So I've wanted to write a Santana based oneshot for a while now and I randomly wrote this in the middle of my Brit Lit class. I tweaked it a lot from what I originally wrote but Iget the same basic point across. I've also borrowed two lines from a poem by Dorine Jennette because they're absolutely amazing and are what inspired me to write this. I'm not quite sure I hit the mark with Santana's voice (she's so very hard for me to write) but I hope it's good enough. Enjoy!
You lay in your bed, new chest aching each time you take a breath. Its 3:24 and you haven't found sleep yet (haven't slept in two days). You'll probably have bags and black circles under your eyes when you crawl out of bed that you'll have to apply globs of concealer to. Then you'll slip into your Cheerio uniform and begin another shitty day at WMHS.
If you're honest with yourself, you're a little (a lot) depressed. Your parents are too wrapped up in their own marital problems to care (instead, they just signed the check for your boob job and went back to fighting). You're sure Brittany knows something's up but now you've extended your usual bitchiness to her so she's redirected her attention to getting the handicapped kid up. This is why you haven't touched her or spoken to her in almost a week.
You think Puck might know something's up too. When you went to visit him in juvie (you're the only one who did), he didn't even bother with a joke about a conjugal visit. Instead, he just scrunched up his eyebrows and asked if you were okay. And Puck being Puck would never ask you that if he didn't seriously think you were fucked up. "I should be asking you the same thing. Tell me Puck, are you somebody's bitch yet?" He had smirked, shook his head, and asked if you brought him any waffles.
(Truth be told, you're a lot more thankful for him than you'll ever let on. He might be the only person, except for maybe Brittany, to completely understand you. You already know you won't find anyone else who can deal with your bullshit like he can.)
Everyone else though, they don't notice any differences in you, just think you're the same mean girl you were before.
The real shitty part about this though is why you're depressed.
It's not really your parents fault, even though they've been screaming at each other for the past three years.
The problem is that 100% in love with Brittany. You know that you're completely head over feet in love with that girl but that scares the ever living shit out of you. Girls like you aren't gay. They might make out with their best friend when they're 11 to make sure they're ready for when boys start talking with intent the following year but they don't picture said friend when they're making out under the bleachers after a football game. But Brittany, your Brittany is just so fucking amazing that you can't not love her. She may not always remember her middle name and she may think that the square root of four is rainbows and she may think dolphins are just gay sharks (You still have absolutely no idea where this came from or what it means) but she does all this wonderful stuff too. She'll give you gummie bears at random (but you always seem relieved to find them in front of you), she'll massage your back and legs after a particularly grueling Cheerio practice, and how she keeps her eyes on you and only you when she dances (You think that might mean the most to you. That she'll focus on you when she's doing the one thing that makes her the happiest). She's always on your side, even when you don't deserve it (and frankly, a lot of the time you don't deserve it) and when she kisses you… You don't even know how to describe it. It's literally the best feeling you have ever had in the world. It's better than seeing your parents act like a married couple and actually mean it a little bit. It's better than all those boys you've touched. It's better than knowing you're HBIC at school. Fuck, sometimes it feels better than breathing.
You're sixteen years old. You should not be having that feeling yet, let alone about your best friend. So, instead, you try really fucking hard to ignore your more than platonic feelings for her by muffling hard outlines underneath your skirts. This, of course, only makes things worse though because after Regionals you realize that you were as stupid as Quinn was and got yourself knocked up.
You would've asked Brittany to go with you but you didn't want to have to tell her and ruin the already fragile relationship you have with her. You would've asked Puck even though it wasn't his, but you figured that would be the cruelest thing you could ever do to him. Instead, (somehow) Quinn went with you. You both looked like absolute shit in that small clinic. Wet stains were on the blonde's shirt from where she'd been leaking the past few weeks and you wore dirty, smelly clothes that you had worn for a week straight.
("Thank you," you told her quietly and she didn't say anything, just took her hand off her swollen, deflated stomach and held you hand.)
You feel the blankets next to you shift and your eyes close in simultaneous relief and guilt. You still sleep around, more so now because you've officially pushed Brittany away. The body beside you doesn't touch you, purposefully moving closed to the wall away from you. "Are you thinking about her?"
You stay silent as she turns to face you, your eyes, so brown they're almost black, opening slowly as they stare at the ceiling. "Are you thinking about them?"
She stays silent and just like that you've met each other question for question. You know she's thinking about Puck, maybe Sam too, and always her baby. She knows the only thing you ever think about is Brittany (what she's doing, if she's okay, how long until you can see her again). The two of you have always been too alike to be proper friends (the kind who braid each other's hair and tell secrets and giggle and all that shit) and what you're doing now is something you'd never ever call a friendship. She simply misses Puck and you're the closest she'll get to him for now. You miss Brittany and she's the closest you'll get.
"You were stupid to get your boobs done," she says after a while. Deep down you agree with her. You're not even sure why you got them done. You just needed a change (that wasn't getting pregnant and then aborting it) and Brittany was looking at you differently already. You would keep her hands away from your stomach and chest and when you finally gave in, because god did you need to feel her when you were feeling shitty, she stared at your naked body with her eyebrows furrowed.
("You're different," she whispered, fingertips trailing from your tender breasts to the space below your belly button.)
The next day after she left, you cried and then cleaned yourself up, put on your bitch face, and asked your parents for new boobs.
"Yeah, well you shouldn't have given away your kid." She lets out a throaty laugh as she tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder.
"We're really fucked up, aren't we?" It's weird to hear Quinn curse but at this very moment, you can't think of a better way to describe either of you and so you nod in agreement. You blink slowly as the clock next to your bed changes from 3:41 to 3:42, the left side of your body warming as pale flesh molds with brown. You turn your head and see her sad face staring back at you. You sigh and shut your eyes tight when she kisses you, your fingers curling under her pink tank top.
There's way too many differences for both of you. You, rightfully so, feel nothing like Puck. You have boobs and a noticeable lack of dick. But then again, she doesn't really come here to fuck you. She comes here because you're both a lot more than lost right now and you're literally the female version of Puck (a lot more than you'd like to admit actually). Plus, you've always been the closest person to him (except for maybe his nana) and so by being with you, in any sense of that word, is like being with him. You let her into your bed because if you squint, all her blonde hair (that isn't Brittany's shade but it'll work) and pale skin (not as pale but she'll take it) make her look a lot like Brittany. She's not tall enough though and her eyes aren't blue. But she still talks to Brittany, talks to her more than you do right now, and you can vaguely taste Brittany's lip gloss on her lips (you'll find out later than Quinn's been borrowing Brittany's during Glee practice just so you can fall a little deeper into your fantasy).
You both keep your eyes closed because then you can pretend just a little while longer, that it's really ex-lovers touching each of you (after all, you both know how vulgar clarity can be). It doesn't really work but in the end, you're both left panting and sated (but not satisfied even though you both came). She rolls away from you when you're finished (tired like the little 'virgin' she is) and you sigh heavily.
You lay in your bed, new chest aching each time you take a breath. Its 4:03 and you haven't found sleep yet.