A/N: I just really want her 'coming out' to be taken seriously, okay? Not one of those 'let's-expand-on-this-one-episode-and-then-push-it-as-far-aside-as-the-baby-storyline' situations. Mhm. Also: this is solely a Santana-centric fic, so if just about every plausible pairing appears... consider this your warning. Psst... I like the idea of a Kurt/Santana friendship. I think others do too. I took that into account (maybe a little too much) while writing this fic. Oops.
"Mom, dad... I'm gay."
It becomes one of those 'let-me-hold-a-hairbrush-up-to-my-mouth-and-practice-this-shit-in-the-mirror-like-one-of-those-cock-eyed-news-reporters' kind of speeches, and she just isn't buying it.
She says it three times too many before she attempts to snap her hairbrush in half (attempts, because, well, does she look like fucking 'Karate Kid' to you?) and then throws herself down on her bed, face inches away from slamming into her headboard.
She moans the words, "I'm gay, I'm gay, I'm gay" like, twenty times and yet it still doesn't faze her. They sound all wrong; like she's not meant to use them in a sentence. She slams her head onto a pillow, pretends her own face is right there and just starts pounding down.
Her pillow is such a fucking coward.
She tries again. "Mom, dad... you might be a little upset about it at first, but—"
The words just don't come out, and she interrupts her little 'practice session' like, two times. Once she leaves her room to dig around in the kitchen drawer incase she finds some of the cigarettes her mom's hidden, and then the next time, she's busy stalking the Facebook feed. Nothing's changed on there, and frankly, she could give a fuck less about the seven-hundred people or so she's 'friended' on there. She knows none of them can be called real friends, but that's only because she goes through a list of all of them and realizes there's not a single one she could sit down, look in the eye, and speak the words 'I'm gay' to.
Yeah, sure, she makes it seem like a joke, but it really kind of... isn't.
Really, it's serious business. Every girl deserves one of those epic 'coming out' stories, right? This is like.. obligatory. If she were smart enough to make it work, she would, but she isn't, so she just... doesn't.
Instead, she downs a whole bottle of her dad's beer in five minutes, rips open a pack of Twizzlers and chews on those until she gets too anxious, then grabs her phone and calls someone she probably shouldn't be calling. Not without proper reason (which, yeah, she totally doesn't have) anyway.
"Yeah..." she starts, breathing heavily, swiftly moving her hair away from her forehead. "Hi Kurt, it's Santana."
So, she can't exactly dig the whole 'coffee' thing, meaning the whole one-on-one sit-down with Kurt causes her to do nothing but get a chafed ass, because, well, all she does is shift in her seat the entire time he's talking. (And yeah, he does all of the talking).
"So..." he starts, his stirring stick swiveling around in his cup, lifting it up, down and around a few times before bringing it up to his mouth and licking the dripping coffee off. "It's really a shock you called me. I mean, of course I thought you'd have the urge to hang out with me sooner or later — everyone does — but this is... well... soon."
She raises a brow at that, then looks down into her coffee cup, because it's safer than looking him in the eyes, that's for sure.
"I'm not saying it's a bad thing, Santana," he says assuringly.
"Neither am I," she says, lips pressed together. "So, tell me, Kurt... how easy was it for you?"
"How easy was what?"
"You know." And by the look he's throwing her, no he doesn't. "Okay, well... how easy was it for you to come out of the closet?"
Stunned with the question, his eyes widen, his stirrer still pinched between his index finger and his thumb. "It... wasn't," he says. "Every day was literally a struggle, but like they say: what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger?"
Damn Kurt. She should've known he'd be all cliché-oriented and shit. She puts on her best smile and, with a giggle, asks, "They say that?"
"I do," he says. "I like to remind myself that not everything in life ends in a negative result. Taking it from my own experiences, I'd say I'm pretty happy with who I've become after it."
She gulps then. "And 'it' meaning...?"
"Coming out of the closet," he says. "And... and not just coming out, either. Just... being accepted. Whether you know it or not, I was accepted somewhere along the line, right?"
She shrugs because, well, how the fuck is she supposed to know what he's feeling? The last thing she's 'come out' of was a pretty fine lingerie set she snatched up from Victoria's Secret (clearance item, of course).
He shuts his eyes then, like he's imagining some shit or something. She's not sure what this is leading to, because really, half of the shit that comes out of Kurt's mouth is usually irrelevant anyway, but she listens, because maybe — just maybe — there's something worthwhile under that hair-sprayed head of his. "Whether you know it or not, Santana, you accepted me," he says. "Any reason the jokes in reference to my sexuality stopped? I mean, I haven't gotten called Elton John at random intervals during rehearsal lately, so..."
With pressed lips, she mumbles a small, "Just because."
He accepts that answer and only that answer, and yet it feels like he's accepting something bigger — something more worthwhile.
Finn: Hey, ur gay?
Santana: Seriously? Fuck off.
Finn: Kurt says u r. Won't tell any1 though, promise.
Since when does the life-sized Frankenstein decide to shoot a text her way? Whatever, she can't be too worried about that, because there's only one person she needs to deal with: Kurt.
"We need to talk," she says (spits, really) almost sharply, her arms folded at her chest, one of those 'don't fuck with me' smirks plastered across her face.
"Why, hello there," Kurt starts, holding onto the door of his locker, a stack of textbooks crammed inside making a thud as he closes it. "How are you today, Miss Lopez? A little moody, I'd say. Is that accurate?"
She snickers, then, one hand running through her hair, weaving her fingers right through the top of her scalp. "Pretty accurate," she says, eyes shifting. She leans in closer to him, her teeth gritted, because, really, no one should be able to mess with her. Ever. "So you told Finn, huh? S'weird, because I never even told you myself, but..."
"Told Finn...? Oh! That! Right! Please! Blaine's hopsital-ridden great-grandmother could tell you're not confident in sharing your sexuality, which, yes, is quite alright, but..."
"'But' what, Hummel?"
"It burns right through you," he says. She feels like punching him. Or a wall. Whatever. "What I'm saying is: you're gay, you're ashamed, and you're obviously not too good at hiding it. Or I just have a fabulous gaydar. That may be the case, but..."
"'But' nothing, Kurt. Just... just shut up, okay?"
His eyes widen, and obviously, he hasn't met her or whatever, because her attitude is nothing new; he should know that. But he doesn't, and she watches as a gulp forms in his throat, his eyes growing apologetic.
Instead of yelling like he probably expects, this time, she whispers, "I'm just scared, okay? I'm scared of it all. The... the looks, the things people'll say, the way—"
"I was too," he interrupts, and usually, she'd have the urge to take him by the throat for doing that, but she doesn't today. Today she stills, nods coyly, and swallows hard when she realizes she's about to cry. "Santana," he says, practically mouthing her name rather than speaking it, "listen to me. You're... you're not a bad person. I know everyone says you are, but I'm pretty sure you're not. Sure, you have a tendency to spit out insults more than actual words and you've got this ever-growing thought that someday, somehow you'll beat me out in the running for the top soloist around here, but you aren't a bad person."
"But I am," she says, lip-bitten and head ducked. "Just... just tell me one thing, Kurt."
He nods. "Sure."
"How'd you know?" And she wants to know this. She genuinely wants to know this. Did he dig through a diary of hers that exists in another realm outside of this one? (Because, really, does she look like the kind of chick who'd keep a diary?) Did Jacob Ben Israel meddle his Jewish ass through yet another stupid blog filled with false articles about the entire student body and stop at the name 'Santana Lopez'? Did Brittany open her big mouth?
Her jaw quivers at that. Brittany. She doesn't even want to think about Brittany now, so she doesn't. She just... doesn't.
Kurt sees her tense up, obviously, and he says, "You're upset."
"That's how you knew?"
He shakes his head then, saying, "No, no", and then holding up one finger. "I just... I knew. For starters, you dated Karofsky — or are still dating Karofsky, I'm not too sure and frankly could give less of a damn. Then you sing 'Songbird' to Brittany privately and state you're not 'ready' to sing it for a bigger crowd. Really, Santana? I'm sure it was a beautiful performance. I mean, like I said, you're not anywhere near as good or devoted of a soloist as myself, but we've all gotta start somewhere, right?"
"Brad," he says. "He... he told me. I asked him what the sheet music was doing on the piano and he told me you sang it. All by yourself."
"He talks?"
Kurt presses his lips together, lets out a small, "Mhm", and then pivots on his right foot at the sound of the bell. "Class," he says. "I've got class. And so do you. We'll talk about this later, I suppose."
"There's... there's nothing to talk about," she says, but only because there isn't.
(Or, rather, she likes to pretend there isn't, whatever).
Brad's just another asshole who's probably got a shitload of potential but chooses to sit around a choir room playing stupid piano keys like a moron all day. (At least, she thinks that's pretty accurate).
She doesn't know what's gotten into her, but she goes off on a tangent and just starts to like, rant. Like, really rant. With waving arms and all, she enters the choir room, throws her bag down to the floor and shouts, "Soon the entire world'll know! It's just... it's one person at a time, really! And then another. Then another. I mean, is it that obvious? Am I that much of a butch? I said I'd wait to get the flat top, skip the jicima. What the fuck does the world want from me, huh? I'm not ready. I'm not ready to shout from the mountaintops, 'I'm Santana Lopez and I'm a straight out lesbian!' I mean, who does that, right? Who even thinks about doing that? I'll tell people when I want. Hell, I'll let 'em figure it out the minute I finds myself a girlfriend and start to mack on her right against those lockers right outside. That's when."
Brad, the only other person in the room, sits at the piano bench with widened eyes, only clearing his throat. It's the closest thing to speaking she's ever heard come out of his mouth. "You seem tense," he says, and she lets her jaw drop at that.
"I... I didn't know you spoke," she says.
"I didn't," he says, hands rummaging through a stack of sheet music, his cheeks painted red. "You glee kids are insane. Just the other day, the short one with the mouth and the tall one came running through here with their lips locked. I might've not said it out loud, but it was not pretty."
She cringes at that, because as used to it as she's gotten, they're still Finn and Rachel, and that's just... ew. "Yeah, well, what can you do, y'know?" She takes a seat beside him at the piano, scooting over just a touch so their legs aren't touching, because, well, how awkward would that be? "When you love someone, you love 'em. Doesn't really matter who you are, even if you're like... Finn and Rachel."
And a lightbulb goes off in her head at that moment, and maybe in Brad's too, because she thinks she sees his lip curl a bit.
"So... w'do'u think about teen gays?"
He presses his lips together, ducks his head and rises from the piano, gathering the excess sheet music resting on top of it in his hands, pivoting on one foot as if he's about to leave. But then, just as she thinks she's not about to receive an answer, he turns back around, wiggles his eyebrows a bit and says, "Do you have a little while?"
She nods, and then she realizes it's the most she's ever heard anyone talk in a matter of twenty minutes. And c'mon, it's Brad.
'Expect the unexpected' becomes her motto like, the moment she walks out of that choir room door.
"I was thinking," she says, laid out across Kurt's bed, "maybe if I sang Pink's 'Get The Party Started', that'd be my way out."
Kurt raises a brow, practically dropping the magazine he's reading onto the comforter. "And that'd be plausible because...?"
"Because she must say the words 'I'm coming out' like, ten times in a matter of twenty seconds."
"Santana," he says, shuffling around a bit, a touch of annoyance in his tone, "you consist of nothing but musical inaccuracy as of late, don't you? I mean, as appalled as I am by pop, even I know she says 'I'm coming up', not 'out'."
"Oh," she says, practically shrugging it off. "Well, I tried."
"Not hard enough."
She ponders on that one for awhile.
"So you like... hangout with my brother now, right?"
She nods fervently, then catches herself, then turns on one foot, because, well, who wants to start up a conversation with Finn? "Mhm, yeah, I do."
"Cool," he says. "Rachel tells me you guys are like... close."
"We're pretty close," she says. "As close as a closeted lesbian and an 'out-to-the-world' gay can get, at least."
"Cool," he says again, same ol' dopey look in his eyes. She kind of just wants to smack it out of him, but whatever, she can't chase everyone who tries to talk to her away, can she? "Hey," he says, head jolted. "I won't tell anyone." When she arches a brow, he just elaborates. "Y'know, that you're... y'know... gay."
"Better not," she mumbles, lips tight.
"But, like... what'd be the problem if I did?"
Her eyes grow wide and she furrows her brow because, well, what the fuck did he just say?
"It's just... you don't have to be scared, Santana," he says.
"I'm... I'm not," she lies, but only because it's easier that way. Her voice falters then, but only because she's about to pour her soul out to Finn Hudson, and yeah, that's kind of gross and all, but whatever. She may as well do it now rather than never, right? "Okay, you're right, I'm scared."
He's all alert now, and his eyes widen as if he's just been flashed by Berry or something. That's how alert he is. Yeah, she's impressed too.
"I just... I don't know how people'll react, you know? Like, yeah, you're Finn, so you really could give a fuck less, I think, but..."
"I don't not care," he murmurs, his lips tight. "Santana, you may not consider us 'friends' or whatever, but..."
He uses air quotes on the word 'friends', and she snickers, because really? "We're friends, Finn. Kind of."
"Cool," he says. She can tell he's trying so hard not to be the usual doofus he is, his hands in his pocket as he ducks his head a bit, a look of sympathy in his eyes. She doesn't want him to feel sorry for her; sorry that she's gay. It's nothing he can help, now is it? "Hey, Santana?" He jerks his head up, holding out his hand and tugging at her wrist. If she weren't semi-cool with him, she'd totally swat it away.
But she doesn't.
"I'm sorry," he apologizes, and what for, she's got no clue. He clears his throat a bit, pulls his other hand right out of his pocket and holds onto the edge of the bulletin board up on the wall. "I'm sorry you're scared and stuff. But, like, I won't judge you or anything. Promise. And neither will Kurt. Or... or Rachel. We know, Santana, and yet we still have nothing negative to say. Isn't that... isn't that good?"
She stiffens for a moment, because, really? Berry knows? It's a shock, honestly, because the two of them hardly look one another in the eye, but whatever. She can't even deal with that now, because she's got bigger issues than that munchkin. "Yeah," she nods, snapping out of her funk. "Yeah, s'good."
"Good." He swallows hard, and she wonders why he looks so bothered.
"Hey, Finn?"
"Hm?"
"I'm sorry, too." And she snickers then.
"W—why?" he asks, the wrinkles in his forehead protruding more than she's ever seen them protrude before. She actually has to take a minute and laugh at just how worried the dope is.
"Because," she starts, lips pressed together, "you lost your virginity to a lesbian."
She watches him slap his palm to his forehead, and yeah, as fucked up as it is, she gets a bit of enjoyment out of it, because, well, who says it can't make her laugh a little?
Also: it's the first time she admitted it out loud and stuff. She thinks they call that 'progression'.
"You have to tell her."
All Santana can do is shake her head, because, really Kurt? He's forcing it upon her like there's no tomorrow, and if she didn't kind of like him, she'd flip him off and tell him to get lost or something.
But she doesn't. She just says, "I... I can't" like it's really hurting her, then buries her head in the sleeve of her sweatshirt and falls onto one of his pillows, face first and all.
"But you can, San," he says, and the pushiness is right there in his tone and everything. "I believe you can. Just sit her down, take her hand—"
"We... we don't hold hands," she interrupts, a disgusted snicker escaping her lips.
"—and tell her it'll all be okay," he continues on as if she never even spoke. Santana likes that about Kurt: he's determined, proudly so. He goes on, saying, "If you don't do it, you'll regret it." And yeah, maybe she will, but she just... can't. Not now, anyway.
"Kurt," she says, tears welling in her eyes, resisting the urge to burst out in a flood of cries right in the middle of Kurt's bedroom, "you don't understand."
"But I do," he tells her. "I was in your position not two years ago, Santana."
"But you're comfortable, Kurt!" she shouts, even when she doesn't really mean to. It just comes to her naturally — the tears, the shouting. All of it. She pulls her head from off of her sleeve, swipes at her eyes until they're even redder and closes her eyelids tightly, but only because it hurts. It really freakin' hurts. "You're comfortable with who you are from head to toe, and I'm... not. I'm just not. And my mom? You think she's gonna be okay with this? She gets suspicious when I blast Spice Girls at night. She's the most homophobic person I know, did y'know that? Bet you didn't."
He shakes his head. "I didn't, and I wish I still didn't."
"Yeah," she says, teeth clenched, "well, there's nothin' I can do about it now, can I?"
Her heart starts to pound when Kurt throws her that 'don't-worry-you-can-still-redeem-yourself-without-your-mother-hating-your-guts' look, because she can't. She can't just march in her house, spit out the fact that she's a lesbian and watch her mother be okay with it. No, never. (Because it won't even end up going that way, she's sure of it).
She's not sure how it ended up being just her and Rachel Berry alone in the choir room, but it does, and it kind of freaks her out a little bit.
She hates the way Rachel just stands by the piano like she owns the place (even if she doesn't mean to), those awful Mary Janes gracing her feet and a plaid skirt that looks as if the sixties threw up all over it hugging her waist. She hates the way she kisses Finn before and after class (don't their tongues get tired?), the way she stomps in and drowns the room in all of her 'soloist' sort of glory.
But even more, she hates the way Rachel basically knows all of who Santana is without Santana even telling her.
"I know you're not too happy to see me," Rachel starts, overly-chipper as usual, "but I'm not going anywhere until I rehearse the opening measures to this duet I have planned for Finn and myself."
Santana only rolls her eyes, a 'you can shut the fuck up now' dying to slip off of her tongue. Instead, she contemplates faking a smile, shrugs that off when she watches Rachel plant her ass on the empty piano stool and asks, "So... where's Finn?"
"Busy," Rachel answers. "Football."
When Santana turns away, she hears a small tap on the piano stool, then watches Rachel scoot over so much her ass is just about hanging off. "Y—you want me to sit?"
"Please," Rachel nods. "Frankly, I wanted to talk to you, but between glee club starting up again, my extensive theatre classes and the exclusive relationship I manage to maintain with my boyfriend, I haven't had the time."
"Puh-lease, Berry," Santana scoffs, "you could've made time."
"Oh yeah?" Rachel lifts a brow now, and something tells Santana this girl thinks she's serious business or some shit, so she only snickers, turning her head away from Rachel. "You could've made time as well."
"Excuse me?" Santana narrows her eyes, her hands naturally folding, because who the hell does she think she is?
Rachel shifts awkwardly on the seat of the piano, perching her elbow up on the ledge, just before the keys. She says, "You could've made time for me, too" and emphasizes on the 'you' and the 'me' and really, Santana just wants to slap the sass right out of her. She refrains from doing so, though, just watching the way Rachel sighs when she leans both of her elbows onto the piano, resting comfortably. "We never really became friends, you know."
"Yeah, I know." Santana gulps at that, and yet she doesn't really know why.
"We could become friends," Rachel suggests, and Santana's more than ready to object.
But she doesn't. With pressed lips she says, "Yeah, we could" and reaches her arm out until she grabs a piece of the sheet music Rachel was looking at before. "ABBA?"
Rachel nods. "'Take a Chance On Me'," she says. "It's a classic. And it's more than suiting for mine and Finn's voice, don't you think?"
Santana doesn't answer, simply mouthing an 'mhm' with pressed lips and hoisting herself up off of the chair.
"W—where are you going?" Rachel asks like she actually gives a damn, following suit and leaving behind her precious sheet music, still propped up on the piano.
"This conversation is going like... nowhere," Santana says, and it's the truth. The fuck does Rachel Berry want out of her.
"Where is it supposed to go?" Rachel's lips form a pout at that, and yeah, as annoying as it is, Santana thinks she actually like, upset her or something.
Rachel walks back to the piano at that, and Santana sits down in one of the chairs at the front of the room, head ducked as she folds her legs and holds her knees with her hand. She's pretty sure she starts to cry, but that's drowned out by the sound of Rachel scooting out of the piano bench, reaching into her pocket and making her way over to the chairs, one arm on Santana's shoulder.
"Here," she says, a half-folded Kleenex in her right hand. "Don't cry, please."
Santana jerks her head up, snatching the Kleenex out of Rachel's hand, putting it in her lap rather than wiping her stupid, crying eyes. "It's just... it's so hard. All of it. And now that you know... that Finn knows... that Kurt was just able to tell... it's hard. Rachel, believe me when I say I want nothing more than to sit my mom down on her ass, look her in the eye and tell her."
"I know, Santana."
She shoots up then, the unused Kleenex falling from her lap to the floor, no desire to pick it up. Rachel does, and Santana only snatches it out of her hand once more, wiping viciously at her eyes. "You don't know, Rachel! You've never had to sit anyone down, tell 'em something they'd rather kill themselves than listen to, and try to walk away with an ounce of confidence left. My mom, Rachel, is a complete homophobe. She doesn't understand shit."
Rachel cringes at that (it's something about the vulgarity of it, the girl's a cursing virgin), her eyes wide. "And your dad?"
"He's a team player," Santana says. "He goes along with whatever the bitch says."
"I... I wish I could help," Rachel tells her, a sympathetic hum leaving her lips.
"Why?" And she's curious, really curious. Why? Why does Rachel Berry have interest in helping her?
"Because you're my friend," Rachel says. "And you're in love with another friend of mine, and frankly, it's painful to know there's a possibility you're going to hide who you are for a long, long time just because you're afraid."
"In... in love?" Santana's at a loss for words, her lips quivering at a rapid pace, the feel of her teeth grinding up against each other almost pain-inducing.
Rachel takes her hand then, and Santana doesn't even have the guts to pull away. "With Brittany," she says. "You're in love with Brittany, right?"
Santana gulps. "Right. But honestly, that's nowhere near as hard as coming out'll be. I mean, with Brittany, I just... know. Brittany's the kind of girl who'd hold my hand with pride in the hallway. You think Britt gives a damn what people have to say? She may take things to heart and stuff, but if anyone insults her sexuality, she won't be too hurt. I... I know it's supposed to be the other way around — Brittany the weak, vulnerable one and me the strong, secure one — but it isn't. When it all comes down to it, Brittany's comfortable being Brittany. I'm—"
"You're not comfortable being Santana," Rachel finishes. "And that? That's a problem."
"C—can we talk?"
Her mom isn't too scary (usually). She's one of those typical housewives, really, but with a little more edge. She's got a love-hate sort of relationship with everything, especially her daughter. She's not afraid to call Santana out for whoring around, and ever since she came home with a Stiletto-shaped hickey in the eighth grade, she's made sure to keep a better eye on her. "No daughter of mine'll ever become a skank!" she yelled. "Putting me to shame with a smirk on your face, dammit."
Santana gulped then, because she knew she was serious. Dead. Serious.
So she's at the foot of the stairs now, her mom on the couch, her reading glasses at the crook of her nose, a closed book resting on the coffee table in front of her. "What's up, sweetheart?" she asks, and Santana cringes, because, really? Sweetheart? Where'd she pick that name up, on a Hallmark card?
Her mom boosts up then, and she throws her glasses off, and now she's pacing around the living room aimlessly like a woman on a mission.
"I need to talk to you, I said that," Santana says. "Well, I asked if we could talk, and you said 'what's up', but now you're pacing around like a dumbass, so..."
"'So' nothing, Tana," she says, sitting back down on the couch, her right leg crossed over her left, so proper and prim and... not Santana. Santana sits with her legs open, the expectation of a 'We know it's hard for you, but close your legs, Santana!' slipping out of her mom's mouth at any given second. "Talk," she says, waving her hand as for Santana to go on. "And while you're at it, close your legs. No one's lookin' for a way to get in between 'em right now, not in this house."
She's right on target. Santana gulps. "It's just... have you ever been so unsure of yourself, but then sure of yourself, and then somewhere in between you get like, super mixed up you just wanna rip all of your hair out and call it a day?"
It's a ridiculous question, and she doesn't mean for it to come out like that, but it does. Her mom looks unsure for a minute, then opens her lips as if she's about to speak. Instead, she's silent, tapping her perfectly filed nails onto the rim of the coffee table, letting out a small 'hmm'. "Are you referring to yourself or someone in a mental ward? I wouldn't be able to tell the difference."
She ignores her mom's snark, then goes on to ask, "Is it wrong to love someone you shouldn't?"
"Well," her mom practically snorts, "if you shouldn't love 'em in the first place, then yeah, of course. Why? Don't tell me you're 'in love', Tana. I hate all of that bullshit, you know that. Hell, is it that Puckerman kid? I told you once and I'll tell you twenty more times: he's bad news. That hickey he left on your neck in the eighth grade? The fuck was that, huh? He wasn't smart enough to tell you it doesn't fade away like magic, s'for sure."
"Nothing fades away like magic, mom," Santana says. "I wish it would."
Her mom lifts her head up, one finger roaming the bottom of Santana's neck. "Don't tell me you've got another fuckin' hickey."
"I... I don't," she says lowly. "I haven't kissed someone in weeks, let alone let 'em get at my neck."
"Good. S'about time you stopped all the whoring around. 'Sides, I think that Puckerman kid'll go back to the blonde chick. Quinn, is it?"
"He should," Santana says, nodding. "I'm not too interested in Puckerman right now anyway. May not be for a long, long time."
"Then who is it?" Her mom's asking like Santana's got the next twenty years of natural disasters lined up on a piece of paper like fucking Nostradamus or something.
"Brittany," Santana mumbles, almost too low for even herself to hear.
"W—what was that?"
"Where's dad?" Santana asks, ignoring her mom's question, swallowing hard at the almost expressionless look she's got on. "Where's dad?" she reiterates once she doesn't get an answer.
"He's... he's out. He's got a late shift at the office. Just... just continue, Tana. What were you saying?" She must've heard her. The look on her face screams bloody murder, practically, her lip quivering and hung, her eyes shot and at an incapability of blinking. Santana wonders if her heart dropped or something.
"Good," Santana says, boosting herself up off the couch with an indifferent sort of shrug, pretending to take in her previous words like a vacuum cleaner. She turns back, though, a feeling of boldness brushing across her body, her broken heart still sunken in her chest when she meets her mom's definite unapproving gaze, her eyes narrow. "When he gets home, tell him that I'm gay, alright?"
"I just... I walked away."
Santana's sits on the edge of Kurt's bed, Kurt in the chair in front of his vanity, Finn and Rachel in an armchair on the right side of the room, Rachel lazily laying in Finn's lap. (Normally, Santana would gag at that, but tonight's different, so she smiled when Kurt opened the door and they were sitting there).
"And she just took it?" Finn asks, his eyes narrow.
"No," Santana says, shaking her head. "She didn't say a word."
"I think that's best," Rachel prompts, and Santana's urge to throw Rachel the finger at random intervals is back.
"It's not," Finn says, correcting his own girlfriend. Normally, Santana would snort at that, but she doesn't. Not tonight.
"Then I suppose you'd rather Santana stay behind and tough out her mom's yelling for an hour? It's good she walked away, Finn. You would too if you were in a situation like that."
"Look, Berry, I'm flattered you're jumpin' to my defense and stuff, but it's not necessary," Santana chimes in, fiddling with her hands as she places them down in her lap. "Maybe Finn's right. Maybe I should've stayed and toughed it out a little bit."
"Maybe," Kurt says, breath hollow, as he jumps out of his vanity chair, his hands aimlessly finding their way to Santana's shoulder, "you should get some sleep, San. Stay with me for tonight, with us. If you don't want to sleep, we can all talk. Well, minus Rachel who feels a bedtime of nine-thirty is necessary in order to properly function the next day, but..."
She doesn't even have time to think about objecting. Not tonight. "Mhm, okay."
She's the first one to fall asleep on Kurt's bed not ten minutes later, and she only wakes up briefly when she feels Finn and Rachel throwing a comforter over her uncovered body.
It's not how it should be (her and Finn and Rachel in the same room, really?), but it's how it is, so she accepts it.
Santana: Can I come over?
She bites her nails in anticipation, her heart's thumping practically tearing at her interior, her forehead dabbed with tiny beads of sweat. It's been weeks since she's had a full-on conversation with Brittany, and really, she's got no idea what's going on anymore: whether she's got that stupid web show still, if she's with Artie or not, whether or not she's angry with Santana. (That last one's a no-brainer: of course she's angry with Santana. She's got every reason to be. Santana rejected her, really).
Two seconds later, her phone buzzes, and she's scared to look.
Brittany: Lord Tubbington's got diarrhea, so no.
Santana: Then meet me in front of my house in 5.
She slams her phone down on her comforter, then she waits.
She walks out into the driveway with her arms wrapped tight around herself.
"You're wearing your Superman pajamas," Brittany points out with a giggle, almost too juvenile for anyone's taste. Santana loves it.
"I am," Santana nods, blushing as much as someone as ethnic as her can.
"They're cute."
She blushes (again) at that, then tugs down on her lip a bit. "Hey, Britt? Can I tell you something?"
Brittany nods. "'Course."
"I told my mom about me," she starts, and Brittany raises a brow, obviously in confusion. "I told her I was gay."
"Oh, Santana..."
"I was too much of a coward to hear her response, so I fled on over to Kurt's, hung out with him and Finn and even Rachel for a little bit, then fell asleep on his bed. Also, I think I woke up crying or somethin', not too sure."
Brittany reaches her hand out to Santana's forearm, making one gentle stroke. "You're brave, San," she says. "I mean, that was brave."
"But it wasn't." She disagrees, but only because it's more natural (at least, to her).
"If you want," Brittany says lowly, "I'll tell her with you. Properly this time. Y'know, without any running away and stuff."
Santana only nuzzles her nose to Brittany's shoulder, then says, "Sorry".
"For what?"
Santana's smile appears and disappears, softening quickly. "For liking you."
"Oh," Brittany says, eyes probing the way Santana starts to wipe at the bottom of her nose, sniffling. "It's no problem. I love you, too."
"But I didn't say 'I love you'," she replies.
"I know, but I'm gonna pretend you did. It sounds prettier than anything else you said."
"Why's that?" Santana's heart flies up into her throat, and she has a tough time getting it back down.
"Because I hate it when you're sad," Brittany answers.
Yeah, Santana hates it too. Maybe more.
"Mom?" She peers her head into the kitchen to find her mom on the counter, legs crossed with a recipe book in her lap and the timer running on the microwave. "Busy?"
"Hardly," she answers, waving for Santana to come in. Her eyes grow wide when she realizes Brittany's trailing behind her. "I... I didn't know you had company," she swallows. "Come on it, Brittany. H—have a seat."
"Hi Mrs. Lopez," Brittany greets, her hands in her pockets. "I... I think it was mean."
"Excuse me?" Santana can see her mom grow irritated, her positioning tensing on the counter, the fake smile she'd put on just before already weakening.
"Britt, really, stop," Santana hisses, but only for Brittany's safety, really. "It's nothin', mom. She doesn't have anything to say, right Britt?"
But Brittany's... well... Brittany. It's not intended to be cruel, of course, but she tries really hard to make sure every word of her mouth is a word of honesty, and Santana knows she's about to sit down in her kitchen and pour her heart right out to Santana's mom. It's inevitable because... well... it's Brittany. "It's not Santana's fault she's a lesbian," she starts, and Santana already sinks in her chair, her cheeks flushed.
"Of... of course it's not, but she can't be." She can see the way her mom cringes as she speaks, the word 'denial' dying to be stamped onto her forehead.
"But she is," Brittany says, "and you're her mom, right? You're s'posed to love her just the same."
"I... I do."
"But you don't." Santana speaks for the first time, and it hurts. It literally rips at her heart, the feeling of it almost being swallowed along with her words. She stays quiet when no one says anything, then decides to let Brittany do the rest of the talking.
"If you really loved Santana, you'd want her to be happy, right?" Santana tears up at that comment, only because of the way Brittany delivers her words so genuinely without even meaning to. "I want Santana to be happy, so if it takes her like, a year to come out of the closet, then it does. Oh well."
"Mom, are you... are you crying?" Santana looks up at her mom without even meaning to, watching her as she scrapes a tear from the bottom of her eyelid away with a single nail. "You don't have to cry, y'know."
"Are you happy, Santana?"
Santana breathes. Is she happy? Is she really happy? She exhales, then says, "Not yet", casually letting her fingers roam Brittany's underneath the table. With a turn of her head, she says, "I'm gay."
Her mom nods, and even though it's kind of stiff, kind of forced, it feels like acceptance.
"There," she says. "Now I'm happy."
A/N: Oy vey. There you have it. Let's hope it was decent, eh? The title comes from Christina Perri's 'Bluebird' (beautiful song, check it out), and the rest just comes from my depiction of a well-deserved storyline that better be showcased in its fullest next season. If you enjoyed it (or even if you didn't, whatever), feel more than free to let me know.