Whisper In The Rain To Me And Maybe I'll Forget
Warnings: One swear word... a lot of angst.
A/N: Neither Glee, nor the characters nor the song "Warm Whispers" by Missy Higgins belongs to me.
Soft trickles of rain that fall with juxtaposed synchrony.
The clattering sounds of footsteps, hurrying, rushing across the car park, newspapers and textbooks lifted above heads to act as shields from the torrents.
Silence. The pure, silence that, in the absence of the rain, would have no needle slip by without its hitting the ground procuring a bell-like chime in the complete absence of students.
Of course. It is a Friday, after all.
And when the last students pull out of the parking spaces, exchanges of kisses, phone numbers and promises for the weekend long completed, it leaves behind that eerie silence that drifts through the school. Its one solitary moment of silence and peace that the building gets before vandals get their hands on lockers, spray-paint and windows again.
Except, there is a disturbance. A small faltering in the woven blanket of silence. The sound of distressed footsteps, high-heeled, clacking over the linoleum floor unevenly, heavy steps that resound against the walls and ceiling, leave behind an echo that accompanies a melody of pain, whimpers and gasps.
"Artie, it's not like that, I promise. I love you, please don't do this!"
She isn't one to be caught dead crying. Throughout the years, the raw, dry feeling of tears streaming down her cheek, tearing mascara and eyeliner away from her eyes, has become alien. Santana hid them, closed them off into a part of her she showed rarely, if ever. There had only ever been one person to penetrate the think wall of concrete that shielded her feelings.
Her vision, through the thick coating of tears and smudged make-up, shows blurry lines, dull pastel greys that cover the hallways, always there to lend an extra air of institutionalism to the place. She sees the outline of figures, ghosts as they run through the hallways, their pinkies linked, their Cheerio uniform skirts brushing against each other lightly, pearly laughter filling the air…
"Don't say that Artie! San's just going through a really rough time right now. She needs me."
Well fuck that. She didn't need them, didn't need anyone. Nationals, that was it. And as soon as they got that trip over and done with, she was gone. Gone from this hellhole, gone from this endless torment. And no one was going to change her mind, not this time. Not with the small square pieces of paper that promised an escape, the 'Date Valid' and 'Destination' prints smudged by unbelieving fingertips tracing over them numerous times. Not with the stack of cash hidden underneath the cupboard in the Hello Kitty bag she got when she was ten, the only bag whose absence would not be noted in the house.
"Santana?"
The voice drifts by her and for a moment, just a fleeting second, she halts, considers with all her heart to turn around, run back. Something in her tugs, lets her heart drop an inch or two before lifting it again, pulling it back, but she can't do this, she can't.
So she runs faster, her heels aching with the shoes' pressure, jacket billowing in the wind, hair whipping against her lips so she has to almost sputter to avoid biting it.
The rain outside continues to pelt the buildings, the pavements. It shrouds the world in a haze of gray, shooting down like arrows, creating a thin-veiled mist that begins to creep along the ground. And when Santana's feet reach the asphalt, a wave of water crashes up around her, covers her bare legs in tiny droplets that glide down her leg, into her shoes, leaving goose bumps and shivers in their wake.
"I – I don't want you seeing her anymore, Britt."
"Artie –"
"Santana!"
The voice rings out behind her, clear as summer's brightest sunshine, clearing away clouds and misery and shit Santana thinks. She forgot how fast Brittany can run.
A warm hand wraps around her wrist, pulls her back into a half-embrace. And she catches the tiny flicker of sapphire and blonde and thinks that all these blondes-with-blue-eyes-are-freaking-hot clichés present her only with a plate of pure lies because what she sees isn't a toy, or an easy lay or simply a 'hot blonde'. She only sees the puckered lips that smile with that adorable confusion Santana sought out in Freshmen year and she sees the amazing person that has grown from the shy, insecure girl she became best friends with so long ago.
"Santana, what's wrong?"
It's that tiny lilt, that soft way her name is pronounced. Not in that rushed, seductive manner Puck misuses it, not in the commanding or disappointed tone of her parents, not in the disapproving, scoffing way she hears it pronounced behind her back. It's the simplest of gestures. The murmuring of a name that falls off Brittany's lips as softly as a rose petal swaying to the welcoming, green ground that enfolds it with a tight embrace and Santana shudders under the weight of emotion the three syllables encompass.
"Go away."
But she isn't even sure the words made it past her trembling, wet lips, can feel Brittany's presence, can hear the shallow bursts of breath as the blonde recovers her normal breathing pattern, and no Santana thinks, she's not going anywhere right now.
"I know you saw us. Me and Artie, I mean, but – please don't be mad, Santana." The girl is pleading, her hands held out like a prayer, clasped together in a manner that seems almost overly dramatic, were it not for her sincere gaze, kept level with Santana's. Santana wants to scream, to yell at her, tell her friend Mad? Why the hell would I be mad? I confess your love and you go tell your boyfriend you'll stay away from me. But words catch in her throat, break off at the cusp, into a stammer of pain. Her lips vibrate with a tremble and her eyes scrunch together slightly, another treacherous tear sliding down her cold cheek.
In the falling rain, tears mix with the cold, wet drops of rain that pelt down on them. The pastel pink dress clings to her skin tightly, coloured petals on it tracing an odd pattern on her wet skin. Every drop of water sliding down her bare legs leaves behind in its wake a trail of goose bumps. Her dark hair sticks to her cheeks, strands falling heavily, sagging with the weight of the water that covers them. And almost supportively, Santana wraps her arms around her waist, tries to make up for the comfort her childhood lacked, the comfort no one will give her. But hugging herself won't work in the long-run. She knows that. Eventually, even that small support to her posture will drop; will leave her a shivering mess, alone in the darkness she built around herself for protection.
Tell me you love me.
Tell me you don't care what people think.
Tell me you'll leave him for me.
Tell me you can have enough courage to get both of us through this.
Tell me you love me.
People will talk. They will tease and mock, and suddenly her barrier from the world, the terror she used to cause wearing that red and white uniform, the terror she now causes with the common knowledge that her tongue had the ability to silence anyone with a single comment, the terror she causes mostly, because she has dirt on everyone else, won't seem so bad anymore. And then, people will start talking, making snide comments at her and discussing her behind her back with snickers and sniggers and she is too fucking scared of that to let it happen. Her confidence crumbles with a lack of a protective shell to keep her above everyone and she swears she can already feel the bruises that would bloom, blue and red and angry, with every shove at a locker that she has witnessed Kurt objected to so many times.
She can't do this. Wanting Brittany, wanting to walk down the hallway, holding hands with the person she loves more than anything isn't enough. Maybe she'll be ready in a few years time, when college rolls around, when she can start anew, make a new personality and find more people like her, but how long will Brittany be there until she forgets Santana? Before she might get married to Artie? Or find someone else? Inside her, something shatters; a tiny splinter of her heart becomes dislocated and fragments her entire being with the mere thought of losing Brittany. It took her this long, took them this long to even get here. She can't give up now.
And even then, even with that conclusion, her image is all she has. Santana has never been known for benign kindness, never been credited with a helpful nature, never associated with the ability to make friends easily. She entered High School determined to make a change, determined to become popular. Her primary school barely acknowledged her existence and she had vowed to change this. And lacking anything else to pride herself in, she became involved in the first sport that came up at the top of the food chain and asked for the athleticism she had – cheerleading. And once there, the popular crowd pulled her in, roped her into the inside jokes, the jeers and remarks toward 'lesser' students. They taught her how to survive at McKinley through cold-hearted cruelty. And she owed everything to them for giving her the one thing that could make her popular.
"Does he know you're talking to me?" she sneers, cool veneer clouding her eyes as she adopts the one personality she knows, lets the tears mingle in with the rain and hopes nature will cover up her emotions. She is prepared for a response, knows Brittany well enough to formulate a hundred different comments and snide remarks she can make to them in return, makes up a myriad of scenarios that might play out now. Her gaze fixes on the other girl's red leather-clad shoulder, follows a trickle of rain down the front of it, anything to avoid those sapphire pools. She is prepared for anything now. She can do this, rebuff Brittany, show her that no, she lost Santana the minute she walked away from her and back into Abraham's arms and -
"I can't just stop seeing you."
A glimmers of blue, lightest, clearest blue, as their eyes meet. The hitching of a breath with realisation, with shock, with stupid, stupid hope. The way Brittany's lips quirk in the attempt of a weak, reassuring smile that tries to say I need you, Santana. I can't not need to see you every day, even if the words get stuck in her throat. The faltering of a stubborn demeanour.
"Don't" Please, please stop doing this to me.
"But it's true, Santana. I – I don't want to stop seeing you. You're my best friend and I l-"
"I said stop." Santana's breathing becomes shallow, ragged, as though the air's humidity was stealing away the oxygen, but as much as she wants to hear these three words, she can't. Not without knowing that they mean more than the platonic social convention of saying them at every possible moment, rendering them completely meaningless in the face of true love declarations because the possibility of their meaning something more powerful than simply friendship has become such an absurd notion.
"I can't… Britt, I just can't… do this. Please." The last word is a whisper, her voice breaks off halfway through and her body slumps, falters into a heap and threatens to hit the cold, hard floor. And then there are arms around her waist, warmth, support, love, holding her there in a close embrace and holding her secure, so secure that Santana can't help but feel as though she has been whisked away from the world's view, away from prying eyes and judgements.
Brittany is murmuring. Nothing coherent, because every TV show she watches seems to have people murmuring as an offering of comfort, with no clear words ever being pronounced, so that must mean murmuring nonsensical words are a source of relaxation. And Santana hates how much she loves the sound of the soothing voice muttering gibberish, hates how much she revels in the warm, soothing embrace and she hates how easily she finds herself nestling her head into the crook beneath Brittany's chin and just rests her head there, listening to the soft thudding of the other girl's heart, counting her heartbeats and letting that pacifying voice flow through her mind, leaving imprints of half-formed words and the memory of kisses planted on the top of her head.
"You said you wanted to be with me-"
"Britt-"
"No, please just hear me out."
The dark-haired girl breathes in raggedly, lets Brittany talk, tries not to storm away or halt her midspeech.
"You said you wanted to be with me. And then you said you can't. Because of what people will think. And I got confused because I thought you were ashamed of me and because I wasn't sure what you meant but… I didn't know you were so scared of this."
Santana lips twitch against the pale, warm throat, in an attempted smile of adoration at the other girl.
"And I think – I think I know why. It's because of Kurt, isn't it? Because of what happened to him? But Santana, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You are the single most amazing person I know and I know that if you just were yourself, rather than trying to please everyone, there is no one at school who wouldn't want to be your friend. You don't need to prove anything to anyone or gain popularity by making people scared. If you would just stop being scared, you could rule this school even more than you do now."
You don't understand. You don't know how it might be. You can't say the school will be accepting, I saw what happened last time-
"And when that day comes when you're ready to just be yourself and come to school and show everyone how amazing you are, I'll be right there with you and if anyone says anything nasty, we can kick their ass together."
It's just a simple word, together, but it brings a surge of pride, of bravery and of hope with it that courses through Santana's veins and pauses her shivers just for a second.
"I don't know if I can" she whispers, her voice shaken.
Brittany loosens her grip on the smaller girl, keeping her close enough for their eyes to meet and see nothing but each other. Ever so slowly, Brittany leans forward, sees Santana's eyes close, a flutter of dark, painted eyelashes from which a tear of mascara trails as they hit her skin.
They ignore the feel of flecks of water pouring down on them, shrouding them in slowly rising mist that creeps along the parking lot when their lips meet, softly, gently. There is no pressure, no resistance, no expectations, just the smell of strawberry scented Chap Stick and of the moist air around them that carries with it the soft scent of apple-flavoured shampoo. Their lips move in soft synchrony, parting only for the slightest fracture of a second to gasp for as little air as they can allow themselves to have without staying parted for too long, little enough air for their minds to swim and become fuzzy. And when Santana feels soft fingers threading through her hair, rubbing in soft, calming circles, she makes a final resolution.
Your warm whispers
Letting me drown in a pool of you
Your warm whispers
Keeping the noise from breaking through
Fin.