learn, as if this was a way to escape to somewhere where parents were always there and they were never alone.
Te amo, that was the first thing she taught him.
Pendejo, that was the second word.
In retrospect, it probably makes a lot of fucking sense that those are the two words he knows best.
And in empty houses, in empty rooms, they sat in front of his tv that washed them in blue light with gray Nintendo controllers in their hands, pressing at buttons that stuck and sometimes didn't work, waiting for little Italian plumbers to move on the screen. And he would buy her the twenty-five cent bags of onion rings and Fritos and sitting there, she once thought that maybe they should get married because nothing sounded better than being with someone who would be willing to buy her corn chips all the time and play Mario Bros. without bitching about having to share.
So maybe it's true that things never change. Maybe she's just changed the Fritos for diamonds, the Nintendo for a million-dollar mansion. Maybe this is the best she can hope for –
Santana doesn't hope for anything. The world makes it happen or she makes the world make it happen; there is no going back.
"Community service?"
Her mother breathes the words like a death sentence and she can't help but roll her eyes. Mami just smacks her with the broom handle.
"I don't know what I did to deserve you," her mother rattles in slow Spanish. "Always going off and doing dumb shit like this."
She filters it out like she's always done, marches up the worn wooden steps to her room –
The fact that Matt's only fifteen minutes away doesn't comfort her as much as it used to.
She lies on her bed, on top of the comforter, and recites Hail Marys in Spanish.
The next day, Matt bumps into her in the hallway. "Your parents pissed?"
She drops off her books loudly into her locker, ignoring him. He bounces on his feet, waiting for her response. She slams her locker door and heads for English.
He heads the opposite direction.
At least she can say he's a quick learner.
Mister P in the guidance office rattles off the terms and conditions of her community service after seventh period and she finds herself nodding blankly, chomping away loudly on a piece of contraband gum just to see if he'll do anything.
"You have to sign here."
She scribbles her name on the dotted line.
"You know where the Rec Center is?"
She purses her lips. "I'm sure I can find it."
"Well," he says, with false cheer, "doesn't that sound nice?"
She doesn't even bother to lie.
She hides parts of herself in the pleats of her cheerleading uniform, secrets and bits of her history get lost in the red and white of her skirt.
Well, for one –
Matt was her first kiss. And that shit's not getting out to anyone.
She was fourteen and it counts in a way that doesn't really count. He wasn't her boyfriend and she wasn't dating him – would she ever date him? – and they were splitting a can of Coke on the stoop outside his apartment. The boys across the street were trying to act tough to get her attention, catcalling her with Idominicana/Iand jeering at her hair. She gave them the finger and just grabbed his face, fingers still sticky with soda, and pressed her lips to his.
He kissed her back. That, she remembers.
She called him her boyfriend and they laughed their way down the block.
And Matt – did you mean it?
Mean what?
The boyfriend part?
No.
Sometimes she wonders if the past even ever changes, if she's just that part on a skipping record. That was the first time she used him, she thinks. In a way that was too deep for him to understand.
And he's been following her ever since.
By the time she gets there, they're leading the con out, shackles around her ankles as they're undoing the handcuffs. Sitting down, Santana leans her head on her hand, glancing at the clock. "And who are you supposed to be?"
"Your mentor," the woman replies, dryly. "I'm supposed to teach you how not to live your life."
"Great."
"First rule: don't get caught."
"Thanks."
"Can I get a cigarette?"
Santana doesn't blink. "I don't have any."
"I can see the outline in your jacket."
She exhales loudly, fishing one out to place on the table. The woman just flexes her fingers, stretching them, before placing the cigarette in her mouth. She lights it before Santana even sees where she hid the lighter.
"You're good."
"Just better than you. But I've been alive longer."
And she just leans back in the chair, half-skeptical and half-awed. "And who are you?"
The cigarette lights up as the woman inhales and Santana flicks her gaze over the woman's outfit – orange jumpsuits suit nobody, that's for sure. "Carmen Sandiego," the woman says, rolling over her name with a perfect accent.
"Santana Lopez," she says.
"I guess they wanted me to educate another sister," Carmen says with a soft laugh and Santana leans forward, her ponytail brushing the back of her neck. "I can't believe these fuckers."
"What'd you do?"
"I stole about three trillion dollars worth of shit."
"Fuck."
"You're not going to believe me, but it was just about the stealing. Not about the money." Carmen narrows her eyes. "Getting the bastards to take you seriously, you know? And sometimes, it's fun."
Santana looks her in the eye and the corners of her lips lift in a small smile. "I know exactly what you mean."
"This is decent," Carmen says, holding the lit cigarette between her fingers.
"It tastes like shit," Santana replies, voice calm and even, "but it's cheap."
"I like you."
"Great. That's exactly what I wanted: a con to like me."
Carmen laughs, a deep, smoky tone. "You and me? We're going to get along just fine. Querida."
Santana rolls her eyes.
She tells him the story in whispers during glee practice, Rachel standing in the center of the room in her ugly-ass pastel cardigans, singing about things she has never known about. But Rachel is Rachel and Maria has always been the part she has wanted to play. That's fine by her – Santana has always adored Anita more anyway; she always had more meat on her bones, more snap to her soul, more smoke along her edges. And who wanted Tony anyway? Bernardo was long and sleek and dark –
Rachel keeps pushing out vowels about her world beginning; Santana knows – Anita's world begins when it ends.
Matt leans over, whispering scraps of insults in Spanish to her, eyes on Rachel, face impassive. "Sometimes," he hisses in Spanish, "I think she sings just to hear the sound of her own voice."
"Excuse me!" Rachel interrupts, loudly. "I am trying to sing here and it would be really nice if you could accord me the kind of respect would-be Broadway ingenues deserve."
"Sure," Matt says. "Sorry."
Santana just rolls her eyes. "You're pathetic."
And he just reaches for her hand. She doesn't move, doesn't make any indication about being for or against and he slips his fingers between hers like it's nothing, a simple movement they have done a thousand times.
Mr. Schue takes a look at the clock then, running his hand through his hair, as Rachel warbles her last note, drawing it out to twice its shelf life. She ends her song with a small smile. "Santana," Mr. Schue says, and Santana knows what's coming, "Sorry, but I think we're going to have to cut you off. See you on Thursday? You'll go first, I promise."
There are empty promises and then there are Mr. Schue's promises, which bring the definition of empty to a whole 'nother level. Maybe she'll get second harmony one of these days on a song instead of third or fourth. And if she even gave a fuck about this whole thing, Rachel would be out on her ass because Santana has lived her entire life taking shit from nobody, and she's not going to start now.
The corner of her lips twitch. "Sure. Thursday."
And Matt just squeezes her hand.
She tugs it out of his reach and he just slings his backpack over his shoulder with a half-shrug, heading out the door.
She follows him anyway.
They walk home in silence. He's got his headphones on, big and bulky, and she just runs through Anita's repertoire in her head. They fall in line with each other like they always do, left and right and left and right.
Her house is empty and dark, blinds lowered because her parents never want anyone looking in. It's still and as she heads for the stairs, he lingers by the doorway. "You coming in or what?"
He tugs the headphones half-off. "You want me to?"
"Matt, when the fuck have I ever cared about what you do?"
He closes the door behind him.
Sitting at the foot of her bed, he says, "What do you want to do?"
She just sidles up to him, bones liquid, leonine, pressing her lips against his pulse point. It beats fast and hard underneath her kiss; the thought makes her feel powerful. "I don't know," she murmurs against his skin, tongue peeking out to flick quickly against his neck. "Why don't you tell me?"
He opens his mouth and she half-expects him to feed her the standard response—fuck, santana, stop playing these stupid fucking games—but instead he just slides his hands on her hips, the cheerleader skirt riding up, pushing her towards him. Her forehead knocks against his;
he breathes deep and ragged – she wonders if he feels something.
Slowly, methodically, she grinds herself down against him, and his hands move up to her shoulders, pushing her back, distance, distance – he says, "Santana."
"What?"
She just tilts her head, brushes her nose against his. She moves closer and closer without touching him like a game of chicken, dangling herself in front of him and waiting to see if he responds. He leans closer and his lips brush against hers.
She shakes. Her mouth opens, half-uttering another word as she pulls herself back when he leans forward and closes his lips around hers, hands forceful as he pushes her towards him. She wonders how long he's waited for this, but he just kisses her, tongue darting out to lick at her lips and she obliges; tongue along her teeth and she can feel the warmth of his hands burning up her back. They move together, lips and tongue and hands.
An accidental movement and it sets her on a slow burn, murmuring noises into his mouth when his hand creeps up to tug at her hair tie.
She pulls away. "What are you doing?"
He blinks, and his hands slide under her comforter. "You started it."
Her eyes narrow at him. "I didn't ask you for a fuck."
"You didn't ask me for anything."
She crawls off of him, moves to stand by the window. "Exactly." She notes the way his jaw clenches and relaxes in series, crosses her legs at the ankle. He doesn't say anything. "Bathroom's down the hall."
He's been here a thousand times; she burns him to see if he can heal.
She helps him with his Spanish homework then, not that Mr. Schuester cares or anything—he can barely speak Spanish for himself. He hands her the vocab list and she just rattles off the words like nothing, genders of objects, male, female, neuter.
"So fucking weird," Matt says.
They don't talk about what happened. It's like a rule.
Quinn and Rachel get into a fight about solos at Thursday's glee practice; Matt and Mike secretly play Pokemon as the whole thing unfolds. She leaves before Mr. Schue even gets to the first word about the need to play nice or act as a team or whatever the fuck. Hands in her pockets, she speeds to the bus stop, tugging the hair tie out of her hair on her way out the front door.
Carmen asks for another cigarette and says, "Don't let the bastards grind you down."
Santana just arches a brow. "Excuse me?"
"Querida, did someone not give you what you want?"
"Listen, aren't you supposed to be mentoring me or something? How the fuck—"
The woman exhales smoke and leaning forward, dark hair falling over her shoulders, she says, "I am mentoring you."
"Yeah? In what? How to be a bitch?"
She taps ash onto the white table. "You want something, you take it."
"We covered this last time. You got nothing else to say?"
"I'm in prison in Ohio," Carmen says, dryly. "The most interesting thing that could happen to me is getting transferred to a facility in Cleveland so I can pretend to see the Rock N' Roll Hall of Fame." She leans back in her chair, long lines and slender figure – "What do you want to do with your life?"
"What, are you going to talk to me about college? The army? Hurry the fuck up so I can go home."
"People are either runners or they're fighters. Which one are you?"
She crosses her arms over her chest, stares Carmen down, unfazed. "Which one were you?"
Carmen grins, flashes of white teeth behind pink lips. "Me? I'm a runner. I always run." And then her eyes fall half-closed in survey; her shackles clink together when she tilts her hand, "You? You, I can't figure out. So. Runner or fighter?"
Santana looks down at her flaking nail polish – "Give me the cigarette." Her lips slide over the vague lipstick mark Carmen left, breathing deep. She smokes the rest of the cigarette in silence.
"Don't think I didn't notice you didn't answer my question."
"I know you're not stupid."
"Good. Then we're on the same page. I know you're not stupid either."
She doesn't say anything else the rest of the fifteen minutes left.
Santana stubs out the cigarette on the table before she leaves, leaning in close. "Hasta luego, abuelita."
She hears Carmen's laughter all the way down the hallway.
Eight p.m., homework unfinished, she calls Matt.
"What do you want, bitch," he says.
"Fuck you."
He laughs over the line and it makes her feel warm; she smiles. "How'd your thing go today?"
"Schuester know I was gone?"
Matt chuckles, voice low. "Fucker never sees any of us half the time."
Santana rolls her eyes. "I know, it's the fucking Rachel show."
"How'd it go?"
"I swear to god, that bitch is trying to ruin my life."
"Well, you ever think about not punching people in the face?"
She exhales. "Too much work."
Avoidance in her roots and she takes the long circuitous pathways to classes, cutting through the science building, walking with her shoulders pulled back, a soldier in a sea of people who don't recognize her greatness. She runs into Brittany – "Hey, Matt's looking for you."
"I didn't feel like talking to him today."
Brittany shrugs. "Okay."
Santana hasn't felt weakness in a long time, taught for too long to push it down until it disintegrates; the idea of hurting him leaves a bad taste in the back of her mouth.
She stops at the water fountain on the way to chemistry, rinses the guilt off her teeth.
Mr. Schuester is doing some sort of lame-ass tribute to the '70s again and so there's ABBA all over the place and Santana's surprised he hasn't brought in gold lame jumpsuits to get them into the spirit. He organizes an arrangement of The Winner Takes It All and somehow, somehow, after months and months, Matt manages to get an entire two lines to himself.
Lips pursed, she harmonizes in the background; maybe this is her punishment for not believing in God.
Football games on Fridays and she spends her evening in a short skirt in cold weather, cheering on a team that never wins. Halftime is always the best – they go on break and up in the stands, by the concession booths, they just hang out and eat. Puck is there, letterman jacket hanging loosely off his shoulders. He isn't playing tonight – some bullshit about a strained muscle or something. Like Coach Sylvester hasn't asked them to do more shit with pulled muscles; she's pretty sure she could beat Puck up if she tried.
But he's cute enough and he offers her his letterman jacket with the bad boy smirk that doesn't really work for him. And he's Quinn's and isn't that reason enough? She always wanted wanted wanted. She slips her hands around his waist and he runs with it, presses his hips up against hers briefly before they slip away behind the concession booths. There's no light, just dim shading, and she slides the jacket off of him and onto her shoulders before kissing him.
It's nothing special, nothing slow. Not like books will be written about it or anything. He just grabs her leg, hitches her as close to him as she can get with her clothes on. He kisses like someone who needs more practice, but she lets it slide until he starts reaching his fingers under her skirt to brush at her through her uniform. She feigns a moan. Brittany starts calling for her and that's when she knows that she has to head back towards the field. She pushes him away, swinging her hips with every step.
"Sext me!" he says.
She sees Matt waiting by the top of the stairs; it takes him one second before he starts heading down, without even a glance.
She pulls Puck's letterman's jacket tighter around her.
This is how they play.
She tells it to Carmen the next week as the woman just sits there with a small penknife, pickpocketed, slicing open the cigarette stick to smell the tobacco leaves. Santana wrinkles her nose.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"You don't like the smell?" Carmen says. "Sweet. Like home."
And she can't help but think about the thousands of stories she has heard about this strange place, Home, her home but not a home; too young to remember leaving Puerto Rico but leave they did until they came here, to Fucking Nowhere, Ohio, where she hates most of the people and most of her family and everything in between. She wonders how things would have played out in Puerto Rico, if she would have spent her days drinking rum and smoking cigars, standing on the cobblestone street in those frilly dresses that girls dance in.
Her mother taught her to merengue once, like it was some grand accomplishment. Standing in the small apartment on cracked kitchen tile, holding her large, warm hands that were always dusted with flour, and swaying her hips side to side as music blared through their house, full of rich tones and brass horn crescendoes.
"I fucking hate Puerto Rico," she says, and Carmen smiles like there's some sort of joke that she's not understanding.
And Carmen just leans down, face close to the edge of the table, and blows softly; the tobacco leaves flutter across the empty table like snow and Santana presses her fingerprint down against the wood, gets them to stick to the pad of her finger.
"My father used to make tobacco," Carmen says, and Santana looks up. "Took all day just to dry them out."
"You knew your father?"
"No."
"So how did you end up here? Your ma come visit you?"
"I came from an orphanage. ACME. I used to work for them."
"Before you started stealing everything?"
"Why don't you tell me about school?"
Santana just crosses her arms over her chest. "What about school?"
Carmen just arches a brow and leans back in her seat with a smirk. "What is it that you don't want to tell me?"
"My social security number, for one thing."
"Gracias, querida. Didn't think you thought I could pass for twelve."
"Sixteen."
"Whatever." Carmen brushes the remaining tobacco leaves off of the table top. "You have a boyfriend, hermana?"
Santana clicks her tongue against her teeth. "What is it with you and these stupid fucking names? I'm not your sister, okay."
And Carmen just tilts her head with a smile. "Yeah, sure. But you could be."
"What?"
"I'm going to find out what you're not telling me."
Santana's lips press into a hard thin line.
"Don't worry, querida. I can keep a secret."
Santana counts her steps in eights all the way back to the bus stop. Leaning against the pole, she flips her phone out, texts Matt quickly – yo i cant wait for comm srvc 2 b over
Thriller chimes on her phone – Oh, are you talking to me again?
-stop bein such a lil bitch about this n wtf u made ur ringtone michael jackson
-he's the fucking king, santana, jesus. n u stop bein a bitch first
She snaps her phone closed, deletes the last message. The bus is late.
She googles Carmen later that night, and it's surprising the pictures that come up. It's true, orange jumpsuits do shit for even pretty people. In a lot of these, all Santana can see are the fierce red pumps and the tilted red hat that hides her eyes; blurry photos like the ones UFO conspiracy theorists have, and Santana thinks maybe she knows something about running away after all.
She prints out a picture and tacks it on her bedroom wall.
Puck shows up at her locker after fifth period the next day, as she's changing her books, leaning one arm against the neighboring lockers like he thinks he's some kind of pimp. "What do you want?" she says.
"You should come over," he says, in the voice that says he's trying to be cool. Ugh. She'd rather have the stupid one than this dude.
She bats her eyes at him like those stupid fucking cartoons. "Yeah?"
"I've got a hot tub and some beers. Instead of sexting me, we could just, you know, have sex."
So she shrugs halfheartedly. "Sure."
Mike tells her that Matt's skipping when she runs into him before third period on Friday, and she slips out through the unlocked gate by the band room. No one gives a fuck about the band kids. He's across the street, halfway up the hill towards the Wendy's, and she whistles for him. He turns around, giving her the finger. But she's not a Cheerio for nothing – she sprints and catches up to him pretty quickly.
"Skipping school now? What's your mom going to say?"
He knocks his shoulder against hers. "She's going to say I've been hanging out with you too much."
She laughs despite herself. And she finds herself fascinated by the way he carries himself, gray hood pulled over past his hairline like a thug from one of the music videos. She falls behind him a little, places her hands on his shoulders.
"What the fuck are you doing, Lopez?" he asks, and she just goes for it, jumps up and latches her legs around his waist with a laugh. His arms brace under her and he sprints then; she bounces with his effort. It feels like they're kids again, like they're stuck playing at the empty school playground once everyone else has gone home. Twenty feet and he says, "God, you're fucking heavy."
She kicks his thigh before she climbs off.
"Puck's having a house party next weekend, you know," she says, chewing her thumbnail.
"Yeah? And what the fuck makes you think I want to go?"
"Oh, come on, Matt. What the fuck else are you going to do on a Saturday night? Stay home and watch the paint dry until your mom comes home?" she sneers. "Grow the fuck up."
"You first."
They walk in silence all the way until Wendy's, until he just buys two large fries and they sit in one of the uncomfortable booths by the window, dipping their fries into barbeque sauce and watching the cars go by. "You and Puck," he says, quickly taking a bite off the end of a french fry.
"What?"
"Are you—"
And she says, "What do you care?"
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his gray hoodie and eyes cast out towards the street, he says, "I don't."
She leans closer to him, face super close, watching his face. "Aww," she cooes, stealing one of his french fries. "Did you have a crush on me?" And her words cut like they're meant to and he just swipes at his box of french fries until it hits the window, fries falling onto the floor.
"Fuck it, Santana. And fuck you. If you don't want to be friends with me, don't fucking pull this shit."
She leans back, ponytail swishing against her shoulderblade. "Aww, are your feelings hurt? You need me to call someone? Suck it up. You're not my only friend anymore, so fucking what."
"You know that's not what I'm talking about."
"Sure it's not." And she turns and heads towards the door. He doesn't say anything and she walks home with words stuck in her throat and something like hurt pricking at the back of her throat.
It doesn't matter much anyway. She sleeps with Puck.
She makes him wear a condom and it fucking hurts but it's done and over with and at least she doesn't have to go through that whole fucking Ifirst time/Ishit ever again. At least he didn't pretend it was something it wasn't, like some sort of weird fairytale. Like Puck would ever fucking settle down with anyone.
He walks her to the front door and says, "I'll call you."
And walking back towards her house, she thinks, what a fucking lie.
She splits a cigarette with Carmen the next time they meet, setting her lipstick on the table. "I brought it for you," Santana says, taking a drag.
Carmen puckers her lips and Santana uncaps it – bombshell berry – and smudges it along the contours of her full lips. "Thanks," Carmen says. "There's no red anywhere in this fucking place. Just fucking orange. And I hate orange."
"Yeah, I know. I googled."
"Aren't you just the little ingenue."
Santana shakes her head. "Speak English."
"Irónico, no te parece?"
"Shut the fuck up," Santana says with a shake of the head. "With the fucking Spanish. We're not in fucking Puerto Rico anymore so who the fuck cares."
"You know," Carmen says, taking the cigarette back for a long drag, "for someone who does what you do, you're pretty fucking bad at lying."
"Yeah? And how's that?"
"You want to be so fucking bad," Carmen says, leaning forward on her elbows, "but you're not. Weakness is something we all have to get used to."
"I'm not weak," Santana says, pocketing her lipstick. "I'm Santana fucking Lopez."
Carmen kisses the table; the outline of her lips remains on the white tabletop. "And I'm Carmen Isabella Sandiego. Doesn't change shit. I was the best. And now I'm here. Rotting in white America."
"There is seriously something wrong with you."
Carmen just takes another drag off the cigarette. "I stole the Golden Gate Bridge once. They said it couldn't be done, you know."
Santana reaches for the cigarette and their fingertips brush; it feels like dry leaves. "You did not," she says, punctuating her skepticism with a practiced exhale, "steal the fucking Golden Gate Bridge."
Carmen just shrugs. "Bitches get shit done."
She just smiles.
Puck doesn't call, Matt doesn't call, and she fucks Finn Hudson just because he feels like he wants to get laid. He's pretty unexciting as partners go, and she spends the aftermath smoking through another cigarette with the window open, waiting for the smell of inexperience to waft out the window with the smell of his sweat.
First thing she does is shower.
It's after glee practice on Friday that Matt just stands by her locker, waiting for her. She spins the knob on her combination lock, staring at the painted lines rather than at him. "What are you doing?"
And she doesn't say anything.
"You're not even fucking talking to me?" And he pats himself down and fishes a cigarette out, tucks it in the corner of his mouth.
She heads towards the back and he turns and heads for the main door and like everything else, like a duel, it's twelve paces and neither one of them looks back.
The doors fall shut loudly like gunshots.
She sees him at Puck's house party. She doesn't even really know why she feels surprised. Matt's always had a habit of following her even after he had always said that he would never, that this would be the last time, the last straw, and that he would cut her out of his life. He never does it; empty threats and they both know it.
Red cup in hand, face pink, and he says, "Santana." The syllables come off slow and thick from his tongue like honey and she just rolls her eyes. She wonders when Matt became just another drunk guy to hit on her at a party, just another football player, like she was just another Cheerio. There are no memories she is willing to acknowledge just like there are no memories he's willing to forget. Breath heavy of beer, he leans on Mike and they stumble through the crowd.
Another Cheerio there, and she watches as he dances with her, Chastity, like that's some sort of name. But she's dark and pretty and he leans just so in her space and then as she rounds the corner, right into Puck, she sees them start kissing. Puck says, "Having fun?"
And she just presses her lips into the familiar thin line of determination, jaw set against the realities she doesn't want to face. "Tons."
He walks away and in the corner,
in the corner,
she watches Matt press his hips against Chastity, her dress strap pulled down, his mouth on her shoulder; her eyes fall on them every so often, drawn to the sight.
She doesn't think about what it means.
Brittany tells her about the sexploits of Matt and Chastity at lunch the next day, about how Finn accidentally caught them when they were, well, doing it, Santana, and isn't that weird. Santana murmurs something into her yogurt, and Brittany just smiles at her, like she's waiting for her approval or something.
Santana says, "Boys. Dangle some boobs in front of them and they'll do anything you want to."
Brittany nods. "Well, except for Kurt." Half into a spoonful of yogurt, she adds, "Am I friends with Matt?"
Santana shakes her head. "What?"
"I mean, you're friends with Matt and I'm friends with you so, I mean, does that make Matt and me friends?"
"No, Brit."
"Okay."
Brittany kisses her on the cheek.
She doesn't know when dealing with Matt became so hard. Used to be that she could just breathe the words and he would follow, would leave when she left, and would stand alone if she left him. End of the day and he's at his locker, books thrown haphazardly inside. He doesn't acknowledge her.
"I heard about you and Chastity." Her sneaker squeaks against the dirty floor.
"Yeah?"
She grins, flashing teeth. "Congratulations."
"For what?"
"Finally being a man."
Voice low, he practically growls, "Santana, I swear to God."
"What?" she says. "What are you going to do?"
It's push and push and push and shove with him; she can't help wanting to push him to see how far he'll go. And this time, well, maybe he's grown just as twisted as she has on the inside. Hand on her wrist and he backs her up against the lockers, pinning her there with his body, mouth hovering over hers.
"Well?" she says.
And he says, "It's your move."
A roll of the hips against his that makes him close his eyes, that makes her bite her lip. "Your turn."
He unzips her hoodie, slips his hands underneath to press his palms flat against her shoulderblades. She watches his face; he counts the tempo of her breaths, as if numbers could ever decode the things she thinks, the things she just is.
And she just looks up at him from underneath her lashes, delicate fingers moving to feel the outline of his jaw. "Bombshell berry," she whispers.
He closes the distance, lips closing around hers before roughly tugging at hers, hands trying to press her closer and closer. He's a good kisser, she'll begrudge him that; his tongue traces vague shapes. His hands slide down her back then before moving up to tangle in her hair, before moving to tug at the tight hair tie that keeps her tethered together, that binds her up in the air of dominance and control; her hair falls down onto her shoulders and he buries his hands in it, strands around his fingers, tangling them as he runs his fingers through it. And maybe it's a little hard to think, maybe the movement of her hips against is, for once, for twice, not a movement of political strategy; his hands in her hair and she gasps her pleasure into his mouth.
("Go home," the band director grumbles.)
He pulls away and her lips are swollen, her hair mussed, his pants tight. He opens and closes his mouth, but he doesn't say anything.
She shoves her hands into the pockets of her hoodie.
He holds out his hand.
Fingers twined with his, they walk towards his mom's apartment.
Inside, they toe off their shoes and leave them by the door. She unzips her hoodie then, drops it onto the floor.
And his hands are in her hair again, lips against hers, and she just groans. Arms around his neck, legs around his waist, he carries her to the room; her mind races and she can't find a single coherent thought.
When she pushes down on top of him, muscles tight around him, her hair itchy against the bare skin of her back, he presses his fingerprints along her ribcage like breadcrumb trails; she rocks against him slowly, back and forth and back and forth, and somewhere along the way, her fingernails leave deep tracks in the contours of his bicep.
It isn't a performance. When she comes, her eyes slide shut, nails digging into the bone of his hip as she shakes, short breaths and short syllables.
She doesn't shower at his. Instead, she takes one of his combs, drags the even-spaced teeth through her hair to untangle it, to pull it back tightly into her trademark ponytail. Matt says, "You should leave it down." And that's reason enough to keep it up.
"I don't like it down."
"Sure," he says. "Do what you like."
She checks herself in his mirror. "I always do." Backpack slung loosely over her shoulder, she leaves.
Carmen doesn't even blink; her face stays blank the whole time Santana talks. She seems bored by the whole thing. Santana lights her own cigarette even as the security guard comments that smoking isn't allowed. "So what's the advice this week?"
"You changed to menthols."
"I like them better."
"Yeah," Carmen says. "Sure."
She opens her mouth though no words emerge, just the haziness of smoke. "You don't have anything to say? That's surprising."
"You never told me if you were a runner or a fighter."
"Both."
"Can't be both."
"So why are you a runner?"
The paper burns with a soft hiss as Carmen breathes the smoke in, cigarette caught perfectly between her index and middle finger delicately, like one of the old black-and-white movie heroines. "It's smarter," she says. "I don't plan on dying for anyone and I don't plan on saving anyone and if I don't leave tracks, then why not?" Carmen's eyes narrow, watching her expression; Santana tries her best to remain stoic.
"Like I said," Santana replies. "I'm both. Besides, for what you're making me spend on cigarettes, you should at least let me get that."
"Oh, please. You probably pocket those and run."
"You don't know shit."
"I know crime and I know people. And you could be a good one if you tried."
Santana smirks. "What, a good person?"
Carmen grins. "No, a good criminal."
Santana walks back to the high school from the rec center, cutting a zigzag path through the rows and rows and rows of houses until she sees the red brick. Parking lot empty, she just wanders between the lines designating spaces for cars to park, the white block of her sneaker aligning, overshadowing the white lines on the asphalt.
She sits on the sidewalk outside the main office, drenched in the dim light of the nearby floodlight, watching the cars go by. She exhales, stretching her muscles. Santana isn't a runner at heart, not really. And she will fight every last motherfucker on the planet to get what she wants if she has to. Seventeen cars and she starts walking home.
Cheerios practice the next day, and she decides to go for a run after. She laces up her running shoes tight watching as the football players lounge around the fringes of the field chatting before practice starts. She moves into the middle lane. Puck whistles at her. She counts the steps as she sprints around the field, feet thudding against the track. The wind rushes in her ears.
Puck follows her as she slows to a jog. "What are you doing tonight?"
"Why?" she calls. "Because you want to get laid?"
"Well," he says, "Yeah."
Slowing, she notices Matt, sitting by the fifty yard line, squinting at them, lips pursed. She starts jogging again, calling behind her, "I'll call you."
And she pushes herself harder, even as her knees ache in protest, the pounding of her white sneakers against the red track – war drums. She ignores it even as it grows louder and louder.
The second time she fucks Puck, she finds his contours too bony, the touch of his hand too confident, brushing her in all the wrong places. Her body doesn't slip under his; there's too much push and not enough pull, his breath strong with liquor. She fakes the noises as well as she can remember, soft gasps and groans, but it doesn't matter to him anyway. The minute he pushes into her, she throws her head back and hits the wall; the brick scratches against her scalp. She figures maybe she should have tried drama club; her efforts would be better appreciated.
Quinn stops speaking to her. Not like it matters. Like she didn't know that they weren't really friends? Quinn Fabray isn't someone who friends someone like her without a reason. She's always been the Caesar; Quinn isn't bitch enough to do what needs to be done. And then Quinn's clutching onto Rachel's arm like it's something to save her from her sunk reputation, like hanging out with Rachel Berry is going to help her with anything. But she supposes even freaks need friends.
High school is laid out for her like a checkered battlefield, blood staining squares black. She's always known that Quinn was temporary – Santana doesn't get used; she uses people.
Brittany tugs at her hand in homeroom, whispering, "So what are we going to do? Can I still talk to Quinn?"
Santana smiles. "Yeah, Brit. You can talk to her."
And Brittany lays her head on her shoulder and Santana feels the urge to smooth the baby hairs along her forehead back. "Good," Brittany says. "I wouldn't want to think we weren't all friends."
Santana hums.
Carmen says, "No cigarettes?"
"They took them from me at security."
Carmen tilts her head. "Fuckers. Como jamas me podria cambiar." And she just slips her hands under the table, slips a cigarette into her palm. "Virginia Slims." She sets the matchbook on the table.
"How'd you get this shit?"
Carmen's lips quirk. "I stole it."
She strikes the match, hand shielding the flame as she lights her cigarette. Shaking it out, the air smells of phosphor and she flips the match stub, writing 'S' on the table with the ashy tip. Carmen smudges the letter, graying out part of the white tabletop. "You're a bitch."
"So are you."
"So what's the lesson this week? Hurry up so I can get the fuck out."
"You like me, just admit it." She reaches for the cigarette, holding it between her fingers for a second. "Why don't you tell me what's going on in your life and I'll tell you how you're fucking up this week."
Santana rolls her eyes. "I'm not the one behind bars."
And Carmen just wraps her lips around the filter. The corners of her mouth twitch. "Aren't you?"
Maybe he's always thought of them as some kind of weird Bonnie and Clyde, people who never gave a fuck about anyone but each other. She wonders sometimes. They're both too familiar with the narrative – grown up on the idea of standing against the world, against people unwilling to acknowledge they're here. But it never works out that way. She isn't an outlaw and he isn't her boyfriend and they're not running from anyone but themselves. Well, maybe that last part's only true for her.
He texts her with a vague message about his mom's boyfriend and she texts without thinking – come over. She can't decide if that was a good idea or not. He shows up at her door with his hands shoved in his jean pockets, uneasy smile on his face.
He mumbles a quick greeting to her parents before she hastily shoves him up towards her bedroom. Her mother casts her a glance and she just rattles off a quick explanation, something about his parents, and there's something hard about the way her mother just looks at her, like she knows what's happened or happening, but all Santana can think is Ifuck it/I, she's not going to live her life according to some old superstitious rules from a whole other fucking country they spent their entire lives trying to escape.
"So what's going on with your mom?" she asks, sinking down on her bed as he toes off his shoes and sits on the floor.
He shrugs. "Why do you want to know?"
She wrinkles her nose. "Don't try to act tough. It doesn't fit you."
He shrugs out of his jacket, moving to lay down on the floor, hands behind his head. "Her boyfriend's over," he says, hesitantly. "I just – I don't want to be there, you know."
"Yeah," she says, voice soft.
They fall into silence and she watches as he closes his eyes with a small sigh. "Can I—"
"You don't have to ask."
He yawns, stretching, and she throws him a pillow. "Thanks."
And it's the same damn shit. He pretends to fall asleep and she pretends to believe him. Slipping down to the floor, she shifts her body closer to his, nuzzling her face into his shoulder. He feigns to shift in his sleep, rolling onto his side. She leans back into his touch and his arm slides around her waist, pulling her closer.
She synchronizes her breathing with his.
When he wakes up in the morning, his hand is numb from her weight, her dark hair splayed out on the ground loosely, messily. He doesn't want to move, doesn't want to wake her; his eyes trace her profile hoping for – for something.
She stirs.
He reaches for his things and, brushing some of her hair out of her face, kisses her forehead before quietly slipping out the door.
Half-asleep at the vanity, she pulls a brush through her hair roughly, taming the flyaways until her hair lies obedient on her shoulders. She doesn't think about where he's gone or when he left – it was never really the questions that mattered to them, just the way they set about answering them.
T-shirt and jeans, white sneakers, hair down, she walks to school silently. She clenches her fists as she walks down the first block, all long strides and confident strut. And halfway towards the school, he's sitting on the curb of the intersection.
She doesn't acknowledge him as she walks past, eyes fixed on the destination.
"Santana!" he calls.
And she just breathes in through her nose, out through her mouth like all the running manuals suggest, deep breaths in and deep breaths out even as she feels like she's drowning; the wind tosses her hair over a shoulder.
He runs after her, hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him. "You hear me?" he pants.
Hands on her hips – "What do you want?"
"You look different."
"Congratulations, you have eyes."
"I'm sorry about leaving," he says.
She doesn't say anything. His fingers brush the ends of her hair.
When she starts walking again, he falls in step beside her. Just like always.
Santana's half-heartedly jotting down notes in Physics class when Brittany kicks her lightly under the desk. She raises her hand – "Mister, can Brittany and I go to the bathroom, please?"
Mr. Frank shoots them an exasperated look but waves them off.
In the hallway, Brittany reaches for her hand; her palm is sticky.
"You look different," Brittany says, once they've reached the stairwell. She leans into Santana's space, arms wrapping around her.
Santana lays her head on Brittany's shoulder.
"We should probably do it before class ends."
Santana chuckles, but Brittany leans in then, brushing her lips innocently against hers. Santana opens her mouth to her, and Brittany's fingers expertly open her jeans to slip down the front. She gasps as Brittany's fingertips brush against her lightly before beginning to press. She's never seen Brittany look so concentrated.
She grinds herself against Brittany's slender fingers, watching as her eyes seem to grow darker with every movement.
Brittany's tongue darts out to flick against her lower lip.
Her hand clenches around Brittany's shoulder when she comes.
She feels Matt's gaze on her the minute they're walking back to their seats. Mr. Frank doesn't really pay them any attention so she just picks up her pencil, flicks it between her fingers, pretending to listen. Brittany gives her another playful kick under the table.
Her notebook is full of numbers and letters and equations that she at best only half-understands. She stares intently at her notes, trying to make sense of it all, when a small folded piece of paper slips onto her desk.
She unfolds it in her lap; Matt – you ok
Hastily shoving it into her backpack, she just stares at the chalkboard, slowly copying the definition of resultant. She wonders when it all became so confusing.
Glee rehearsal and Matt has his sheet music half-crumpled on top of his backpack. He says, "We're going outside. Want to come?"
Mike waves at her.
She looks at Brittany. "Sure."
In the parking lot, Santana just moves to sit down on the curb of the sidewalk. Mike and Brittany start dancing together, laughing. She feels his gaze, but the minute she looks at him, his attention's on Mike and Brittany.
"I don't understand why Mr. Schue makes us practice so much," Brittany mumbles, as she spins out of Mike's grasp. She moves to sit by the base of the tree.
Mike laughs. "It's not like we do anything anyway. Just there to be eye candy."
Santana snorts, shoves him lightly. "Mr. Schue has such a hard-on for Rachel." Matt and Mike start laughing so hard, they can barely breathe, clapping their hands together in agreement.
She relaxes into the soft grass for a second. It feels calmer here, a peace that suddenly makes her shoulders feel light; it's weird not to have to try and be intimidating. Brittany sets her hand on top of hers, and says, "I'm hungry."
Mike raises his eyebrows with a grin. "Taco Bell?"
Matt shakes his head. "Man, what is it with you and those stupid chalupas? Every time I fucking go with you to eat Taco Bell, I always end up regretting it in like an hour."
Brittany wrinkles her nose. "Ew."
Mike just laughs. "Dude, Taco Bell's the shit. 'Come hungry, leave happy?' That's my life right there, those four words."
Matt punches his arm lightly. "That's IHOP, you fucker." Mike shrugs.
Santana laughs so hard she can feel the tears pricking at her eyes. Mike offers Brittany a piggyback; her on his back, he sprints halfway up the hill towards the intersection. Matt looks at her, eyebrow arched. "Don't expect chauffeur service."
She shakes her head, laughing. "Don't be stupid."
He reaches out a hand and she takes it; his fingers are warm. They walk up the hill together, trying to catch up with Mike and Brittany.
Mike gets enough food to feed a family; Santana doesn't get anything. Even though Matt wrinkles his nose at the food, he just gets a taco. They sit at one of the window booths. "Schue is going to kill us," Mike says, between mouthfuls of food.
"IPlease/I," she says, rolling her eyes. "Without us, he wouldn't even have a glee club. He would have seven freaks, and he'd use five of them as backup singers."
Mike nods, holding out his fist. She knocks hers against his.
Matt just shakes his head. "Damn it, man, I don't know why I always got to listen to you about this fucking place."
"You didn't have to get anything."
Matt grins. "I know, but I'm fucking starving." He casts a glance out the window. "I'm going to go to Wendy's for some fries. Anyone want to come?"
"Dude, you're just going to leave me here with the ITaco Bell chihuahua/I?"
Matt sets a hand on his shoulder. "Taco Bell chihuahua isn't real, dude."
Brittany shrugs. "I'll stay."
"Get me some chicken nuggets?" Santana says.
"Girl, you want some food, you're going to come get it your damn self. I am not your butler."
She grins, standing as she says, "Aren't you?"
They dart across the street as cars rush by, angry drivers flipping them off. She shouts as many Spanish obscenities as she can recall at them; there's something about their confused expressions that makes her laugh.
He orders one of the cheeseburgers and she gets the chicken nuggets and they both get fries and Frostys. They sit in a booth for a second. She dips her fries into her Frosty; they eat in silence.
They start heading back towards the vicinity of the school, picking up Mike and Brittany along the way. They split a cigarette between the four of them, walking leisurely.
"I fucking love Taco Bell," Mike says, rubbing his stomach. "Mmm."
"Man," Matt says, handing her the cigarette, "you always fucking love shit that's bad for you."
Mike shrugs. "That's life."
The whole exchange makes Santana uncomfortable.
She walks him to his house afterward—
they fuck in the living room.
It's slightly uncomfortable and rougher than she would have thought him capable of; he licks swear words along her skin, bites his bitterness into her. She runs her hands along his back, feels the rippling of muscle beneath her palms.
He pushes into her and she whispers, "How much do you hate me?"
He braces his arms on either side of her. "A fucking lot."
She laughs; he digs his fingers into the flesh of her hip and hopes to leave bruises.
Carmen sits with her hands folded, eyebrow arched. "Almost near the end of our visits, querida."
She just exhales with a smile meant to be mean. "Thank god."
"You feel like I've enlightened you enough on how not to live your life?"
"No."
"Then you haven't been paying attention."
Santana just leans forward, head resting on her hand, looking bored. "So what's the big lesson I'm supposed to learn by the end of the episode? Minorities are people too? A sister's got to look out for herself?"
"Know why you run before you run. If you don't know why, it's just going to make catching you that much easier."
"So why do you run?"
"To get away."
"Doesn't everybody do that?"
"Yeah, but what are you getting away from?"
Santana purses her lips.
"You answer that question, and nobody'll be able to catch you." Carmen runs a hand through her hair. "Unless of course you decide to steal a national landmark."
She just rolls her eyes. "I thought you stole, whatever, millions of things without getting caught. How'd you get caught this time?"
Carmen shrugs. "I just wanted to see what prison was like."
"You wanted to get life in prison to see what prison was like?"
The guard arrives to take Carmen back towards her cell and her laughter rings through the room. "I don't plan on staying here."
Her life falls into patterns. She spends the week trying to cut herself out of their relationship, and instead, she just pulls herself in deeper. After every football game, he turns to her, eyes half-lidded and lips slightly parted, waiting for her. She reaches for him then, pulling him towards her, and it is all tongues, teeth, and need, and he murmurs her name like a drawl, sensuous and slow, a mantra.
And once they finish, she just climbs off of him, dresses, and leaves. The air is always heavy then with sweat and sex, and he just slips one arm behind his head to watch her go. Only the rustle of her clothing before she's gone.
It's Friday night that it happens again. They walk to his house and he is burning, body so warm with wanting. The minute they are in through the door, he pushes it shut, pinning her against it with his body. His mouth is warm and tonight, she can taste the notes of rum on his tongue with a hint of tobacco.
"I need you," he says, leading her upstairs.
And she just mumbles her response, though she isn't sure quite what it would be. His hand pulls down the zipper of her uniform, pressing his warmth through to her spine, and all of a sudden, everything feels dizzying.
He pulls off his own clothes, and they just stand there for a moment, distance palpable.
She pushes him down on the bed and his hips surge up to meet hers. They roll together, like a wave of warm bodies and smoky desire, but there's no pretense. She pushes down on him with practiced ease, no whispered words of love or affection, and he just holds her there, hands on her hips, as she moves. His eyes close and she presses him down, hands on his chest, rocking and rocking and rocking.
She buries her head into the crook of his neck, all sweat and spice, looking for the beat of his pulse when he rumbles, "Fuck, Santana."
She shivers.
She stays this time. He rolls a cigarette and hands it to her. The smoke in his room makes it hard for her to believe it's real, to believe that he's real. And he keeps bringing up those stupid fucking stories, "Like remember when you beat up Steve?"
And she just wants to say let the past stay in the past but instead she takes another drag off the cigarette and mumbles, "Yeah."
And she knows that the silences are because he doesn't want to scare her off, but she pretends that she doesn't know, inhales the smoke to fill in the spaces of herself, to hold herself up until the illusion starts to disappear.
"What a fucker," he says.
And she just breathes, "Yeah."
He opens and closes his mouth a few times, then the slow hiss of burning paper. He says, "I'm glad you're – I'm glad I know you."
She just takes the cigarette from him, inhales deep, flicks the ashes onto some of his laundry. "All we did was sleep together," she says. "Don't make this into a thing. Don't be Finn, okay?" She stands then, starting to get dressed.
"You slept with Finn?"
She rakes her hands through her hair as she slips her arms through the sleeves of her uniform. "Yeah," she says. "He sucked." She tugs the zipper up behind her halfway; he comes to stand behind her, takes the zipper. She can feel the heat of his breath against her neck, how close his lips are. There's only the slow dull sound of the zipper being zipped, and then—
"I'm not surprised."
She doesn't bother to close the door behind her when she leaves.
He doesn't come into school the next day. Puck texts her hey wut happened 2 matt– like she's supposed to know?
-idk
-every1 knos u guys r fucking. wut u do
She deletes every one of his texts, spends Physics class staring down at the notes she took last class, trying not to think about the ways they have or haven't been fucking with each other's heads. Ten minutes until next period and she texts him.
-where the fuck r u
He doesn't answer.
The minute she sits down for community service, Carmen just says, "You figure it out?"
"What?"
"What you're running from."
She shakes her head. "Can we just hurry it up today?"
"Why? You have something to do?"
"I always have something to do."
Carmen just leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest. Narrowing her eyes, she says, "Something's changed."
"Yeah," Santana says. "My ability to tolerate your bullshit."
Carmen just grins. "Just because you've learned how to run doesn't mean other people don't know how to either."
Santana doesn't say anything.
"I thought so."
She calls Puck that night.
They fuck in his parents' car in the parking lot behind the school. She digs her nails into his shoulders, crescent-shaped tracks.
"Still haven't heard from Matt?" he says.
"Fuck you."
He slams his hips roughly against hers; it never goes the way she expects.
Matt doesn't go to school the following day either.
Brittany spends the day shooting her careful glances; Mike avoids her altogether. "Are you okay?"
She sharpens her pencil slowly, the dull scratching noise seemingly loud. "Fine."
Brittany perks up then. "Okay."
Mr. Schuester comes to look for her. "Hey, Santana, do you know where Matt is?"
She bites the inside of her cheek. "No."
He sheepishly hands over a packet of papers. "He isn't been in Spanish for the past few days. Would you mind giving him his homework? Gracias." His accent makes her cringe.
"Sure," she says. "I'll take it to him."
She texts him again – schue gave me ur hw
This time, she gets a response – come over
She takes the long route to his house, holding the papers tightly in her hand like some sort of last rite. He answers the door before she even knocks; she holds up his homework. "What the hell are you doing?"
"What?" he says.
"Where the fuck have you been?"
He gives her a shaky grin. "You miss me?"
She steps into his house and he shuts the door behind her. She gives him a light shove. "Don't fuck with me, Matt. Fucking answer my texts. What the hell are you doing here anyway?"
He doesn't answer her.
She reaches for him, wrapping her arms around his waist; he buries his head into her shoulder.
She moves to kiss him and he turns away. Her ponytail bounces as she turns to leave, slamming the door behind her.
She doesn't even bother yelling obscenities at him that time; Carmen's words keep ringing in her head – you're not the only one who knows how to run.
She looks back once.
He waits for her by her locker the next day, apologetic expression and a gift in hand. She doesn't say anything.
"Take the damn gift."
She rolls her eyes, reaching for it. "Fuck you," she says. And even though everything seems back to normal, she's not quite sure that it is.
By the band room, she slips into one of the empty practice rooms, leaves the lights off to avoid suspicion, and tears the wrapping paper off. Selena. Her thumb brushes across the title, before shoving it into her bag.
She watches the movie that night in the dark, mouthing along to the songs.
He calls her that night, and she counts four rings before she picks up. "I knew you were home," he says.
"What's up?"
"Nothing. My mom's out again."
"You want me to come over?"
"No," he says. "It'll be all right." She listens to his soft breathing, unsure of what to say. "You like the movie?"
"You remember when I tried to make you dress up like Selena?"
He laughs. "I didn't even know any Spanish and you tried to make me sing."
"You were a perfect Selena. Especially with my mom's wig on."
He tries to sing falsetto. "Late at night when all the world is sleeping—"
She laughs.
There's church on Sunday. Her parents sit with Matt's mom, and they sit towards the end of the pew, totally disinterested in the sermon. She holds his hand between hers, tapping out a slow rhythm, tracing the lines of his palm with her thumbnail.
Her mother glares at her.
Back against the stiff pew, she feels like a child again, all deference and naivete; she used to repeat the words like they meant something. And now, she can hardly open her mouth to start with padre nuestro. And Matt just sits there, eyes on her, like she has been the only thing he's ever believed in.
"Hail Mary," he mumbles with the congregation.
Santana just traces the intersecting lines of his palm; if she goes to hell, at least it'll be interesting.
Thursday night, her parents are away visiting her aunt in Philadelphia. He calls. Silence on the line for a few minutes.
"What is it?"
He just clears his throat. "I thought I would tell you," he says, falteringly, "just – just because I don't think I could not tell you anymore."
She swallows hard in her throat, eyes sliding shut as she hopes against hope that it isn't what she thinks it'll be, that he'll be able to walk away from this, from her unscathed, untouched; there are a lot of people she'd want to drag to hell with her if she were going to go, but he is not one of them. He has always been the person she has never been willing to risk.
"Santana?"
"What?"
He exhales loudly, then: "I love you."
She doesn't say anything; a pounding behind her eyes starts and she tries to decode the time signature.
"That's all I had to say."
"And what do you expect me to say?"
"I don't expect you to say anything."
"Come over," she says, and she doesn't even know why she says it. There's a dull click on the end of the line and she hangs the phone up, sits and waits for the consequences of her actions to ring the doorbell.
He crosses the threshold and the first words out of her mouth – "I don't love you back."
He doesn't even wince. "I didn't think you did." Shrugging out of his jacket, he tosses it on the arm of her sofa.
She boxes him in, pushes him up against the closed door, bracing her arms on either side of him. "Let's get this straight. This doesn't mean anything."
"I know."
And then her mouth is on his, hot and wanting, tugging his bottom lip between her two. Her hair tie is the first thing to fall to the floor; his shirt is the second.
His hands run through her hair as she stumbles backwards up the steps towards her room. They litter the path with clothing, and she leaves bite marks along the hollow of his throat and shoulder. His kisses are gentler than she's used to, and when he dips his mouth down to kiss between her breasts, she just whispers another raspy reminder, "This doesn't mean anything."
The phrase falls into the scene more than she would have thought; it slips from her, slurred and slow, when his mouth is between her thighs and her hips urging him closer, when his fingers sink deep into her, when his tongue darts out to mark the sensitive spot behind her knee. And each time, he just nods his assent, his understanding.
It doesn't mean anything, it doesn't mean anything, and yet – she doesn't feel like they're trying to tear each other apart.
He kisses the corner of her mouth, her collarbone, the line of her hips. He maps her with his mouth.
She doesn't even need to tell him to leave; she hears the door close as she starts to fall asleep.
Her second-last scheduled community service meeting and the warden tells her that Carmen's managed to escape. It isn't until two weeks later that she gets a postcard from Honduras in a messy cursive script –
never stop running, querida. you make the bastards look for you. cada uno lleva su cruz.
carmen
There is no return address.
She sees him at a Cheerios practice a week later. He sits with Mike, chatting, as she and Brittany struggle to keep the structural integrity of the pyramid when all the new girls barely know one end of their own bodies from the other.
Coach Sylvester just ends the practice early to address the new Cheerios.
As she approaches the bleachers, he holds up a grease-spattered brown paper bag. "I got you fries," he mumbles. "You want to go?"
She checks the freshmen; half of them are on the verge of as good as last year, but still decent. "Sure," she says.
He steps down the bleachers. She takes his hand and they start heading towards the door.
"Did they cry?"
"Only half."
"You really need to step up your game."
"Shut the fuck up."
She lays her head on his shoulder.