Trigger Warning: Implied self harm
They're sitting propped up against a mound of cushions, gathered from every room in Quinn's house hours ago. Grainy light spills from the pink laptop pushed against the opposite wall. The episode of Gilmore Girls they were watching had long ended, somewhere between the silent giggles and whispered secrets. During this time, Quinn had dozed off too; her body curled round to face the other two, her hand risen to her throat to clutch at the ever-present crucifix.
Santana and Brittany are splayed out on the blankets, limbs tangled, with their heads resting against one another's. The soft fluttering of heavy eyelids and shallow intakes of breath are the symphony that accompany Brittany as she lazily strokes the inside of Santana's wrist. The pair weakly resist sleep in favour of greedily taking in everything about the night; the perfectly decorated room, the lingering spell of popcorn and Quinn's perfume, the curve of Brittany's cheekbone in the dim glow.
They're sitting so close through necessity, that's what Santana tells herself. Hours before, Quinn had braided their hair together, so it created an alternating pattern, black, gold, black gold, crisscrossing.
It looks so pretty, a delighted Brittany had murmured, twisting awkwardly to get a good look, and trace the weave of hair with her fingers.
Santana had gone to pull it out when they started to bed down, but limply dropped her hand at the blue eyes boring into her in protest. The loose entwinement of their hands had been at Brittany's insistence too. Santana hadn't put up the slightest resistance, though. Nor to the arm looped over her hip. Or the hot breaths that lingered over her lips.
"'Tana," Brittany whispered. "What is this?"
Santana's mind whirls for a few second. She doesn't know. It isn't just friendship, is it? It certainly isn't a normal one in any case. The realisation that she likes the warmth, the long lines of Brittany and her curves, the soft words, and most of all her upbeat innocence, far, far too much had come swiftly that evening. It had broken the illusion of some semblance of normalcy in the way she thought about her best friend like the surface of a lake when its calm is disturbed, ripples flooding in every direction. Strangely, she didn't mind, not one bit. But what if Brittany did? Everything would be ruined, and surely is was better to have this closeness, this intoxicating, suffocating closeness, however unrequited the feelings that accompany it are, than the alternative.
She's about to feign innocent nonchalance until the pressure of Brittany's thumb registered. The placement of it, rather.
Santana can't contain her sigh.
"It's not the kind of thing people like to talk about." She replied eventually, dejected. As soon as it leaves her mouth she hears the sadness, bordering on self-pity, tainting it and immediately cringes. suddenly she's afraid. Afraid to look into Brittany's eyes for fear of seeing pity in them; afraid most of all to have killed the best friendship she'd ever had. And worst of all, for it all to have been inarguably her fault.
That's why it's such a surprise when she hears Brittany's tinkling laughter, soft, maybe so as not to disturb Quinn, maybe to save Santana's feelings.
"People don't like to talk about anything but who fucked who and in the back of whose car. At least, in Lima, Ohio."
Stone still, Santana does nothing but stare at the cupid's bow of Brittany's lips. In the corner of her eye she can see her pulse under the creamy skin of her neck. It's when Brittany's fingers resume their circular motions on her wrist that Santana manages to cough out, at a volume no louder than a breath, her gratitude.
It's acknowledged by a light shake of the head, a small smile twisting its way onto Brittany's face.
"I don't like talking about that kind of thing either. But if you need, or want me, I'm here. I'll always be here for you Santana. You just need to tell me, okay?"
"Okay. I'm just, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Britt." Brittany's eyes are almost cloudy, unreadable as she replies. "You don't have to be sorry. You have nothing, nothing, to apologise for." Her hand leaves Santana's hip and finds her exposed neck, but her touch still hovers, burning on Santana's skin through her thin shorts. " I love you, and we'll get through this. You are so special and you deserve so much more than some stupid scars on your arms. I promise."
Santana feels like she's bursting. This is why she loves Brittany. She is so smart, even though other people don't see it. She knows exactly what to say. It makes Santana feel like they can do anything.
She chokes back a sob. Despite how good Brittany's being, she feels so weak. So weak. Useless, detestable. She's meant to be fearless, strong, and fierce. But she let all her walls get disarmed by a girl. A lovely, perfect girl. Who loves her.
"Oh Santana," she hears, and then an enveloping hug follows. They slide down from their sitting position and stay locked in each other's arms. It's this exhilarating proximity and the comforting weight of Brittany's words that lead Santana to sleep that night.
Ahhh, so that was my first Glee fanfiction. I must confess, I'm not really into it so if anything seemed off character or was glaringly not canon, please tell me. Also, if you liked it, pls review pls? And if you have any suggestions about how I can improve my writing in general, please do tell me ^~^ The thing that gave me the whole idea was the line from a Harry Potter fanfiction called It's Not The Kind Of Thing You Talk About by lmboulevardes which I would highly recommend reading.
Thank you for giving this a go~! (Do I need to do a disclaimer thingy? Because I don't own Glee. Like, at all)