I don't think this one is very good. I rushed to finished it, because I've been working on it for about three weeks, and I wanted to get it out before Tuesday, because the plot is based on the controversy caused by a promo that showed Santana getting slushied. Many people thought it was Brittany who did it, but I noticed that Karofsky seemed to be the culprit. And I thought this would be a prime time for Santana to find out Karofsky's secret. I'm nothing like Santana, which may be why I struggled so much. I hope I did partially okay. Please review after you read, even if only to tell me some ways to improve me writing. Like always, thank you for reading.
Also, halfway through writing this, I discovered the song "Stand in the Rain" by Superchic(k). Both the title of this fic and the lyrics at the end are from this song. It just struck me as something that really described everything Santana is going through. I urge you to listen to it at some point.
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee nor the characters from that show who are in this story.
"Why aren't you talking to me? I don't understand."
I can't talk to you. I told you I'm in love with you and you're still with him.
They're standing in the middle of the hallway, the people rushing by but separate from the two of them.
"I miss you."
She has a blank look on her face. Yes, she doesn't understand. She doesn't have this deep, throbbing ache that never goes away.
But she has to understand.
I don't think I can do this any longer.
Santana looks away from Brittany's face and notices Kurt and Mercedes in the distance, both of whom have sympathetic faces.
The news had spread like wildfire. By the end of the afternoon, everyone had known. She saw the glances; she heard the whispers. Now, no one talked to her except the members of the Glee club. But she couldn't quite bring herself to regret her decision to tell Brittany.
"Brit, you know how I feel. I told you for us, and you chose him. We can't go back to the way it was before."
There were a few seconds of silence in which Santana took in the image of Brittany's face, the face it hurt her to go as day without seeing. Her face was still wiped of emotion, but Santana saw the struggle in her eyes. She was trying, she saw.
But sometimes it wasn't enough.
She heard the crash first, heard the clinks and scrapes as it rushed past her ears and the pings as it hit the floor. Then she felt the cold, the chill that penetrated her clothes, her makeup, her hair.
She didn't consciously think about what just happened. The only thought in her head was: Cherry. I hate cherry.
And still Brittany stared at her with that vacant face.
As the ringing in her ears subsided, she dimly registered that low, hard voice taunting her, throwing slurs she had only ever heard directed towards other people.
She wasn't hurt. She was angry.
She whirled around and chased after the letterman jacket that never left her sight. The red dye that now stained her shirt and dripped off her shoulders and ponytail made it seem as though her eyes were ablaze, as though she was an inferno. She cleared her path with a determination that scared all, even herself.
She saw the cuff disappear behind the locker room door and dived in after it, unconcerned with the possibility of getting more than she bargained for.
Luckily, he was the only one in there. He looked cocky, arrogant. His smirk distorted his face and enraged her further. She stepped forward and shoved him into the locker. He seemed positively delighted that she had chosen to fight with him.
"What's up, dyke?"
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Karofsky?" She shoved him into the locker again. "I'm still the toughest bitch in this school. You know not to mess with me."
He was more amused than anything else, and all common sense fled her. She got right up close to him and stared into his eyes, whispering ominously.
"Are you scared of me? I could fuck you up so badly. What've you got against gays?"
A flicker of indefinable emotion behind his eyes.
She stepped back to taunt him. "Hiding some deep, deep day love affair, Karofsky?"
Tension broiled in the muggy air of the locker room.
Karofsky's eyes narrowed. "Watch what you say, Lopez."
She put her hands on her hips, the classic cheerleader pose of sass and leadership. "You're not going to beat up a girl."
Karofsky grabbed at a comeback. "I'll get Charlotte and Brinley to."
Santana scoffed. "Oh please, that's an empty threat and you know it. I may not be a cheerleader anymore, but those girls know not to cross me, a point which your tiny, dull mind seems unable to comprehend."
And true to the stereotype, Karofsky looked bewildered by Santana's insult.
"You brainless idiot, I was insulting you. No wonder you picked on Kurt so much. You're so dumb that your mind probably confused a repressed crush with hatred." She spoke with spite, throwing barbed statements blindly, expecting to get a rise out of the football player and receiving a shock when one seemed to hit a mark that had previously been invisible.
Karofsky had turned white.
"What?" Santana breathed out.
The small noise in a room suffocated by silence snapped Karofsky out of his daze. He stepped close to Santana and leaned down, letting his face stop only a few inches from Santana's.
"Do not ever say anything like that again." He looked menacing in the dim yellow light of the locker room, and his soft, controlled whisper laced with unspoken threats only perpetuated the image.
She could not hide the small shiver that betrayed her slight fear.
Karofsky noticed the moment of weakness and he left the room with a smug look upon his face, confident that he had successfully intimidated the former cheerleader, and his secret was safe.
Left alone, Santana struck out at the lockers, frustrated and angry. She had been slushied, she hadn't gotten revenge, and worse of all, she had shown fear. She had shown fear to the overweight bully.
Santana slid down the wall and pulled her knees close. She rested her forehead against them and just sat there, breathing in and out.
"Santana?"
She knew that voice.
"Santana, are you in there?"
A pale, lithe figure was revealed in the doorway. He looked around uncertainly, as if the shadows and unseen areas held sinister forces.
"I'm here, Kurt," Santana said wearily.
Kurt gasped as his eyes fell on her red-dye-covered body.
Dramatic bitch.
"Stop acting like I'm mortally wounded."
"You look horrible, Santana."
Oh, right. She had forgotten that looking less than perfect meant grave conditions to him.
"Come on, let me help clean you up."
He dragged her up, off of the floor, and led her to the showers.
"Take off your clothes and get in. You have to get that dye off."
He pulled out a towel, a bar of soap, and two bottles that were presumably shampoo and conditioner. He handed her the soap and bottles and pointed to the bottles. "Those are specifically for getting dye out of hair. They should help." He shuffled awkwardly, looking uncomfortable. "I…I'll just turn around now."
Santana rolled her eyes but stepped into the shower.
The pounding of water against tile and the hum of air conditioning resonated in the mostly-empty room. They both stayed quiet, allowing the steady noise to transform into an ambience of tranquility and numbness. They were caught in their own thoughts, each paying almost no attention to the other. Santana spared a second to wonder what might be on Kurt's mind, but the lukewarm water kneaded her tense shoulders and quickly whisked that thought away. As she lathered up her limbs, she thought of Brittany, and what they had become. She washed her torso and was reminded of the slushy, the cold bits of ice cascading over her shoulders, down her back. She washed her hair again and again, watching the pink water disappear down the drain, thinking of her confrontation with Karofsky, the shoves and proximity, the insults and true feelings revealed.
Kurt.
The implications of Karofsky's nonverbal confession hit her.
What had happened?
She stepped out of the shower and wrapped the towel around her. She jumped a little when Kurt appeared in front of her, holding something.
"Here's a shirt you can borrow. It should fit you." He nodded towards the red-tinted blouse lying on the floor. "You're going to need to get that dry-cleaned."
She opened her mouth but was unable to make a sound. She cleared her throat and quietly articulated a thank you.
When Santana finished redressing, she noticed Kurt had sat down where she had been sitting earlier. She lowered herself to the floor and scooted next to him. They sat in silence for a few minutes, finding comfort in it and the closeness of another person.
"Are you okay?" Kurt's soft words echoed.
Santana nodded absent-mindedly. She turned to look at Kurt.
"Did you know Karofsky's gay?"
She heard the hitch in his steady breathing, saw the slight clench of his fists. And when he turned his head and his eyes met hears, she saw the brokenness and anger in the stormy blue-gray depths.
"Yes." Kurt replied tensely.
"What did he do to you?" she asked, almost afraid of the answer she would receive.
"He shoved me into the lockers every day, called me 'fag,'" – Santana cringed at the word – "tormented me, and when I finally had had enough, and I confronted him, he kissed me." Santana was already shocked, and what came out of Kurt's mouth next pushed her over the edge. "And then he threatened to kill me if I told anyone. So you should probably keep all this quiet."
Quiet was the last thing on Santana's mind.
"WHAT?" She screeched. "WHAT?" A stream of obscenities flowed from her mouth.
"Kurt, when did this happen?" She demanded. "Kurt–" Realization hit her once again. "That's why you left, wasn't it?"
Kurt hesitantly nodded.
"You didn't tell us? Kurt! We could have helped you! We could have gotten him–"
The realizations became worse.
"You already tried getting him suspended. And you left when he came back. You were scared–"
Santana dimly registered the vast pit of dismay inside of her. She was more focused on the disgust and contempt she currently held for Karofsky.
"That sick bastard. That lying douchebag. HE'S NOT EVEN A FUCKING HOMOPHOBE."
Kurt, alarmed by her seeming recklessness, jumped up to calm her down.
"Santana, stop this. Stop yelling. This needs to stay quiet." There was a undertone of pleading in his words.
"But why?" she asked desperately. "I'm sure if you told everyone this, Karofsky would be gone in an instant."
"No," Kurt shook his head frantically. "No, he wouldn't. Who would believe me?"
"Us. All of us. You'd have the entire Glee club behind you. And I know for certain that Coach Sylvester would help."
"That's not enough, San." Kurt said gently. "That's the same as last time–"
"But it's different now. Now it's–"
"Santana. No. I've already tried the suspension route, and the confrontation route. Blaine tried–"
"Blaine?" Santana uttered incredulously. She laughed. "You had Blaine talk to Karofsky?"
"Okay, maybe it wasn't my best idea ever." He glared at her. "But I didn't have any other choice."
"Why didn't you come to us?"
"You wouldn't have understood. Blaine understood. And he tried, he really did. It just wasn't enough."
The conversation was obviously closed now. She wouldn't be able to make him change his decision today, but she would try again in the future. And from now on, she would be there to help. Now she knew his secret.
Santana slumped against the wall, defeated for the moment.
"At least next time you try to confront Karofsky, will you take me instead of that prep-boy hobbit?"
Kurt laughed, but quickly sobered.
"Thanks, San."
"For what?"
Kurt shook his head slightly. "I don't even know. For everything, I guess. For nothing. Just, thanks." He smirked slightly. "I've got your back too."
Santana shoved him slightly, the cheesiness off-putting. But her talk with Kurt reminded her that maybe she wasn't alone. She glanced at the shirt she was wearing and then back to Kurt. They were the same, in some ways. The ways that made them different from everyone else.
She wasn't alone anymore.
When it's all crashing down
Stand through the pain
You won't drown