Prompt: Most memorable/meaningful summer fling – from momaboutown

Words: 1,270. Woops… The *next* one is within word limit though! Woohoo!

Summary: Because what is more memorable than your first ever love? Set… around 2007, 2008. You can work out their respective ages :P

There.

There she stood.

There was a slight breeze around – one of those gentle ones, that whispered of nights of warmth and days of sand. Those breezes that excite all senses – the lapping at your skin, the midnight thrumming in your ear, calling you out to it, to embrace it, make love to it. The scent of salt and frangipanis and coconut sunscreen, so strong you can almost taste it, feel it melting on your tongue like ice cream. And, of course – of the objects along its path, that it gently disturbs, wafting along, picking them up and nudging them down its path a little longer, asking only to remain in company for any time it could spare.

The wind did not judge. The breeze did not ask anything.

And there she stood, dead-straight strands of her hair flicking themselves back from her face, accentuating the sharp angles of her nose, her cheekbones. Her loose white tank-top, contrasting the sun-borrowed tan of her skin, fluttering and flapping loosely, showing just a tiny amount of flat tummy. The light denim, ending above mid-thigh, the only thing that reflected the absolute stillness of the girl.

And there he discovered that that was the only thing still about her. Her posture. The rest of her – her emotions, her sense of self… her life… It was all as tumultuous as the waves of salt he could hear crashing in their own strange rhythm on the not-so-distant shore.

The only things constant in her life: her posture, her terrible sadness, and her tragic beauty.

It was a little past midnight, the first time that Wes Montgomery stumbled upon Santana Lopez. She was sitting on a park bench outside his window, arms clenched around her torso as tears streamed down her face.

He could feel her. Feel her anguish. Feel it calling to him, like a black hole.

But he was scared. So he stayed in bed. Watching.

It was 2 am, on the 17th of July, 10 days into summer camp, and the 9th night that she had sat outside his dorm window, that Wes finally felt brave enough.

He went and sat down next to her.

He said nothing.

She looked at him with tear-stained eyes.

Butterflies erupted in his stomach, and he went back to bed.

Santana didn't move.

It was 11 pm, on the 22nd of July, 15 days into camp, when he sat down on the bench and waited for her. Waited for hours.

But Santana never showed. And Wes cried. He had failed her.

It was 1 am on the 23rd of July, when she reappeared.

She gave a furtive look around. She was looking for him. Like a wild animal looks for a human before slinking out of its hole in the middle of the night.

She sat down on the bench. Still. Blending into the shadows. And Wes let her be.

It was 3 am on the 1st of August, 2 days until they would go home, when her weeping woke him from his sleep.

He pulled on a pair of shoes, and grabbed his nightgown. It wasn't cold – not to Wes – but Wes lived in Ohio. Wes didn't get cold. And Wes wasn't in shock.

He sat down next to her again. He didn't say anything. Then, slowly, he placed the robe over her shoulders.

She crumpled sideways onto him.

Santana cried. And Wes held her in his arms.

An hour later, her tears finally stopped falling, replaced by sniffling, like some sort of happiness or serenity could be drawn in with the nitrogen and oxygen and heat of the night.

"Why are you crying?"

She looked at him under dewy eyelashes. "Why do you care?"

"I've seen you," he tried again, gently, cautiously, not wanting to remove that one block from Jenga and have the entire tower crashing down once again. "Every night. You sit by my window and cry. Do you miss your family?"

"No."

"Did someone hurt you, then?"

She looked at him – her chocolate brown eyes piercing into his own muddy ones. He didn't know other people could look at him that way. Like they could read his soul. And then, she shrugged.

"Well…" Wes bit his lip. He only wanted to protect her, to make her feel safe and welcome. And happy. "Why are you so sad?"

She almost jumped at the question. "I'm sad," she eventually whispered, "because there is a boy here. His hair is as dark as the shadows, his eyes the shape of almonds. I can see him only at night… and in two days' time, he will be gone, and I will be gone, and I will never see him again."

Wes slid his arm down across her shoulders, down her arm, gripping her hand and lacing his fingers in hers. "I'm sad, too. Because there is a girl here that I love. She is as beautiful as the setting sun, and as tormented as the moon, always stretching for the Earth but never touching it. She doesn't know who I am… and in two days, all she will remain is a memory, a fading photograph."

She looked at him again, and he cursed inwardly… he didn't mean to sound so… poetic. Or creepy. And now she would never talk to him again. Then she raised their hands, watching the perfect fit… Looking anywhere but him, she opened her mouth. "What's her name?"

"I'll tell you hers, if you tell me his."

She nodded, and his pulse quickened. But one thing his life had taught him – to trust. "Count of three."

"Okay."

"One."

Breathe. Keep breathing. What was the worst that could happen? That she wouldn't love you? Why would she even love someone like you? Some gangly, nerdy sadsack like yourself. You're fooling yourself, Wes. Just like you've done your entire life. But camp's nearly over. She can't make fun of you for too long.

"Two."

Shit, his voice was about to break, wasn't it? Of all times… The poet in Wes supposed it was fitting, that it should happen as his heart prepared to crack in half.

"Three."

"Santana Lopez."

"Wes Montgomery."

There was a small moment of shocked silence, filled with crickets chirping and soft intakes of breath, and waves hugging and letting go rocks and sand in the distant. And then they both began to laugh – a little giggle first from Santana, that went straight to the pit of Wes' stomach and trilled around a C#, echoing in his ears. Then Wes snorted, a hand flying to his mouth, and before they knew what had happened, they were sitting over each other on the ground, dirt and tears of mirth painting their cheeks.

"Well, that's a relief," he whispered, the laughs having slowed to almost a hiccup-pace.

"So…" She rolled over to look at him, tears once again in her eyes. "What now?"

Wes looked at the younger girl in front of him. She was so… He couldn't quite use the word inexperienced. But she was… pure. Not that he wasn't, of course, but he himself was… perhaps a little more cynical than his age should allow. A little more worldly.

Pushing himself up onto one elbow, he stared deep into those black windows. "We enjoy the next two days to the best of our abilities."

"Can I…?" She bit her lip. "Can I kiss you?"

Wes just smiled and nodded. "I'd like that."

She inched closer and closer, never dropping his hand, always maintaining that flow of electricity through their skin… and ever so slowly, placed her soft lips against his cheek.

I love them.

So… Yeah, Westana is definitely up there among my OTPs – and don't you dare mention crackship to me! But I wanted something more… natural. Natural in the sense that it was just them with no barriers. No smart-arse or snarky comments (because, believe me, I could write them til the cows come home!), no bitchiness, no gavels… Just them. And, what better way than with them so young?

So I'm imagining Wes around 15, and Santana 13. That really awkward phase. And Wes is most definitely going through a poetry phase :P

But, enough justification. I want to get the next prompt up.

So… like it? Hate it? Want me to adopt the Rabbit of Caebannog? Please let me know!

Keep smiling! :D