I haven't done a fic before. I have lots of Santana feelings right now; I blame the mash-up.

Vague spoilers based on what's speculated to happen in the next episode or two (3x06 to maybe 3x08?); warnings for some swear words; this is all Santana!angst.

Cross posted from my Tumblr (holdincontempt). I don't own the characters, copyright, blah blah blah.

This is currently a one-shot, but there is scope for a second part. I'm just not sure if I can bring myself to write it yet.

'I can't do this,' you thought, 'This isn't fair.'

You could feel the tears welling up in your eyes as you stared at the posters on the walls, and tried your hardest to fight them back. The images were taunting you, laughing at you, and there was nothing you could do but run. It wasn't about pride or your image: you were wrecked by pure, unadulterated fear. You needed to escape, before someone saw how vulnerable and weak you were as you stood in McKinley's tortuous hallways.

As you turned your back on the school, the double doors slamming behind you, you allowed your tears to fall and by the time you'd climbed into your car, you were sobbing uncontrollably. Fumbling in your bag, you eventually found your cell phone and started a call, trying desperately to hide that you were crying.

"Hi," you started, speaking softly between snuffles and sobs, "I need you ... No, I can't talk about it here ... Meet me as soon as you can? ... Yeah, usual place. Thanks ... You're a hero."

You held a small smile on your face briefly as you snapped your phone shut. You exhaled and attempted to compose yourself with a few deep breaths, then checked you face in the rear-view mirror. You were tired of dealing with you feelings; it was easier to simply push them to one side and soldier on, but you knew that you needed to talk to someone about all of this as soon as possible.

"I have no idea how I am going to deal with this," you thought out loud, whispering to yourself. You thought again about the posters that were plastered on the walls of the high school. There you were, the poster girl for lesbian cheerleaders everywhere and there was sweet fuck all you could do about it. You had been ruthlessly outed, and it was the most petrifying thing you had ever experienced.

Before you knew what had happened, you'd arrived at your destination, and you calmly shut off the engine. You were merely going through the motions, a feeling not uncommon for you. Each day followed a similar enough pattern: get up, Cheerios uniform, look hot, make sure Brit is okay and most importantly, don't let anyone know you're struggling.

You swaggered past the doorman - you've still got an image to project after all - and take your usual seat at the bar. No one here asks questions; they don't care that you're barely eighteen, or that it's four o'clock on a Tuesday afternoon, and that's how you like it. You can just ... be.

"You took your time," he said, but there was no ill-feeling in his words. "I got you a beer," he added, nudging the bottle closer to you.

"Thanks," you replied, with a soft smile.

The two of you sat there in silence for a good five minutes, sipping from identical bottles of beer, before he eventually spoke again. Sometimes the silence was too much, even for him.

"What happened?" He wasn't pushing you; he didn't even need to make eye contact. You understood that you could take your time and that he wouldn't judge you. You took a few deep breaths before chugging another mouthful of beer.

"Everyone knows."

"Shit."

"Pretty much."

You then proceeded to tell him the story. How you were being used as a pawn in the presidential campaign, how your sexuality was out there for everyone to see, and most horribly, how the control had been stolen from you. He understood that sense of fear; coming out was something you had to do on your own terms, and being kicked from the closet in such a public manner was a nightmare you both shared.

"It's not fair, Dave. This was supposed to be my decision. Now I have to talk to my parents, and we both know how that's going to go." You shared a look: he knew exactly how you were feeling. "I'm not ready. Do you think I could transfer schools? Maybe everyone will forget about me if I do that ..."

"Santana, don't be an idiot." You opened your mouth to retaliate, but he raised an eyebrow and you knew that he wasn't finished. "She loves you, and you love her. Jesus, even I can see that, and feelings are really not my strong point. Surely you can see that she's going to support you through this?" He was right, and deep down you knew that, but this was the first time that someone had actually said it to you. "I can't really offer much practical advice - I took the coward's way out, but don't make the same mistakes as me, alright?"

You were very aware of the fact that your reaction to this whole situation had the potential to ruin your relationship. You thought about how strong Brittany had been over the last couple of weeks; it wasn't that she no longer needed your protection, but it was like she was trying to show you that she could protect you. Things between you were wonderful: you were dating, albeit not publicly, and Britt understood that while you were taking these steps together, they needed to be small and at your pace. 'She really is perfect for me,' you thought, smiling.

"I think I need to go call Br- " You paused, choosing your words. "My ... girlfriend. I need to call my girlfriend," you eventually finished, looking up at him.

David wasn't an idiot; he knew that you had never referred to Brittany as your girlfriend before. Words like that were hard to say out loud. This was another first step. "Go. We'll get wasted some other night," he said, laughing.

You didn't say anything, and simply turned to leave. He called after you again. "Hey, Queerio!"

"What?"

"I'm proud of you."

"Fuck off," you replied, grinning, "You're going soft on me, Bear Cub!"

You left the bar, climbed into your car and decided that you were alright to drive. It had only been one beer paced over an hour and a half. You gripped the steering wheel tightly, eyes set straight ahead. "I'm going to see my girlfriend," you assured yourself, firmly, and felt a little bit of hope.