Day 2: HBIC Cheerios Santana and Skank!Quinn
Rating: T
Genre: Romance/Angst
It wasn't Santana's fault. She had begged her parents not to send her to a therapist every Wednesday at 5pm sharp, but they wouldn't listen. It was all Sebastian's fault-ever since they had adopted him, he'd been nothing but trouble, and blamed all his shenanigans on Santana-which, of course, her parents believed. She shouldn't be surprised, really-she had been a bit of a trouble maker in the past, but that was all gone now, she had turned over a new leaf.
Anyway, the whole thing was Sebastian's idea, including the house party and the barbeque (which subsequently sent the whole garden alight). Yet, her parents of course were on Sebastian's side, and believed Santana was some sort of messed up, deranged child who needed intense therapy.
Which was why she was sat back in the therapist chair, staring up at the plain white ceiling. Her therapist, Carly, wasn't too bad-just a bit too soft. But maybe that's what Santana needed; someone who would listen and offer advice. Whatever.
"So, Santana, how are you feeling today? How was school?" Carly asked, slipping on her nerdy glasses that belonged in a bin. Preferably on Mars. Yes, they were that awful. They were huge, with thick, brown frames and her name imprinted on the side. Yet, without the glasses, she actually looked pretty, and if Santana were old enough, she would probably tap that for one night.
"Um..." Santana says softly, still engrossed by the ceiling. Santana was a guy in a girl's body; she hated sharing her thoughts and feelings, she would rather kick a brick wall one hundred times than reveal her emotions.
The Latina toyed nervously with the metal buttons on her Cheerio's letterman jacket, which she cherished so deeply. She had worked her tanned ass off for the privilege to be wearing the bright red outerwear, which is why she wore that, and her matching Cheerio's uniform, with such pride and confidence.
"Well...I guess I'm okay. School was okay. Everything's okay," Santana lies through her teeth and doesn't make eye contact with Carly, who, being a professional, can see right through her patient.
"Santana?" Carly inquires, and the Latina looks over at the blonde, who is staring sympathetically at her. Santana licks her lips and takes a deep breath before talking.
"No, no, I'm not okay, nothing is okay, and I will never be okay,"
"What's the matter?"
A pause, before Santana continues.
"Quinn," She admits, not just to Carly, but also to herself. "Quinn, it's Quinn and it will always be Quinn. Always have, always will,"
Santana had never meant for this to happen. She never meant to fall for the girl who would end up breaking her heart, again and again, time after time. But, no matter how many times she had tried to forget about Quinn, the girl's face would never leave her mind. Every dream she had featured Quinn, every thought, every moment of her day revolved around Quinn. And yes, it sounds stupid and obsessive, and Santana knows she should give up, Quinn's not worth it, but every time, she just goes running back.
Santana can still remember the day she first met Quinn Fabray, which sounds so idiotic and pathetic, but it's true. That day was the best day of her life.
Santana liked the bleachers. They were often empty, and if they weren't, they were only occupied by a couple of smokers, or a couple who just couldn't wait to get home. Santana only went to the bleachers when she had Spanish. She didn't know why that particular lesson, but, seeing as Spanish is her last lesson of the day on a Tuesday and Friday, she often can't muster up the energy to sit through a lesson that features Mr Schue banging on about his lame-ass Glee club or whatever the fuck he talks about. And she just couldn't bear to watch her BFFL, Britt, snuggling up with Stubbles McCripple Pants AKA Artie what's-his-face.
Santana sits on a bench, and brings up her knees, resting her face on them. She assumed she was alone, until she heard a voice.
"Skipping class?" Santana turns, nearly falling off the bench, and looks up at the girl. She has short, pink hair, John Lennon-esque sunglasses, with skanky looking clothing. She knew this girl-Quinn Fabray. She was a member of the Skanks, and was definitely not to be messed with. Santana was always being told that Quinn Fabray was nothing but trouble, and she made sure she was never left alone with her-until now, of course.
"Spanish," The Latina replies, trying to calm her thudding heart. Quinn took of her shades and slipped onto the bench next to Santana and lights up a cigarette.
"I don't blame you," She says, after taking a long drag. "Want one?" Quinn asks, proffering a packet and a lighter. Santana shakes her head-she didn't smoke, and never wanted to.
Quinn shrugs and goes back to smoking. They sit there in silence; not the awkward kind, just the engrossed-in-my-thoughts kind of silence.
"So, um..." Santana begins, but Quinn cuts her off.
"Santana Lopez, isn't it?"
And in that moment, Santana falls head over heels in love. And she never comes out of it.
"So, about Quinn...why is that making you so upset?" Carly asks, cocking her head at Santana, who looks away. God, she hates the pitying looks Carly gives her.
"I'm so, so in love with her, but she's...well, she's Quinn. I mean, I've dated her six times now-I've kept track-and every time she breaks my heart. She rips it out and crushes it with her bare hands and it hurts so much, but every time, I just go running back to the same girl who smashed my heart up. Just...why do I keep doing that, Carly? Every time we break up, I always say to myself, forget about her, Santana, you're stronger without her. But I don't stick to that very long. She's like my drug. I'm addicted. Hooked. And I hate how much she means to me, when I don't mean a thing to her,"
Santana let one single tear drop fall from her dark, emotion-filled eyes before she continued.
"I wish she loved me,"