This was just a little one-shot that came into my head this morning. Warning: character death.
The Thought of Us
Your side of the bed is cold and I hate it.
I'm lying on your side because somehow it makes me feel closer to you, but it's still not right. You should be here, on this side, curled up next to me, your hair fanned out across my shoulder and your hand in mine.
That was your favorite position, you said, right next to me. You would lie on your side, facing me, with one hand clutching mine tightly while the fingers of your other one would tickle the skin of my inner elbow. You would press your cheek to my upper arm and sigh contently and drift off to sleep with a soft smile on your face.
Sometimes you would shift, rolling slightly on your stomach and throwing a leg over mine, pinning my arm underneath your torso. It wasn't uncomfortable, though, and you would always sleepily kiss my arm while you adjusted and sigh and it didn't matter if my arm fell asleep. You would move sometimes, rolling away or getting up to use the restroom, but eventually you would always come right back there, right back to me.
I liked when we laid together, side by side, facing each other. Your hands would caress my cheeks, fingers dancing across my cheekbones lightly. You would pull yourself impossibly close to me and I would wrap my hands around your waist, resting my forehead against yours. Your arms would come to my shoulders and you would hold me there and whisper goodnight. And I would fall asleep with your breathe blowing across my lips and that was my favorite position to sleep in – holding you.
I don't think anyone realized that you liked to be held. You always had people convinced that you were some kind of badass from the wrong side of town, but your dad was a doctor and you loved the finer things in life. I'm pretty sure people always assumed that if there was a "man" in our relationship, that it was you. They assumed that since you were taller than me that you would be the one who did all the holding. But that was ridiculous because neither of us was ever a man (no matter how many times you joked about the strap-on) and because you always liked to be the little spoon. You liked to cuddle up next to me on the couch, shifting down to rest your head against my chest. But you would never admit it to anyone else – that you needed someone to hold you because you were always afraid you would lose yourself if no one did.
You said once that I grounded you. We were in Central Park, sipping smoothies in the middle of summer. It was warm and we were both hot, but we sat right next to each other, our bodies touching. We were sitting under a large tree, watching kids run around and play together. I was thinking of the children that you and I might have one day, how we would take them to the park and kiss their scrapes if they got hurt. You took my hand, smiling as you brought it to rest on your lap, and told me that I saved you. When I asked you from what, you just smiled again and said, "myself."
You were always so proud of me. When I finally managed to land a role on Broadway, you were right there, right in the front row on opening night and I could feel you smiling at me. You brought me roses backstage and we cried together because you said that my dream was also your dream. I thought about the kids that we might have, little brunette kids with your eyes and my voice. I thought about you and I making a family that I could show off to everyone at every Broadway show I would open.
And now your side of the bed is cold and the whole bed is too big for me. There's too much empty space and not enough you here to fill it.
When I think about it, I'm pretty sure that you hated me for the first three years of high school. You said later that you didn't really hate me, but I never believed that. Sure, you were happy around me sometimes, but I think that was the love of performing overshadowing how much you didn't like me and my paragraph-long answers to questions and my reindeer sweaters and my endless string of romantic endeavors, most of them with Finn.
You said that you hated Finn more than you ever hated me. You hated that he was a horrible person and that he still got the girl. You hated me, I believe, but you secretly might have liked me a little bit. And you hated that the most because you didn't want to like me; you didn't want to find me attractive.
It didn't matter, though, when and where you liked and hated me up to that point, because it wasn't until our senior year that you ever gave me a chance to even be your friend.
There was a boy, and I can't even remember his name anymore, but you hated him because Brittany liked him. She was infatuated with him and you were jealous. You loved her, you loved her so much, and it was obvious to anyone who bothered to pay attention. You told me, when you explained what had happened, that she loved you, too. But somehow that wasn't enough because you were afraid, panicking about your sexuality and your social status, and there was this new boy who was really sweet to her. And what Brittany needed then was someone sweet who was unafraid to be with her. And what you needed then was to come to terms with yourself.
So I followed you to the bathroom that afternoon, when Brittany was kissing that boy. You had said something to him, something mean and cruel, and Brittany had scolded you. I think it was then that you knew you had lost her.
You were crying when I found you, sitting on the floor with your knees up to your chest. Your hair was down and it framed your face delicately. You were so beautiful in your tragedy. And you yelled at me to leave. You called me Manhands and threatened to hit me. But I didn't leave and you didn't hit me. And eventually, you stopped calling me anything but Rachel.
We fought often when we first became friends. You didn't like that you liked me and you tried to push me away, but I wouldn't budge. You asked me later why I didn't just leave you there to wallow in your own misery and despair. And I couldn't explain it then, and I can't really explain it now, except to say that I saw something so much more inside you. There was something there, something deeper, underneath the pain and cruelty, just aching to get out. There was a scared little girl who just wanted someone to want her.
And when you let me in, bit by slow tortuous bit, I knew that I was right and that there was something else there. And I knew at some point that I wanted you.
Your reaction to my feelings would have been comical if it hadn't been heartbreaking. Your face contorted and your brows furrowed; you mouth fell open and you didn't speak for several long moments. You were shocked, both by my feelings and by your own. So you ran, left me standing alone on the back porch of my childhood home holding a book you had bought me, tears streaming down my face because that scared little girl inside you was also that scared teenager standing in front of me while I bared my heart and soul.
You didn't come to school for a few days after that and I didn't call you because I was grieving and hating myself for confessing that I had feelings for you. It lost me the most important thing in my life. But four days later, you were standing outside my house. I was sitting on the porch because my dad had sent me out there for reasons he wouldn't explain.
It was late January and it was still cold. I was shivering and you wrapped an arm around me. I wanted to stop you – I had just had my heart broken after all – but you wouldn't let me. You pulled me against and you kissed me, deeply, smiling against my lips. And I flushed, warmth spreading through my body as I pulled you back to me. It felt like springtime.
It wasn't easy though, not then. There were more than a few people who had a problem with our relationship, and I know how much it got to you – the looks and the talk. You were still a Cheerio, but even that couldn't protect you from being jostled into lockers and called names. Finn was our biggest detractor and Brittany of all people was our biggest supporter. And I think that helped you get through it, that Brittany and the rest of the glee club, Finn excluded, supported us.
I am always thankful that you didn't break up with me then, when things were their hardest. Sometimes, when it was late at night and I couldn't sleep, I thought that maybe you would end things and tell everyone that it was all just a sick joke, that you were just trying to humiliate me. But never once did you ever seem to even consider the notion, not to me anyway. You would just squeeze my hand tighter and sit a little closer to me and close your eyes. You would let me whisper in your ear, tell you that it was okay, and that seemed to be enough.
You told me the night before we got married that it had been more than enough.
Our wedding day was the best day of my life. We dated for five years and had lived together for three of them. I went to NYU and you went to Columbia and New York was an expensive city. When you asked me to move in with you, you said it was for economic reasons, but we both knew it was a lie. You missed me. You missed cuddling whenever you wanted and you missed having someone to sing and dance around the apartment with. I think you even missed my vegan cooking.
And after we graduated and got settled into jobs, neither of them what we wanted (but you said we had to start somewhere), I proposed to you. When we announced it to our friends, they assumed that you had asked me to marry you, but it was the other way around. I had been carrying the ring around with me everywhere I went. It was heavy in my pocket and served as a reminder that I wasn't brave enough to ask you the one thing I really wanted to ask.
I was waiting for the right moment, trying to decide if I should stage something elaborate to proclaim my love for you. But you would hate that, I knew. And so I was just waiting for the right time when everything felt perfect. Sometimes, we would be out to dinner and you would be trying to steal my food, or we would be sitting in the park together, your head in my lap as we both read, or we would be lying in bed, just watching each other. And the moment would feel almost right, and the words would be on the tip of my tongue. Yet I would stop and pull them back because almost right wasn't right enough.
Ironically, the right moment came just after one of the scariest moments in my life.
The hospital had called and fear ripped through me as soon as the number came up. It was late and I had been asleep; I hadn't even realized that you weren't home from work until the phone woke me. When I answered, they told me that there had been an accident, that you had been hurt, and that I was your emergency contact. They needed me to come to the hospital immediately. The woman on the phone wouldn't tell me if you were okay and I cried. I cried all the way to the hospital. You had been hit by a motorist while you were walking home, a drunk driver who had been speeding and hadn't seen you on the sidewalk as he swerved.
I had to pretend to be your sister for them to allow me to see you. I had spent all day in the waiting room, calling everyone I could think of – your parents and my dads, Quinn and Brittany and Puck, our friends from school. And when finally someone came out to talk to me, it wasn't enough that I was your emergency contact and your girlfriend. So I lied and said that I was your sister, your only family in town, and they let me through.
I'll never forget seeing you in that hospital bed, hooked up to a dozen machines I didn't know the names or purposes of. You looked small and pale; bruises covered your face and neck and I could see a cast on your arm. You had been in surgery, they told me, and it had taken a long time. They were cautiously optimistic, they said. But all I could see was you lying in that bed, broken and unconscious.
You were still beautiful, though. And so when the doctor left, I slipped the ring on to your finger. Because I loved you, more than anything in the entire world, and the thought of losing you left me a sobbing mess at your bedside. The ring was a perfect fit and I knew I had made the right choice.
I had to explain to you when you finally woke up (one of the best days in our relationship) why there was an engagement ring on your finger. And you smiled when I told you that were getting married. I didn't ask you; I just told you. And you laughed and asked me to kiss you. And it was the right moment.
You made a full recovery and we started planning our wedding. I wanted something big and intricate and you went along with it because you said you didn't care if we got married in the courthouse as long as we did it. I had to borrow money from my dads to help pay for it, but they were happy to help out, and your mother was a godsend when it came to planning everything. You were definitely very little help; the only thing you had a vested interest in was finding the right dress. I got cold feet and asked you once if this was really what you wanted. And you smiled and kissed me and told me that you were going to spend the rest of your life with me.
It was the only lie you ever told me.
I meant what I said in my vows – that I loved you and that you were the only person I ever could love. Because you completed me and you understood me and you made me happy. When I thought that I would have to choose between a career and love, you showed me that I could have both, that I deserved both. And I wanted to wake up to you every day, I said, because you and I were forever.
We were both crying and you reached up to wipe away the tears on my face. You were smiling tenderly and you said that before me, you didn't believe in forever. You said that I gave you a life when you didn't even know you were missing one. You said that I was beautiful and that you never wanted to be without me, that a life without me would never be a real life.
And we kissed, finally, with the sound of our friends and family cheering us on. You didn't want to stop, I remember, and tried to deepen the kiss. But I pulled away just slightly, giving you one last peck, and told you that there would be time for that later. I thought we had all the time in the world.
That was only three years ago. You promised that you would spend the rest of your life with me.
All I have now is an empty bed and an endless stream of condolences, apologies for your loss and inquiries into my state of mind and body. I usually don't answer them because I don't have the strength to lie and tell them that I'm okay. Brittany has been staying with me and we're trying to look after each other because that's what you would have wanted.
Sometimes she comes into my room, our room, at night and crawls into bed with me. She tries to hold me because she thinks that's what I need. But she's too tall and a little too muscular. Her hair is too blond and too slick. I don't need someone to hold me. I need to hold you.
But you're gone and the day I lost you is the single worst day of my life.
Sometimes, I wish that you had kept your mouth shut. When that man came to you, angry that you had lost his case and that he was going to lose everything; when he came to you with a gun, throwing around words like fag and dyke, I wish that you had just stayed quiet instead of trying to fight back. But I know that that's not you and that you would never let anyone try to use your sexuality against you, not after high school. Santana Lopez-Berry never backed down from a fight.
I just wish that you had thought of me in that moment, Rachel Lopez-Berry, the wife you had waiting for you at home. I wish that you had thought of me and thought of us and thought of forever. I wish you had thought of the kids we were going to have and the house we would buy together one day.
I wish you had realized that more than you ever needed to be held, I needed to hold you.
All I remember is that I'm never going to get to look into your eyes again. And I'm never going to get to hold you again and kiss you and feel your skin against mine. All I remember is that your side of the bed is cold and the metal of your wedding band on the chain around my neck is cold, too. And I hate everything about it.