Disclaimer: Funnily enough, I still don't own Glee. Though it's not for a lack of trying.
Author's note: This story has been in the works for a good few weeks, but life (and birthday hangovers) just got in the way and I could never find the time to write it. Sorry! Anyway, now it's here, I hope you enjoy it - the lack of consideration for how Brittany might have felt during all the Brittana scenes has always bugged, so I've just taken it upon myself to fill in the gaps. This will be a four-chapter fic, covering 'Sex isn't dating', 'I'm not making out with you because I'm in love with you', Hurt Locker, and the break-up. Have fun!
You know you've done something wrong the moment she slams the door of the empty classroom shut, a flinch jerking through your body as the lock clicks harshly into place. Santana is standing with her back to you, shoulders rising and falling with the deep breaths she takes to calm herself, but you can see the muscles in her arms clench as she grips the door handle tightly. The routine is familiar, one you've seen the brunette follow ever since she discovered you hiding in the corner of the playground, tears streaming down your face after Azimio screamed at you for accidentally breaking his new toy, and vowed to never shout at you. It's been ten years since she made that promise but every time you want to tell her to forget it, to tell her that you're sixteen now and can handle her raising her voice at you, the memory of six-year old Santana flickers into being behind your eyes, the proud grin that split her face seizing the words before they can pass your lips.
You don't know how long you stand there waiting, how many minutes slip by as your fingers play idly with the pleats on your Cheerios skirt, but eventually the tension in her arm eases, her hand dropping to the side as she turns to face you. You still don't really understand what you've done wrong, but the overwhelming mix of emotions playing out across Santana's face is enough to make your throat tighten with guilt. They're quickly reined back in, left to churn privately behind steel walls, yet the vulnerability still shines in her eyes, so jarring against the mask of anger that quickly drapes itself over her face. You bite your lip, hating every time she does this to herself, every time she refuses to let herself feel. It's a tiring game, her determination to cling to the image of the perpetually calm and fearless individual who rules the school; you can see it in the way her shoulders sag with relief every time you leave McKinley, in the way she timidly asks you cuddle her on the days she comes under attack, and you long for the day she stops forcing herself into this role.
Santana's looking at you, her arms crossing almost protectively across her chest as she does. You imagine she's waiting for you to speak, to apologise, but any thought about what you may have done to upset her is driven from your mind as you study her. She glances away, cheeks flushing under the burn of your gaze, and her shoulders hunch slightly as she draws back into her protective shell. It drives a spike of sadness through you that a part the Latina feels the need to protect herself from you, that she still hesitates to trust you completely despite the years you've spent as some of the only constants in each other's lives. You only just hold back the exasperated sigh threatening to free itself, knowing from experience that it only serves to push the brunette further away.
The furrow between her eyebrows deepens the longer she stands underneath your scrutiny until, eventually, she turns back to face you with an annoyed sigh.
"Well?" she spits venomously. It's enough to make you flinch again, the loaded question jolting you from your quiet inspection of the Latina, but the harshness in her voice doesn't even begin to match the extremes you've heard it reach before. Santana never completely shows how angry she is with you, never lets on the extent of her annoyance. You should be grateful, you know that; nobody else is treated with the same kindness, and you've witnessed more times than you can count what happens when someone truly angers the Latina, lingering guiltily against the lockers while she tears down her victim with brutally pitched insults. But you worry about what bottling up all that anger does to Santana. You know you're not an easy person with whom to be friends, that you would most likely be a target along with the various outcasts at McKinley were it not for the dual protection of Santana and the Cheerios, and you frustrate her more than she lets on. You love her for protecting you, but you're worried she might lose herself in the process, that one day the anger she battles to keep trapped will consume everything with the brunette's small body.
"Well what?" you reply tentatively, the guilt you felt when you first entered the room once again coursing through your body at the thought of disappointing Santana.
"That phone conversation! What the hell, Brittany?"
You swallow thickly, your eyes drifting to gaze vacantly at the various posters pinned around the classroom as you replay the conversation in your head, searching for something that would have set Santana off. You keep your face impassive as you think, ignoring the way she taps her foot impatiently, irritation worked out through the beat of worn trainers on a linoleum floor. Your fingers finally stop fiddling with your skirt as you realise exactly what you did to anger the brunette, what you revealed during the phone call...
"Oh."
"Fucking 'oh' indeed."
You wince – you've always hated it when Santana curses, the way her normally melodic voice sharpens around the words grating on your ears – but you understand her anger. Every insistent text reminding you that nobody needs to know about this side to your friendship, every time she tries to subtly engineer a relationship between you and one of the football team, her whispered reminder last night, before she crashed your lips together bruisingly, that this stays between the two of you...you ignored them all. You just blurted out the one secret the Latina taught you to prize above all others.
You're not stupid, despite what the majority of your classmates think, and what your recent slip-up suggests; at least, you aren't when it comes to people. Algebra still gives you a headache, you struggle to see how your English teacher thinks a river represents the passage of time, and part of you still can't help but think that the Boston Tea Party was just a waste of a good drink, but in terms of reading people, you would hazard a guess that you're one of the most skilled at McKinley. You know why Santana is so desperate to keep your...arrangement...a secret, even if the Latina hasn't begun to suspect anything yet. You can see it in the way she never suggests Kurt as a target for the Cheerios' slushies; the unwilling edge to her voice and the clench of her jaw as she agrees to somebody else's suggestion to target the slight boy; the small smile that plays about her lips if she forgets to leave your bed, or kick you out of hers, and wakes up wrapped in your arms, her face a picture of utter relaxation for a few blissful seconds before panic fills her eyes and she jerks away from you; and it was there in the way she stiffened during the phone call, her nervous breaths filling the awkward pause in the conversation, shoulders hunched as if she was preparing for an attack.
Not that you'd ever dare mention your suspicions to her.
"I-I'm sorry, San...I didn't mean...they probably won't take it seriously. It'll just be another stupid Brittany moment," you laugh weakly, eyes pleading for forgiveness as you focus your attention back on the smaller girl.
"Don't call yourself that," she mutters on reflex, her gaze fixed on the phone still clasped in her left hand. There's genuine fear etched onto her face as she stares at the phone, though what she's waiting for, you have no idea. "It's...fuck, Brittany! How could you do that?!"
The guilt threatens to envelop you again, clawing its way up your throat and scratching at the back of your eyes, and you watch her with a rising feeling of dread, scared that the strain of the burden she carries with her each day will finally make her crack.
"I'm sorry," you repeat in a soft whisper, taking a cautious step closer to the Latina. When she doesn't shy away, you take another, and then another, treading softly over the classroom floor until you come to stop in front of her. She doesn't lift her head to look at you, doesn't even acknowledge that you've approached, save for the tightening of her grip around her mobile, knuckles turning white under the pressure. You bite your lip and reach out slowly over the distance separating you from the Latina to try and pry it from her grip, your eyes darting back and forth between her face and her hand to see if she'll let you, but as soon as your skin meets hers, she jerks her hand back as if you'd pressed a searing hot poker to it. You wince as her hand connects with the desk behind her in her haste to pull away, yet she ignores it and takes a shaky step backwards, wide eyes fixed on you as she increases the gulf between you.
"Don't...Britt, just don't."
You sigh. Your frustration is growing now, thoughts you'll later regret clouding your mind, but you fight to keep it in check. You don't want to jeopardise any chance, no matter how slim, of discussing whatever this thing is that has developed between the two of you. It's hard to understand what everything means, what you mean to each other, when Santana won't let you talk about it, confining this entire extra side to your friendship to the quiet moments you spend wrapped around each other beneath the protection of your blankets, the moon splaying curious shadows over the walls as you twist the ends of her hair around your fingers.
(You've never told Santana how beautiful she looks in the moonlight.)
"Look, Santana...I don't know what you want me to say. I'm sorry, I really didn't mean to let it slip...it was a mistake."
"A mistake?" she repeats, disbelieving laughter creeping into her voice. "You're right it was a fucking mistake! Now the whole school will think we're two giant lesbo lovers or something!"
You only just manage to clamp your jaw shut in time to stop yourself from asking why that would be such a bad thing, knowing anything you say now will only further set her off.
"You've ruined everything we've worked for over the past year! Nobody wants a couple of dykes in charge!" she growls viciously, beginning to pace back and forth in front of you.
You don't miss the flinch that ripples through her at the word 'dyke'.
"They won't say anything! Just talk to them, tell them they mishe-..." you begin earnestly, your words drying up as she shakes her head.
"It doesn't matter if they don't say anything right now; they'll still be thinking it. They'll still look at us and think that we're together...they're not going to understand what we are."
You want to laugh at that, to let loose the bitter sounds of your twisted amusement and listen to them fill the room, echoing off the walls to drown out the condescending tinge to Santana's voice. Your eyebrows shoot up over your head as your mouth opens and closes, searching desperately for the perfect way to say that you don't understand it, but before you can begin to voice your thoughts, the brunette starts to speak again.
"I need to go fix this," Santana sighs wearily. "See you later." Before you have a chance to respond, she spins neatly on her heel and hurries to the door, pausing only to unlock the door. Her head twists slightly, as if she wants to look back at you over her shoulder, and you find yourself praying for her to stay, but instead she shakes it, the same way a person does when a silly daydream plagues their mind, and wrenches open the classroom door, stepping out into the corridor. A pang of hurt, of rejection, stabs through your chest as you watch the red-and-white of the brunette's uniform get swallowed up by the students outside. Shaking your head dejectedly, you take a deep breath and hide your tumult of emotions behind the smile you fix on your face, knowing that that is what the school expects from you, the stereotypically blonde cheerleader, before following the other girl out into the crowd.
It's not until you see her let Puck press her up against a locker at lunch, smirking absently at the flood of students who pass them by as he places sloppy kisses up and down her neck, that you realise what fixing it entails.
AN2: I hope you enjoyed it! This is the first time I've written in 2nd person narrative; is it something I should delve into again after this story? As always, I'd love to hear what you think, whether positive, negative, or somewhere in between. Thanks!