Disclaimer: Glee and its characters are not mine, nor are the songs, but the story is. If Glee were mine the ENTIRE cast would be gay. No joke.
Author's Note: My first fic! This is the first bit of creative writing I've done in quite some time. That being said, feel free to tear it to shreds (: (I've also never written in an active tense before, so we'll see how that works out...) Hope you enjoy!
A/N2: I'll try to publish once a week, but I make no promises...
A/N 3: I've named Brit's as-yet-unnamed little sister 'Becca', which is probably short for Rebecca. I never really thought about it until now...
I should be happy, she thinks to herself. For all intents and purposes, I should really be fucking ecstatic.
She stares down her body to her twined hands, possibly feeling more depressed than she has ever felt before despite how objectively happy this moment should be. Her knuckles whiten and start to hurt from the pressure she's exerting into her grip. She faintly registers the raucous noise and presence of others around her, her senses muted by her internal dialogue.
Why aren't I happy? This doesn't make any sense. She stays lost in her thoughts, the coolness of the wall against her back at once refreshing and unsettling.
With a rush of internal panic, she suddenly becomes hyperaware of the fact that she is outwardly scowling and, in objection, allows her lips to hesitantly curl upwards at the edges. Realistically, the smile should fool no one―the forlorn look in her eyes and defeated posture easily betraying the now half-smile on her face. Apparently no one cares to notice. She scoffs to herself, Figures.
A few thoughtful moments pass before she feels a soft hand come to rest on her bare shoulder. "We really did it, didn't we." It's really more a statement of fact than a question.
She straightens instinctively from her position, chancing a small glance to her left without lifting her head completely. A petite figure has taken to leaning on the wall next to her.
"Seems so," she responds blandly, gritting her teeth. She honestly has no interest in taking up conversation with anyone right now, let alone the specific person standing beside her, burning a hole into the side of her head. She shrugs the hand off of her shoulder, as if to make that point vehemently clear.
"So... given the joyous occasion, why do you look so depressed?" the voice presses.
Fuck. She'd been caught. Though she mildly appreciates the fact that someone actually noticed and cares to ask, on the face of it she hates it.
Without looking up, she scoffs outwardly, summoning the best bitch-attitude she can manage at the moment, "Listen Man-Hands, if I wanted to talk about my feelings I'd talk to... well, I'd talk to anyone who wasn't you." She winces internally; not so much at the words spoken as at the lack of fire and obvious exhaustion behind them.
She keeps her sight rested somewhere between her hands and her feet, but can almost feel Rachel roll her eyes.
"Whatever, Santana, just don't say I didn't offer," the shorter brunette says, hands up in a gesture of submission.
Santana can't resist the opportunity to pounce. She steels herself, tightening her jaw and spinning to face the girl at her left, taking aggressive steps forward. "Look Stubbles," she jabs her index finger into Rachel's chest, the fire back in her voice. "I don't want your fucking offers. It's embarrassing to even acknowledge the fact you're talking to me, so why don't you just go Dr. Phil someone else?"
Santana continues to advance and Rachel's defeated expression morphs into one of fear as she stumbles backwards and onto the floor. Santana stops and quirks an eyebrow, offering the first true smile she's had all day. Rachel quickly scurries up from the ground and back towards the group, leaving Santana thoroughly satisfied and not caring if anyone else bore witness to the spectacle.
It's junior year, New Directions just won Sectionals, and the fact of the matter is Santana Lopez just doesn't fucking care.
The after party is at Puck's house. Thank fucking Christ.
Santana nurses her third beer as she sits on the kitchen floor, leaning back against the cupboards. Elbows resting on her raised knees, she fiddles with the label on the bottle. The music and loud voices are actually starting to grate on her a lot more than she'd like to admit. She takes a long swig from the bottle and runs her fingers almost violently through her hair as her head pounds along with the music.
A lithe blonde bounces into the kitchen, smile stretching from ear to ear. The extent to which she's been drinking that evening becomes evident as she not-so-elegantly plops down next to the depressed Latina.
A pale hand comes to rest on Santana's jean-clad knee. "Hey S," she coos as she leans close, her breath tickling against Santana's ear as her hand slides down to Santana's inner thigh.
The brunette can't help but smile a little, "Hey B, having a good night?" she asks as she turns her head towards the blonde, their lips inches apart.
Brittany's eyes roll over Santana's body, "Yeah... you could make it better though," she concludes, locking her eyes with Santana's and squeezing her inner thigh suggestively.
A shot of darkness enters Santana's eyes and her mouth runs slightly dry in response to Brittany's proposition. She breaks eye contact, looking at the bottle in her hands in thought.
Fuck it. Santana lifts the bottle to her lips, chugging down the remainder of the lukewarm libation. She clunks the empty bottle on the floor to her right, and in a swift and rough move turns left, grabbing Brittany's neck and smashing their lips together.
There's no preamble, no romance, nothing sweet about it―things are immediately heated. Santana bites into Brittany's lower lip unforgivingly, causing a small gasp of pain to come from the blonde. Santana doesn't pause. She takes the opportunity and shoves her tongue into Brit's mouth, tasting the remnants of vodka and cranberry juice with a slight metallic flavour. She drew blood, and she loves it.
Santana breaks the kiss, pushing Brittany back with both hands on either side of her face. "Let's get the fuck out of here," she practically demands.
Santana stands abruptly and pulls Brittany roughly up by her hand. She doesn't stop to wave, let alone say, goodbye to anyone―not even Puck―as she beelines for the front door. She continues along, practically dragging Brit down the street as she thanks God or whoever that she lives only a couple blocks away.
Santana pulls Brittany all the way to her empty house, up the stairs, and into the master bedroom, shoving her unceremoniously onto the bed. She jumps flush on top of the blonde and starts an immediate assault on her pulse point, hands ripping at the front of Brittany's jeans. Santana lifts her hips and leans her shoulder onto the bed to gain better access.
Once she has the button open and fly down, she shoves her hand down Brittany's underwear and forces two fingers in roughly, delivering a bite of equal force to the girl's neck at the same moment. Brittany practically wails in pain and Santana smiles against her neck. She's mine.
This is exactly what she needs―a rough and fast fuck; no emotion, no 'love-making,' just sex. That's all Santana's good for anyway.
She wakes with a groan, feeling the dead weight of a sleeping body on her right side. This would be so much easier if she didn't have to cuddle.
Sleeping with Brittany is always fun, and always gets the job done, but Santana absolutely hates waking up all lovey-dovey, being spooned by the blonde―which was curiously the way they always woke up. Sleeping with Puck, though less satisfying, was so much easier. There was no emotional investment, no friendship to worry about altering, there was no spooning―often there wasn't even a shared bed―and there were certainly no words of affection beyond the occasional dirty talk. Santana could cede to linking pinkies in school hallways, the most minute show of affection to the blonde, but even the thought of anything beyond that makes her cringe... especially now.
Last night, Brittany―possibly due to the extreme amount of alcohol consumed, or maybe even in a moment of sex-induced weakness―had said it. She had said the 'L' word to Santana. 'I love you, S.' the words play over and over again in Santana's mind. She wrenches her eyes shut again, trying to push the thought away. Little colloquial partings like 'Kisses!' or 'Love ya!' were totally fine by Santana, but Brittany's utterance was neither. Not a simple colloquialism and not a parting. Santana shakes her head, trying once again to free it of the thought.
Her focus shifts to how stiff her back is. She tries to stretch, but can't do so comfortably while still half-trapped under Brittany's weight. She opens her eyes and stares down, noticing for the first time that the blonde's arm is hooked possessively around her waist. This has gotta stop, she thinks to herself.
She turns her head towards the clock on the nightstand. 6:56 am. What. The. Fuck. She decides to force her eyes shut and make a college try at falling back asleep―after all, they had just passed out 4 hours prior―trying to ignore the pain.
After a half hour of trying to fight her way back into dreamland, only to be greeted by Brittany's 'I love you's, she finally gives up. Her minute consideration of Brittany's sleep having slipped into frustration, she swiftly removes the blonde's arm and climbs out of the bed. To her delight, Brittany merely groans and turns over, trying to fall back asleep and fight her impending hangover.
Santana heads to her own room to her dresser and dresses herself in a pair of running shorts and a WMHS track shirt. Grabbing her iPod from her desk, she starts towards the stairwell but bypasses it, pausing in the doorway of the master to glance over Brittany. The blonde has curled into the foetal position, pulling the sheets over her head to block out the morning sunlight seeping in through the blinds. I should probably close those... the brunette muses before scoffing aloud, shoving her earbuds in, and heading out.
A run always helps Santana work out her thoughts―'work out' in the sense that it removes them from her head. As she starts her run through the park, she focuses on the pounding beat of the music coming into her ears and the vibrating beat of her feet hitting the pavement at an even pace.
It's a beautiful day, but Santana fails to notice. She can't hear the birds chirping with her headphones in, can't feel the soft sun as she runs away from it, can't see the beautiful pond to the left of the winding path she's moving along as she stares down at the pavement. She also doesn't see a figure catch up to her and start to keep pace.
She feels a tap on her right shoulder and turns quickly, on instinct, ready to throw a left hook. There stands Quinn, hands up, slightly cringing and hoping Santana doesn't follow through.
"Quinn, what the fuck?" Santana yells, dropping her raised fist and yanking her earphones out, as the two now stand still facing each other.
"Whoa, easy tiger; I'm just surprised to see you out here so early. You stayed pretty late at the party and I heard you took B home... that usually leads to a pretty late morning," she smirks.
Santana puts her hands on her hips, weight leaning to one side ready to strike venom, but slowly she realizes she's just too sleep deprived to do so. On the bright side, Q is one of her good friends. Or at least a frienemy, she thinks to herself. For a moment she actually considers confiding in Quinn about Brittany's confession and the total mindfuck it has lead to. The momentary vulnerability flashes on her face, leading Quinn to press on.
"Seriously S, you can talk to me. It's not like we're fighting over captain anymore or anything like that, and I'd like to think that even you can see I'm not the complete and utter bitch I was last year..." hazel eyes offer sincerely.
Santana runs her hand through her hair, seriously considering Quinn's proposal. It is true that the two have become better friends since Quinn's not-so-immaculate conception, but it still feels new and Santana often finds herself doubting the blonde's loyalty. After turning the idea over a few times, she decides not to take the chance, lest her dirty laundry become Monday's fodder for the WMHS masses. Instead she decides to do what she always does: she tightens her posture and rolls her eyes exaggeratedly.
"Look Tubbers," she says with a bit less bite than she had hoped. "I'm out here for a run, not a counselling session. If you want to keep up, that's your prerogative, but I'm out," she concludes, replacing her earbuds and leaving the blonde behind shaking her head.
Santana continues to run by herself until she starts to feel physically ill, finally surrendering and dropping onto a bench with her chest heaving. She'd run the loop quite a few times and ends up sitting right in front of the pond. The sun has gotten much hotter during the course of her run―unusually hot for a late-fall day. She leans back with her eyes closed and her arms resting over the back of the bench. The warm, sun-baked wood soothes her aching back and (now) sore thighs as the sun itself starts to dry the sweat on her face and body.
She feels the weight of the bench shift and looks to her right. She sighs, "Look Q, I know we've become better friends and all that, but it doesn't mean I'm gonna share my innermost thoughts and feelings with you like we're fucking BFFs or whatever."
Quinn raises her hands in defeat, and Santana realizes that she's seen that gesture a lot lately. The blonde, who has apparently gone home and come back given her costume change, drops her hands and reaches into a bag at the side of the bench, retrieving a water bottle and offering it to Santana. The Latina raises a questioning eyebrow, but reluctantly accepts the water. Quinn sighs and redirects her gaze to the pond in front of them.
"Santana," she starts, the exhaustion in her voice partly due to her own run and partly in reaction to the brunette's continued petulance. "I'm just sitting down. It's a nice day, you know―probably the last one of the year―," she glances at the brunette, noting her closed eyes. "It wouldn't hurt you to take in the view."
At this, Santana looks over at the blonde and follows her gaze out to the relatively picturesque scene in front of them. The usually brown water is reflecting a serene blue-green shade in the mid-morning sun. Insects are flitting along the surface, adolescent ducks frolicking around in the water... Ducks, Santana sighs as her mind drifts to Brittany and the whole fucked up situation. She takes a quick swig of water, as if it will wash away her thoughts. She glances at her watch, which reads 10:13 am. She can hardly believe that she's been running for over 2 hours. Undoubtedly Brittany has woken up by now, Santana just hopes that the aloof blonde has already done her walk of shame.
Santana stays, though, and cheerio and ex-cheerio continue to sit quietly next to each other. Santana's emotional state actually starts to border on content, despite the pronounced growl of hunger from her stomach.
"I'm guessing she told you," Quinn hazards, breaking the comfortable silence but keeping her eyes on the water.
Santana stays silent in shock, unsure of what to say or how to say it.
Quinn realizes she's not going to receive a response and continues, "And from your silence, I'm guessing you didn't say it back." She raises her eyes and looks at the side of Santana's head.
Santana drops her head to rest on the back of the bench again, staring up at the clouds. She really doesn't want to have this conversation. Why can't she just fuck off already?
"She's stupid, you know." Quinn says absently.
Santana's head snaps back up and she steels her gaze on hazel eyes, ready to tear Quinn's throat out. Santana may not return Brittany's affections, but B's still her girl and she isn't about to let anyone smack talk her, least of all the poster child for teenage pregnancy.
As Quinn realizes the Latina's about to snap, she raises a finger to stop the oncoming verbal assault and elaborates, "She doesn't get that it would never work... she's too good for you."
It's said simply, and while Santana's rage initially flares to epic proportions, it quickly subsides and she sinks back into the bench and into complacency. She shifts her gaze back to the ducks and sighs, "You're right."
By the time Santana gets back to her house it's closing in on noon. The house is empty, as expected (and as hoped). Sometime during her near-five-hour-absence the blonde dancer had found her way out. Santana ambles into the kitchen, where she proceeds to grab a glass of water and a granola bar. She sits on one of the stools at the counter and starts to eat. She gets through about half of the bar before she notices that the phone base is flashing for new voicemail.
She hops off the stool and makes her way over, grabbing an apple along the way. The machine indicates 2 new messages. She bites into her apple and hits play on the first one.
'Hey mija, just wanted to check in. I know it's been a while,' Understatement of the year, Santana thinks. '―but I've been super busy. Keeping a job isn't easy out here. Anyway, I still don't really have a phone set up, so you won't be able to reach me. I'll call again when I have the time. Oh, I transferred you some more money so you should be ok for awhile. And remember if you have any emergencies to call abuela. Be good, mija.'
In fact it had been over a month since Santana had heard from her mother, who had taken a 'business trip' to California six months ago and not yet returned. Apparently she had found 'work,' which Santana knew was code for 'a boyfriend'. At the beginning of the 'trip' the calls came a few times a week, then once a week, then bi-weekly, and now monthly.
Santana sighs and hovers her hand over the repeat button for a few pensive moments. As angry as she is at the whole situation, she still misses her mother. Though she hates to admit it, hearing her mother's voice―even over the phone―is as reassuring and comforting as it is infuriating. She furrows her brow, steels her nerves and shifts her hand to hit the delete button. Fuck her. She doesn't care.
She takes another bite of her apple and decides to listen to the second message as well.
'Hey S, sorry if I was super drunk last night but I'm pretty sure I had a good time. I don't know what was in those drinks but they didn't taste as magic as Puck said they would. Mostly they just tasted like cranberries and burning.' Santana rolls her eyes. 'Anyway, I should go, we have to take Becca to the dentist today. So... call me back if you want to hang out tonight.' The line goes silent. Maybe she forgot, Santana hopes. 'I love you. Bye.'
Shit.