Summary: "When you decide to visit, you tell yourself it's not to see her. You're growing up and moving on from childish fantasies. You also tell yourself that what happened with Santana after Mr. Schue's non-wedding won't happen again, but the only reason you're visiting is because you hope it will." — college!Faberry, Quinn-centric, Quinntana friendship, post-'I Do'
Rated: M
Why the Wind Goes and Comes Back
Chapter 2:
it's why still when I'm close to you sometimes my skeleton shivers electric
and why sometimes I shudder heavy in this heavy coat called mine
March 2013:
It's Sunday, and you're still trying to figure out your relationship with God in all of this, but you think it means something when Pete shows up at your dorm to join you. He's an atheist, but no one has to know about that. You do notice how you and Pete avoid the Holy Water when you enter.
You consider asking him if he knows that his name means "rock," a name given to Simon of Bethsaida by Jesus.
Instead, you whisper the psalm being read.
Have mercy upon me, O God, after Thy great goodness
According to the multitude of Thy mercies do away mine offences.
Wash me throughly from my wickedness: and cleanse me from my sin.
For I acknowledge my faults: and my sin is ever before me.
You don't call ahead. You just show up in Bushwick on a Saturday afternoon a few weeks after your previous visit with a bottle of cheap wine and some cheese from a Brooklyn cheese shop.
Santana just laughs and pulls you through the door. She's dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, and you think Santana looks best when she doesn't give a fuck - she carries herself differently.
You had talked to her on the phone a few nights before about how she keeps getting rejected from singing and acting gigs. You pretend that this visit is to cheer her up, but it's for you because you and Rachel started talking more, because Rachel started telling you more about Brody, because Brody is probably moving in.
"You better not be trying to woo me," Santana says with a smirk.
"I just like eating cheese with a buzz, and it looks like you need some company," you throw back at her.
She gives you a wink, "Put the cheese away, but bring the wine to my room."
You tell Santana about Pete as you drink your third glass of wine. She asks if you're in love, and you don't know how to answer.
She misinterprets your hesitation, "Oh shit, is this like... serious?" she asks, putting down her wine glass.
"No. I mean, I think it's love, but not like..." you refrain from saying how I feel about Rachel, from telling Santana everything. You're amazed when you don't, that the wine didn't warm your lips enough to make them fall open and spill.
Santana sighs and brings her glass to her lips again, watching you as she swallows slowly. "Not like me and Britt."
You nod.
"More like a healthier version of me and you."
You laugh. Your stomach feels warm, and you think that Santana looks like the right kind of beautiful.
As you top off your glass of wine, Santana informs you that Kurt is helping organize a huge event for Vogue, and Rachel is on a brunch date with Brody.
You have the place to yourselves for at least two hours.
After you both drink enough wine, the glasses are left on the floor as she pushes you into the mattress. The only softness comes from the cushioned bedsprings.
Santana's lips are firm, her tongue demanding. But she doesn't press her mouth to yours when she slips her fingers inside you. She lets you hear yourself, the low moan that seems to come straight from your chest.
"Harder," you whisper, even though there's no one to be quiet for.
She rests her head on the pillow above your shoulder, breathing heavily into your ear as she increases her pace. You're fucking, and you both need this. You both know that you and her are thinking of other people.
So you start whispering dirty things in one another's ear.
When you come, unholy prayers leave your mouth without consent.
You're sitting on the floor of your dorm with Pete, passing a pint of rum back and forth as you talk. You have been planning on telling someone. It's getting to a point that when you think about it, the words stick in your lungs so you can hardly breathe.
So after you sip from the bottle, you awkwardly lean across both your crossed legs and kiss him on the lips.
And then you tell him, "I'm gay."
He takes the rum from you and sort of tilts his head to the side and looks at something on your desk behind you. His eyes meet yours again, and he takes a quick sip from the bottle. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand as he shrugs.
"Okay," he says.
You know he doesn't love you like that, that in the seconds it took for him to respond, he was probably contemplating what it would be like dating you. You kissed him because it doesn't really make sense, and you both know your relationship won't be simple or normal. You'll exist exactly as you are right now, growing in tandem.
He wraps his arms around you when you both notice that tears are trailing down your face silently.
"You're a rock," you say into his chest.
"Um, thanks?" Sometimes Pete doesn't understand your stream of consciousness and what words come out of you for whatever reasons. But he's kind and will always wait and listen and try.
"Peter means rock."
The next day you wake up with a glass of water next to your bed. You then notice two Tylenol next to the glass, placed over a post-it with a heart drawn on it.
You let out a light laugh when you see he wrote, "('No hetero')" beside the heart.
The third time you visit, you know that Rachel will be getting home with Brody. That he lives there now. (Ever since Facebook told you so, you haven't talked to Rachel as much.)
Santana hates it. She goes on a rant, arguing that there's something off, and that Rachel shouldn't be with a guy who's more Ken doll than human. Given the facts that Santana doesn't care much for Brody and you don't want to hear about him, you cut her off mid-sentence and kiss her hard.
You push her into her room so she falls back onto her bed. Completely sober and in control, you don't let her touch you.
She comes as you hear the door of the apartment slide open.
"Apparently Santana has company," you hear Brody say.
Santana starts to quietly laugh, out of breath, still riding out the trembling from her orgasm.
You smirk up at her as you trail your tongue down her stomach. She looks at you, half-dazed, half-intrigued as go down on her because you can, because you don't care anymore. (But that's not what the wind in your lungs is telling you.)
You wish Rachel and Brody would leave, but according to Santana, tonight is their movie night.
"It's gross," Santana mumbles into her pillow. Her eyes are closed, and you want to say something snarky about being a sleepy New Yorker at only 11PM. You also refrain from mentioning that she and Britt had movie nights too. "I didn't know how many Broadway musicals have a movie version until I moved here."
You laugh. You're sure she has watched at least half of them with Kurt and Rachel.
Santana's breathing evens out, so you give her shoulder a light shove, "Are you falling asleep?"
"No," she replies with a yawn and a ridiculous stretch, "I'm just tired from... ya know, three orgasms." She opens one eye at you with a grin playing at her lips.
"You're welcome," you say, giving her a cheesy wink.
She laughs and smacks you with a pillow.
Santana returns the favor. Twice. You do your best to keep quiet, but Santana's also eager for a bit of revenge. You can hear Brody and Rachel critiquing Chicago, so you hope they're too distracted to hear you.
Kurt enters the apartment right before Santana's tongue does something amazing.
"Jesus. Fuck," you moan loudly, you hips lifting off the mattress.
"Oh god, again?" Kurt stage whispers to Rachel as his footsteps pass by Santana's room toward the living room.
"I can hear you, Hummel!" Santana says from between your legs.
Now it's your turn to hit her with a pillow. She lets out a throaty laugh as you try and regain your breath and stop your legs from shaking.
You look at Santana's sleeping form, and your lips quirk into a small smile at the fact that she's lightly snoring. You can still hear the TV now playing some musical you aren't familiar with. It's one in the morning, and your dry throat is winning over your desire to avoid Rachel, Kurt, and Brody. You throw on a pair of Santana's gym shorts and a t-shirt and try to stealthily walk into the kitchen.
Kurt's sitting at the table with a cup of tea, headphones in as he reads some book called Audition.
You consider walking out, but he looks up and pops out an earbud before you can move.
"I feel like we should talk," he says.
You feel cornered, like when your father would clear his throat before speaking when it was just the two of you in a room – all you can do is wait.
"About?"
"Your sexual relationship with my roommate?"
You suddenly feel cold, so you take a seat across from Kurt and fold your arms around yourself.
"I don't really want to talk about this right now," you say quietly, your voice slightly raspy. Since when have you lost your edge? Since when have you felt like you don't need it?
"Brody and Rachel are heavy sleepers, and they always fall asleep before the end of their second movie," Kurt says, watching as you look toward the living room. He stands up and walks to the stove.
"To be honest," he says with a small sigh, as if trying to find the proper tone to begin with, "I get it – also slightly confused, but it really doesn't matter what I think." He drops a mint tea bag into a mug and pours some hot water from the kettle.
You wait. He sits back down and pushes the mug toward you. You're glad you have something warm to put your hands around, to keep your hands from fidgeting and showing how uncomfortable you are. You try not to think about the fact that you haven't washed your hands yet.
"What does matter is that you're careful."
"Is this an intervention?" you ask, quirking an eyebrow, "And are you trying to protect me or Santana?"
"Call it whatever, but I'm thinking of the both of you," he says before sipping his tea so eloquently he could make bourgeois people like her parents jealous. "I don't know where you're at, but knowing that Santana is on the rebound, I don't know if the two of you is a good idea. Didn't you both slap each other like... a month ago?"
You can't help but chuckle, "Yeah. We are... not normal friends."
"Apparently."
"Look… we both need this," you confess. Something inside you aches, and you clench your jaw in hopes that no sound will escape.
Kurt looks at you for a moment, then nods, "Okay."
"I'm glad you care, though, Kurt."
He gives you a smile, "I do," he drinks some more tea before clearing his throat and adding, "But there need to be some rules or something, like soundproofing. It is seriously impressive how well Santana's voice carries in this apartment."
Your face gets hot, and Kurt just chuckles when he notices how embarrassed you are.
"I'll be more considerate," you say, standing up with your mug of tea. "Thanks... for everything."
"No problem."
He didn't ask, and you're grateful that he didn't use the four walls of the closet against you. He's seen the monsters in there, and you're sure you were once one of them. He's not pushing you in any way; he's just being a friend. You decide you really like Kurt.
The next day, you slip out of bed, leaving a still-snoring Santana in bed.
You're brushing your teeth when Rachel walks in. She's in one of Brody's t-shirts, and you have to look away from her tan legs and pink underwear with little unicorns on them. (You like to think Rachel Berry hasn't been completely changed by New York.)
She gives you a sleepy smile and a "Hi, Quinn," then reaches past you for her toothbrush. You only give her a small nod to keep the toothpaste in your mouth.
You spit in the sink as Rachel hums to herself, probably perfectly timed to obtain optimal dental hygiene. You walk out of the bathroom before she finishes.
While you and Santana make plans for the day over coffee, Rachel invites you to breakfast at a small brunch spot next to McCarren Park; apparently Brody knows the sous-chef. You ignore Santana's confused look when you explain that you actually came to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art for an assignment. (You actually are studying ekphrasis in your Modernist poetry class, but the artwork didn't have to be in New York.)
Rachel pouts, and before she can ask, you say you have to catch an earlier train back for a late dinner with Pete. You excuse yourself from the kitchen to grab something from your bag, but you're really just hoping to leave before your vocabulary fails you, before Rachel cracks you open like she always does, before you tell her that you decided not to major in drama because you're tired of acting - because you hope to find the right words to make her fall in love, or the words that will make you fall out of it.
Santana never asks about the spontaneous trip to the Met. She sits next to you on the subway in silence. You do your best to push the image of Rachel kissing Brody "good morning" from your mind, and you try to put your suffering in perspective by reading "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus." It doesn't work. No wax wings. Just a human heart.
a splash quite unnoticed
this was Icarus drowning