Title: Hand Holding
Author: J Rease
Rating: M/R
Disclaimer: I'm borrowing.
Summary: He finds so much comfort in holding her hand. Just holding her hand. No one ever wanted to hold his hand willingly. But she always does it without thinking. Even though they're just pretending. And he thinks that maybe; just maybe she'll need him to hold hers this time.
Author's Note: I swear… I don't know where this came from. To quote the movie Love Jones "It's melancholy… but it's not sad."
Warnings: Angst; BeardSex!
Hand Holding
He's never had a girlfriend. No one was ever interested in him. He doesn't know what it's like to do all those things that couples do. He's a big guy; he's kind of intimidating. He's usually the "You're just not my type" kind of person. He has his best friend, he has school, he has football...he has respect; and his dignity. It never mattered before, not having some significant other. It was irrelevant until he noticed Kurt Hummel. It only became a problem when he couldn't stop noticing Kurt Hummel. He'd never seen a prettier boy in his life. He figured that someone would notice him staring… one day, someone would see him indulging- and he'd have nothing left.
His first important kiss was with Kurt Hummel. The feeling of Kurt's supple lips against his jolted him out of any denial he had left. His fingertips tingled as they dug into soft flesh, and it had him losing grip on gravity. He had been so angry at Kurt. Angry that Kurt didn't see the doubt; angry that Kurt didn't understand the struggle…that Kurt didn't understand what it was to be conflicted. Kurt knew who he was, Kurt was so sure but he—he was so lost. And Kurt would never understand that kind of hate…or that kind of fear. Being so afraid of what would happen if they all knew. How they would judge him and mock him. How everyone he trusted would turn their backs on him in a second. All because he may not favor who he should. He was afraid of making so many mistakes. But Kurt was bold enough to say it out loud, and claim it. Kurt was everything he was trying to hide. Kurt was proud; but he was a coward.
His first kiss was the most vivid memory in his library of thoughts. He could remember that memory like it was tangible. He cherished that memory. He treasured those agonizingly long seconds that Kurt relaxed, those seconds of hope that maybe Kurt wanted him too; he wasn't kissing him back, but he wasn't pulling away. He could feel that memory like his skin remembered how his nerve endings felt when they were going haywire; he could smell Kurt's cologne and taste the lip balm that resonated on his own mouth afterwards. He hasn't felt that feeling with anyone else since.
Not that there was anyone ever interested.
And when he saw them, walking the hallways holding hands, giggling, he'd never been more broken in his life. Kurt had someone as beautiful as he was. Kurt had someone who was confident, and secure. But… he only had his memory. Four seconds of hope and a world a wishing. But he still had school, and his best friend, and he still had football. He kept telling himself that he'd be okay. He reminded himself that the ache in his chest when he thought about what he never had would fade away. And in time, he'd be able to accept certain things about himself, and stop being so angry about not fitting the mold his older brother left behind. The mold his father had been so prepared to squeeze him into.
And then she came along. Santana Fucking Lopez with her beard proposition. He wished he hadn't been so transparent. He's paranoid all the time now by what they could be saying in his absence. He's so afraid of the things they whisper in his wake. It haunted him. Not knowing who knew what and the constant suspicion of the truth in their silent accusations; the petrifying sense that he was always under scrutiny. She gave him an out. She gave him the chance to quiet all the whispered allegations. His father would get off his back. He wouldn't have to be so tense all the time. But he hadn't expected the brief time they spent together to actually begin to mean something.
Their "dates" usually consisted of driving to a deserted dock by the lake. The truck parked as close to the water it could get before sinking, and they lay in the cab on top an old worn blanket under the stars. Sometimes they sat in silence. Other times they actually had conversations. This time interrupted the thoughts he was having about his memories.
"I couldn't do it. I couldn't go on her fucking show and out myself. I want to be with her. I'm okay with being with her, but she's forcing too much too fast and I can't take all this pressure. I can't be all out and proud when I'll just wind up homeless."
He scoffed, folding his arms underneath his head.
"I know that's right. Lopez, I know how you feel. It's really hard to do this. To come to terms. She got to take the time she needed to understand how she felt about… liking girls and stuff. You should be able to get your time too."
She laughed a little. The sad noise came out of her mouth sounded more like choking.
"But all I want is her. She's the one Karofsky. She's like; my one and only… I mean, I'm glad she's going to prom without Mr. Paraplegic. But I should be taking her. She gave me a chance to go with her and I pussied out."
He sighed, and turned to her.
"Nobody should force you to do anything like that. When Kurt brought his boy toy to school, and tried to get me to come out… I wasn't ready. It just has to happen naturally. When you're ready; and after you've accepted yourself."
She smiled at him through the tears that were sliding down her cheeks.
"I apologized to Kurt. It made me feel better, ya know? Like I righted some great wrong."
Santana was grinning now, leaning on her elbow to look at him.
"We're just one giant gay pride parade."
It got quiet. They could hear the parties going on the other side of the lake. They could hear the quiet of the water and the trees blocking the clearing they were parked in. It was peaceful. Content. His voice cut through the serenity.
"S-Santana?"
He rarely called her that. But they were becoming something… more as of late. He felt like he had someone he could trust.
"Yea?"
He cleared his throat.
"What's it feel like to be with someone… you know… intimately?"
She looked at him incredulously.
"You mean you've never? Like with anybody?"
He shook his head.
"Well, it depends. If you care about them, it feels—out of this world. Everything is heightened, there is a… connection. It's like, when you're naked, and you have someone who you really care about wrapped around you; you feel so invincible. Like there are no insecurities and no flaws… no lies. It's like taking a breath of fresh air."
He was looking at her.
"What insecurities can you have? You're perfect, you're sexy; you could have anyone you wanted."
She frowned instantly.
"That's not true. People use me. I'm one of those throw away prizes. No one likes me for who I am, they just wanted a quick lay. I'm easy enough to distract most people from who they really want—but have to work hard to get. I mean. Puck left me for Zizies and Britts was getting handicapped parking at the movies with Mr. X.—I'm never the first choice for anyone."
He felt bad for her. He didn't think pretty people had this many problems. He didn't know someone so beautiful could feel so ugly inside.
"Well, I think you're Brittany's hard work. She loves you. She's not denying you're not going to wind up together. You guys are soul mates. You just have to be yourself first, before you can be something to someone else."
She laughed. The noise was foreign to the severity of their conversation, but his eyebrows rose in question anyway. She finally quieted enough to speak.
"If you're so wise why don't you follow your own advice? And how do you know if you're gay if you never… had sex."
He shrugged, lying flat against the cab of the truck and watching the unobstructed sky above him.
"You keep calling me gay. I just… I don't know. Certain guys turn my head. And—and I think you're all kinds of attractive. Most people don't want me that way. I'm all sweaty and I'm going to go bald when I'm like thirty. And I have a broad chest and weak calves, and everyone I ever like never likes me back. I'm no one's type."
She sat up and looked down at him.
"You're not ugly, Dave. You have a great smile, and you're a big guy but if you adjust the attitude, you'd be a sweet guy. A loveable guy. You're just fighting your own demons and it makes you a dick at school."
It was the nicest thing anyone ever said to him. He felt the need to repay the compliment.
"Well, Santana. You keep it real, and you are… beautiful. Inside and out. Well… when you're not being a bitch."
They both cracked a smile at the end of the sentence. And it was suddenly quiet again. The question seized him before he could stop it.
"What does it feel like when you don't care about the person—S-sex, I mean?"
She looked down at her hands.
"It's confusing. Things don't fit right and everything's uncomfortable. It's usually awkward and over quick. There's nothing to bask in afterwards, it's just… quiet. I mean the sensations are there, sure. Sex is just sex sometimes. But everything is dulled. It's comforting going through the motions when you can't have what you really want sometimes. But the distraction wears off and you feel a little shitty about yourself. Like you gave away somebody else's present."
He nodded.
"Would you think sex with me would be like that?"
She shrugged, looking elsewhere over the moonlit waters.
"Maybe. Would it distract you at all? From what's bothering you?"
He shrugged then.
"I want it to… but I want to know. If I'm gay I mean. I want to know what it feels like for someone to want me that way. Could I take your mind off Brittany?"
She smiled a genuine smile. He skin was glowing in the dewy air. Her hair was tumbling over her shoulders, cascading down her tight t-shirt. Her bronzed skin radiated heat beside him. And he wondered what was going through her mind.
"I've done this before, Dave. I tried to distract myself from that inevitable truth that I'm a part of the flannel club. But it helps sometimes… I understand. I'll try not to think about her."
He sat up too, then. He didn't know if he should take her seriously.
"I mean, you don't have to, if you don't want to. I don't want—I don't need pity."
She cupped his cheek.
"I don't pity you. I just… I understand what you're going through. I mean… it's different. We are handling things differently—but, I understand the struggle."
The tears hit his cheek before he knew he was crying. He could feel the heat flushing his face as he leaned in to kiss her. He hesitated momentarily, until her eyes fell lazily closed and she gently puckered her lips.
She was still cupping his cheek when they connected. It wasn't needy, or passionate. It was slow and cautious. She let him explore her for a while. They lay back down on the old worn blanket and she just let him kiss her. His hand played with the firm muscles of her abdomen, and soon he let it slip under her form fitting t-shirt. He let his fingers toy over the soft skin and he inhaled her presence as he kissed her, letting his tongue slip into her mouth. He didn't want to think too much, so he focused on the feelings of someone wanting him.
And then she slipped her fingers into the spaces between his, and led his hand underneath the band of her shorts. He stilled his kissing and looked at her. His face was hot, and his breathing was heavy and she looked slightly disheveled. He wanted her permission. He needed her okay.
She bit her bottom lip and unlaced their fingers. She pushed his giant hand down further, nodding when his stretching fingers felt the beginning of her panties. His mouth was dry. And he didn't know what he was doing. But he took the only chance he might ever get, and he wiggled his hand under the cotton fabric of her bikini cut underwear. He kissed her again, and she was responding more now, pushing against his pull and leaning into his space.
The noise of her moaning into his mouth when his hand finally reached "that place" was the most erotic sound he'd ever heard. He couldn't have imagined anything more arousing. He brushed his middle finger daintily across the swollen nub; not quite prepared for the buck of her hips and the catapulting of his hand into the wetness further down. He broke away then, pulling his hand away to rub the wet between his fingers. He gathered himself on his knees and took off his shirt, and he let his hands venture to the waistband of her shorts in silent consent that he remove them. She nodded, staring around the truck before smiling coyly at him. He wasn't nervous anymore, just curious, and he couldn't deny the slight bulge grinding against his pants. He carefully pulled her shorts down her legs and pushed his thumbs under the waistband of her panties before dragging them down her unblemished legs. He got between her thighs and kissed her slowly, nipping her lip before pecking his way down her neck. She was running her hands up his sides, and lightly scraping her nails against his chest. His body felt like it was on fire; he didn't want that feeling to fade.
She pulled away from him suddenly, before pulling her shirt off with one arm and carelessly throwing it among the other clothes in the cab. She wiggled from beneath him and reached into the front cabin to retrieve her purse. She pulled a condom from its confines and slid beneath him again, claiming his mouth with her own. She laced their hands again and put his hand on the nest of fine curls at the junction of her open thighs. He leaned back and pressed against the place he found earlier, staring at her as she began to unwind in front of him. He swiped a feather light pattern over the hardening bud, and dipped his finger into the place that was getting wetter than he remembered it before.
"You're so beautiful, Santana…"
He pushed his thick finger inside of the wetness and watched as her back lifted off the worn blanket, and he felt her press against the palm of his hand as she squeezed her muscles around the digit sheathed inside her. He was amazed, and for a while he didn't move. He could only look over her semi-nude body with appreciation. He edged his finger out and pushed it gently back into her, and kept repeating the motion until she met her hips with each point of contact. She was getting louder with her moans, and somehow they wound up half on top of each other, her other hand reaching out to grasp his, squeezing it slightly before she shot up in front of him and kissed him.
He felt her muscles clench and flutter, and he could feel the pressure of contractions around his finger. It was enticing, enchanting; it was mesmerizing. She pulled his wrist back to pull his hand out of her and she was quick to straddle his thighs. She was kissing him, and nibbling on his neck and sucking on sensitive places with her talented tongue. He was finding it hard to keep his eyes open. The involuntary noises coming out of his throat were unfamiliar to his own ears. She sat up on her knees and pulled him from his jeans.
Of course he was hard. And her warm, tiny hands holding him had him seconds from blowing his load. He didn't want this to be fast. He wanted to savor every moment of this. He had to have better memories. He wanted to connect with her. With someone; someone who wanted him back. Even if it was only for tonight. Even if it was never again. She wiggled down his body before he could miss the contact and she wrapped her full lips around the head of him. And he let his head fall against the edge of his cab and he threaded his hands softly through her cascading hair. The noises of what she was doing were enough to do him in. But he stayed strong and enjoyed the sensations of what she was doing with her mouth.
The audible pop made his head shoot forward. She was ripping open the condom she'd discarded earlier. His breathing was unmanageable, and he didn't know what to expect it to feel like. She rolled it down his shaft, and situated herself above him. She stared him in the eye when she slid down. It was slow, and her facial expression went slack and he felt their laps touch. She didn't look away as she began to lift herself and fall back down on him, his hips reacted naturally, and he began to thrust upwards, trying to get deeper into the tightness.
It was intimate. It was raw and vulnerable, and she wouldn't look away. She'd started crying silently, even though her insides were stroking him as she rode him, even though he was sure it felt as good to her as it did to him. He felt a tear of his own get caught on the tip of her thumb as she wiped it away, and she leaned in to kiss him full on the mouth as she caressed his face. His hands were wrapped around her, his arms bent and his thumb grazed the lace of her pretty black bra. She finally broke eye contact and tilted her head backwards; he could feel her feet curling on the sides of him, her hand cushioning the impact of their bodies meeting with her effort. He was close. And she was ecstasy personified on his lap, the sheen of sweat covering her exerting body, her hands roaming his shoulders and her eyes staring hard into his.
He felt tied to her. He identified with the look in her eyes.
He began to participate, cupping her breasts with his hands as she bounced, both of them crying and amazed at the intensity of their coupling. She shuddered above him suddenly, curling in on him as she fought through her orgasm. She was squeezing and fluttering around him, and he couldn't hold on any longer. He thrust into her a few final times, groaning loud enough to be discovered by the party goers across the lake. She rested her head on his broad chest, and he felt her crying silently against her sweaty hair. He didn't move. He just wrapped his arm around her back and rubbed her as she cried.
He cooed her and shushed her tiny sobs, and he hated that he couldn't be who she needed right now. He wasn't offended that he wasn't an adequate distraction. He just wished he could stop her suffering. That's why they were so different. She was fighting for her soul mate. And he was just searching for someone that he could trust. He was searching for someone who wanted to love him back. He pushed against her sagging shoulders and he thumbed away her tear streaks.
"I'm n-not Brittany. But I'm here, Santana. If you need me."
He had his best friend.
He never had a girlfriend. It never mattered before, not having some significant other.
He had school.
He reached out and he tugged at her hand, and he held it, he squeezed it and he didn't look away when she searched for comfort in his eyes. He kissed her gently, and he thanked her without words.
He had football.
He never had a girlfriend before. But he finds so much comfort in holding her hand. Just holding her hand. No one ever wanted to hold his hand willingly. But she always does it without thinking. Even though they're just pretending. And he thinks that maybe; just maybe she'll need him to hold hers this time.
He had her. Just for tonight. Tonight, it would be enough.
She needed a hand to hold. So he holds it tight. And he doesn't let it go.
END
A/N: I really… you guys… I don't know where my head is. Please review.