I do not own Glee, or Brittany and Santana. I just simply come up with the idea and write about it. I hope you enjoy! Even though it's not the happiest. Reviews are always welcome, good or bad. :)
The hallway seemed to hold no importance to you at all. The banners indicating Blaine's win only brought your mood further south. You were surprised it could go any further. Your cheerleading skirt didn't have the same ebb and flow and when you swayed, the pleats followed a few seconds too late. Everything was going wrong, and it was only a matter of time before you fell into the black hole every book spoke of.
You weren't paying attention when it happened. Lord Tubbington hadn't been home in days and you knew that he was out with his friends condoning illegal activity. You hadn't talked to Santana since she left and frankly, you were too afraid to call. Ms. Pillsbury had been far too busy with her fiancée to tutor you this week, and your grades were already falling. No one could have expected you to notice the Red #40 flying through the air and icing over your rosy cheeks.
The inevitable slushie you have avoided for three years.
And no one on the other end of your pinky to make it better.
Slushies weren't anything you had experienced. The breath pushed from your lungs until you were gasping for air. Your perfect, lonely blue eyes were shut, the ice melting and falling from your mascara-clad eyelashes. They hadn't been water-proofed, and black stains mixed in with the scarlet juice as laughter flooded your ears. If the ice sliding down your throat wasn't enough, your bra was filled and you were sure your uniform was stained. The cherry that lingered on your lips was bittersweet and you had to stop yourself from screaming out for help.
"Super seniors get first call. You should feel honored." You didn't know whose voice it was. Probably one of Kitty's friends, out to get you. Hell, maybe even to get your girl-… ex-girlfriend after the way she acted at Breadstix. You didn't care. You just wanted to get out of there as fast as you possibly could. While you had always wondered what it would be like to be blind, the feeling of actually being rendered helpless in a crowded hallway leaves your knees shaking.
Soft hands grab your shoulders and pull you backward gently. You can practically hear them beckoning you into their embrace. Thoughts of skinny yet strong, tan but never rough hands come into mind. Hands that know your body better than you do. Your heart skips a beat as you remember what it felt like to be held as if you meant something.
The disappointment steals your breath quicker than the blizzard being forced down your shirt.
"Britt, come on." His voice is gentle; he knows what it's like. His blonde hair has been stained once or twice before. But he doesn't understand like she does. There's no way that he could.
You let him guide you wherever it is he plans to take you. The squeak of the linoleum under your feet tells you that you've entered the freshly mopped bathroom. The lock of the door behind you is comforting. No one else has to see you like this.
"Alright, alright, alright," He murmurs in his best McConaughey impression. He knows it makes you laugh, but you can't find it in you to smile. "Quinn taught me how to do this perfectly, I'll help you out." And you trusted him. Your eyes didn't have to be open to know that he wanted the best for you.
It takes almost an entire roll of paper towels before your skin is a pale shade of pink. The red refuses to wash from your hair, but the curls in your ponytail are still intact. He turns the other direction as you clean your chest and legs. He uses careful hands to make sure every inch of sticky, sweet syrup and blotchy makeup is gone from your face.
"I don't know how chicks actually hang out in here. Totally depressing. These tiles are definitely from my grandma's house." He rambles as if he has no filter, but you know that it's because of the silence. You never knew that silence could be so loud.
"You can open your eyes," It seems like hours before he instructs you to do so. You're almost scared to even try. But piercing blue eyes meet their match in the mirror just in front of you. Tears push the sugar from your eyes. The sadness is masked by pain and he doesn't question it.
"Can I just… Can you… I need to be by myself." Your voice is muffled by the hurt and it's cracking in places you've only heard when you have the flu. He tries to protest, but the look in your eyes says enough.
Leave me. You can't fix this.
Because it's not the frozen drink that probably costs less than the money under the couch was worth. It's not the fact that you're cold and your eyes are on fire. It's the fact that he doesn't have beautiful brown hair that flows seamlessly when he runs. He doesn't talk to you in Spanish when you're sad, because he doesn't know that the rhythm of the words calms you down. He doesn't kiss you like she did. His fingers don't press into the small of your back or trace over that dimple just above your waistline.
Friends aren't supposed to do those things. Soulmates are.
So he kisses your sticky forehead before leaving, disposing every stained paper towel on the way. The only thing in there is your backpack that was thrown to the floor the second you stood still.
You turn from the mirror before the tears take over. The hate, the anger, the rage, the loneliness. Everything she promised she would never be the cause of. You sink to floor in search of the one thing that still has a glint of hope. It's not an iPhone, but Kiki is good enough to be Siri. The only thing that's important is the second name under the "S" category in your contact list. You've dialed it so many times, speed dial recognizes it and you only have to hold down the number 1 before it's ringing.
Breath isn't coming easy and you can't find the air you need to speak. When the exasperated voice meets your ears, it takes you a minute to realize that it's her voice and not just another horrible nightmare.
"Britt? Britt, are you there?" All it takes is one gulp of sweet oxygen before you explode.
"I'm cold and I'm by myself and my hair is turning pink and my right eye is blurry and my head feels like I've been hit with a million bricks and I just can't do it anymore," It's a jumbled mess before you realize that nothing you just said was what was on your mind.
She pauses before she realizes what you've said. Waiting for her voice is like torture and you choke on a sob that's been bubbling through your chest since you were hit with flying ice.
"Shit, Brittany. I'm sorry, I thought they were done with that shit after we came home with that giant ass trophy. Are you okay?" You almost smile, because that worried tone that always laces her voice is back. That tone that has only ever been for you.
You sniffle before answering, trying to make yourself whole for her benefit. "Sam helped me, I don't know who did it. I made him leave."
"B, he was trying to help you. I know you think you can do every-…"
You don't think you can do everything by yourself. You don't think that he wasn't trying to help. You're not stupid, you know how to think. You know how to feel. And you know how it hurts.
"He's not you. I need you, and you're not here. You're not even mine, and I need you." Your voice is a raspy whisper. You could hardly hear yourself.
You do hear the catch in her throat and the deafening silence that follows.
"Brittany, we talked about this. This is what we need, and I'm still only a phone call away. I'm still your best friend. Yo siempre te amaré más."
Best friends were nothing compared to what you had with her only weeks before. Best friends were a step down from everything you had worked for.
"And I still got left behind."
You hang up. You don't call back and apologize. You grab your backpack, shove your phone in the deepest corner, and leave the bathroom. You go through the day as people stare and Coach Sylvester screams at you for damaging your uniform. You act as if nothing had happened. Because you're smart enough to listen to the one person you've always trusted. You're smart enough to understand that her decision must be right.
Because Santana is your everything. And in everything that she has ever done, she has never let you down.