A/N First try, at the moment completed, just something I felt like writing. Criticisms are welcome.
Disclaimer: Do not own glee, this train wreck of a show.
"I knew this was my moment," you whisper to yourself, taking a deep breath. "Come on, Britt, you can do this."
You continue your last minute self encouragement as you take slow, steady steps onto the stage. You could just spot Santana in the audience waving wildly at you as music flooded the auditorium. You allowed yourself to smile shyly at the brunette smiling proudly at you before you close your eyes and let yourself feel the music, moving along to the beat, in a routine you've done too many times.
This is the moment you have been waiting for since you were born. This is the moment you've worked hard for ever since you were born. This is your dream – to showcase your dancing to the world, to make a name for yourself through dancing, to prove to the world that academics isn't everything. And heck, you've worked hard for this. You've cooped inside the studio, practicing the routine over and over again. You wouldn't stop unless you knew it was perfection. Santana even had to drag you out of that mirrored room before you finally took a break. For years you've been known as the ditzy cheerleader, the dumb blonde that couldn't tell her left from her right, and for years, even though Santana tries her best to encourage you, you believed them. You knew you weren't going to get those straight As, you knew you probably would never go to college. However, you knew that even if Mike could outsmart you, even if Rachel could out sing you, even if Kurt could out speak you, you know that you can out dance anybody. And now you could prove to the world that you no longer want to be the stupid girl who failed her classes. You want to be Brittany S. Pierce, the amazing dancer that could probably out dance anyone. You want to be Brittany S. Pierce, the girl who outshone everyone from that small town. You want to make every single person who made fun of you back in Lima, Ohio change their impression of you. And you're finally going to.
Dancing is your life. If somebody were to ever tell you that you could never dance ever again, you don't think you could survive. Dancing is your pride, your joy, your escape, your expression. Nothing has ever made you happier than dancing. Simply by bouncing to the beat, you can feel your stress ebb away, or the sadness fading with every move. It has always been your out, your relief for a particularly stressful day, your escape from a bad day. "It's like magic," Santana would tell you once in a while. "You step into the studio all frowning and pouty and when you step out, it's like someone just erased your sadness away and you'd be all beaming and cheerful again." Santana absolutely enjoys watching you dance. She would sit in a corner of the studio while you're practicing another routine, and when you're done and sticky all over; all the work she brought in with her into the studio would still be left untouched. You don't know why Santana still bothers to bring her work into the studio. You both know that she would never get anything done. You guess Santana is just unwilling to admit that she can't keep her eyes away when you dance. It's cute how Santana attempts to avert her eyes every time you look at her. You let Santana keep that tiny amount of pride though.
Dancing has always been your way of expressing yourself. It's the same way Quinn shows her feelings through photography, or how Santana expresses herself through music. Santana has watched you dancing so much that she could tell the feelings you're trying to express with just one look. You let yourself swoon a little every time Santana jumps to your side, looking at you worriedly when you try to dance to a slow song. You think it's funny how people actually think Santana is mean, when her heart is so big you were worried she'll get a heart attack.
As the music draws to an end, you conclude your finally dance steps, head down, arms spread wide. You feel your heart beating faster than usual and adrenaline coursing through your blood as you shut your eyes tight, anticipating the response of the audience. This was it. You entire career is dependent on how much people in this audience liked your performance. These people who don't care about where you're from, what you have gone through to provide this performance for them. They judge based on this one performance. You hold your breath. These people sitting in front of you could make or break your career.
The auditorium is silent. You feel you heart beat faster. You look up. You feel yourself getting nauseous as the silence drags. You feel you lips starting to tremble. You feel tears starting to well from your eyes. You feel your knees starting to shake, as the audience stands up with wild applause, smiles breaking out from their face, cheering. Cheering for you. You breathe again. You let a smile appear on your face. The smile grows to a grin and before you know it, you're beaming at the audience, perhaps even laughing. You're relieved, you're happy, you're ecstatic. Among the catcalls and wolf whistles travelling in your direction, you hear Santana telling everyone around her how that was her girlfriend up there; you hear your parents yelling in your direction, how they're proud of you, and you think, even without the standing ovation, even without the approval of the audience, your family liked it and that's all it matters.
You're off the stage and before you could get your bearings, Santana is throwing her hands around your neck and pulling you into a passionate kiss. You oblige because you could never get tired of kissing Santana.
"I'm so proud of you, Britt! That was awesome!" Santana exclaims, hugging the air out of you.
You stare at Santana with affection. It's amazing how much Santana believes in you. Ever since you met her when you were fifteen, she has never made you feel inferior. She has never made herself seem better than you, intentional or not, and she has never allowed anyone to make you feel inferior in her presence. You know you can take care of yourself, but it just feels good that there's someone who puts you above herself, caring for you and treating you with utmost respect even if you do spew nonsense once in a while.
"I love you so much, San," you say, pulling her into another kiss.
You break apart when a person clears her throat behind you.
"We're still here, Britt," you mom says, as she smiles knowingly at you.
You feel heat rise to your cheeks. It's not your fault Santana is so damn kissable. You hug your parents and thank your friends from glee who were kind enough to take time off to watch your performance.
"I think I could fit one performance into my busy Broadway schedule," Rachel laughs.
"Did you seriously think we wouldn't come?" Mercedes asks, raising her eyebrow at you.
"Like we would ever miss your big performance, B," Quinn smiles.
"Like Santana would ever let us miss your big performance," Puck says, smirking. You all laugh, because that was probably true.
You can't help smile at your friends. They were scattered all over the world, Rachel and Kurt in New York, Quinn in New Haven, Mike in Chicago, but they all made it here for you. It makes your heart swell with affection for these people.
You're all in a bar celebrating your success and your mom in going around telling anyone who would listen how you'd started dancing once you started walking. You'd blush and wave it off, but the undeniable pride in your chest swells as people look to you in admiration as they listen to your mother brag about your achievements. It makes you really happy that when people look at you now, they're not looking at dumb Brittany. They're looking at Brittany, the dancer with the standing ovation. You knew your moment, you worked hard for it, and you succeeded. You, Brittany S. Pierce finally succeeded.