Please be warned that there are some minor assault trigger warnings ahead.
By the time freshman year started, Santana was on top of the world. She was hot. Super hot. Even if her boobs could have been bigger and her hair was still a tangle of thick and poof, she was all right. She was more than all right: she was smoking hot. And thanks to her hard work in middle school, she and Brittany were already popular.
She was going to join the cheerleading squad. Being one of Coach Sylvester's acclaimed Cheerios ensured success and awesomeness for life—or at least high school, which was basically the same thing.
On the first day of freshman year, Santana had to write a short paper on what she thought her favorite things about high school would be. A quick glance to her right revealed Brittany writing furiously with her glittering gel pen, and a quick glance to her left saw a paper with elegant loops that spelled words like prom and boyfriend and beautiful.
"This assignment is so stupid, isn't it?" Santana whispered. The girl, who had a delicate, statue-worthy face, looked up in surprise. Her eyes were a cool, cruel hazel that should have been warmer because of their color—much like Santana's black ones. Santana liked the clarity in this girl's gaze: she radiated confidence and drive.
"I think they just want us to get excited about the year," the girl whispered back. "And you haven't written anything yet. High school is going to be the best time of our lives."
Santana rolled her eyes and muttered "Yeah, sure," under her breath. She returned to her paper, chewing on the end of her pen. There were plenty of things she was looking forward to in high school: losing her virginity—because Brittany didn't count, because they were both girls, and she wasn't going to go there now—parties, and being unbelievably hot and wanted. But obviously she didn't want to turn in an assignment like that. So she decided to write about things she wasn't looking forward to. She wasn't looking forward to math class, or health class, or the cafeteria, having to spend four years with the same stupid people, dealing with bullshit, and being old enough to be accountable for but still too young to have any real power.
Brittany reached over and tugged Santana's paper out from under her arm. She scanned the list quickly, a frown tugging her bottom lip.
"This is really sad, Santana," she pouted, skating her fingers over the surface of the paper. "We're supposed to be writing happy things now. Stop being so pedestrian."
Santana felt the tips of her ears burn. "Pessimistic, Britt. And I'm not. I just don't want to do pointless assignments."
The teacher shushed them before Brittany had a chance to respond. Santana started a new paper. She pretended she was actually excited about starting high school, and she wrote about how she was eager to make new friends and learn many new things. She could feel the sap dripping off the page.
The bell put her out of her misery. She walked with Brittany pinky-in-pinky down the hall toward Brittany's next class. Brittany had paled the second she passed the threshold into school that morning: McKinley High was a labyrinth compared to their middle school and the hallways were overcrowded and overstimulating. So Santana had taken it upon herself to make sure Brittany was okay; she looped their pinkies together and lead her from class to class, even if it made her late to all of her own.
"Santana?" Brittany asked as they passed by the bulletin board with its kaleidoscope of flyers and club advertisements on it. "When do you think they'll put the cheerleading signup sheet on it?"
"Dunno," Santana popped her lips. "I'll sign you up if I see it first, and you sign me up too, okay?"
Brittany grinned. "Okay."
It was Santana who signed them both up; Brittany first, with a heart instead of a dot over the i in her name, then Santana, with a heart instead of the o in Lopez. She had to claw her way through a rabid pack of teenagers who were all clamoring for a spot on the coveted clipboard. Santana was glad her elbows were sharp because it gave her an edge that allowed her to be one of the first to sign up. So what if she doled out a few black eyes? It wasn't like any of them, as Cheerios, were going to be foreigners to injuries.
And then came the actual tryouts. The locker room was overflowing with changing girls and Brittany and Santana huddled together for safety—not that Santana needed Brittany close to her to feel safe, of course. The girl with hazel eyes from first period was there, regal as a sphinx. Her hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail and her gym clothes hung crisply off her body. She smiled nervously when she saw Santana and sat down next to her, smoothing out the bottom of her Soffes before settling onto the bench.
"I'm Quinn," she said, holding out a hand to shake. Santana eyed it disdainfully, because seriously, what century was this girl from? Handshakes? They were going to be cheerleaders—or, at least, Santana and Brittany were—not members of a country club.
"I'm Brittany," Brittany grinned at Quinn. "I love your T necklace. Why is it a T, though? Your name begins with a Q, right?"
"That's a cross, B," Santana sighed as she pulled off her shirt, sucking her stomach in because of the cold. "Remember? You've been to church before."
Brittany pursed her lips and looked to the left. "No..."
Santana signed again. Before Santana's parents had split, they'd always attended midnight mass as a family—the one time a year they pretended to like each other. Santana had dragged Brittany along last time, but the church, full of scary, angry statues and stained glass that made everything look harsh and bloody, frightened Brittany. Brittany, who was so much more at home in a skirt and flower crown spinning around like a colorful top, had fallen asleep as soon as her butt had hit the pew. She had slid down until her head rested on Santana's shoulder, a faint simper on her face. Santana couldn't bear to move her; Brittany looked so calm and peaceful and when Santana stroked the web between her thumb and forefinger she smiled and nuzzled into the crook of Santana's neck.
"I'm Santana." Santana broke the awkward silence. Awkward silences were kind of a staple in conversations with Brittany, whose exuberance and eccentricity was off-putting to people who didn't know her like Santana did. Santana had gotten used to kick-starting small-talk over the years. "Do you think you'll make it? I've heard these tryouts are like, impossible. You have to be pretty extraordinary to get in."
Quinn pursed her lips. She opened her mouth to answer, but changed her mind and snapped it shut. Santana grinned for a split second while she pulled off her pants and tugged on her gym shorts.
"Ready, B?" Santana asked, sticking out her pinky for Brittany to take. Her heart was thundering in her abdomen, similar to those times with Brittany that she totally didn't think about because she wasn't supposed to fuck her best friend and like it.
Brittany did a little bunny hop before curling her pinky into Santana's. "Totally," she said, shaking out her arms and legs as they walked toward the football field. "We're gonna rock."
Santana couldn't help but disagree as they stood three minutes later, shoulder-to-shoulder like soldiers, in a line across the football field. A mannish woman—seriously, gym teacher stereotype much?—with short, blonde hair and curling lips rode up and down the line on a golf cart, shouting into a megaphone. Something about champions and winning and small rodents and sadism. Santana just kept her eyes forward, her shoulders back, and her bellybutton trying to kiss her spine like Brittany had showed her. She didn't even flinch when Coach Sylvester shouted at her, though inside her heart was quivering in her throat and her stomach was turning over on itself in nervous knots.
"You're the most miserable lot of fatties and failures I've ever seen," Coach Sylvester barked, slamming to a stop in front of Quinn. "But with my help and guidance I can make some of you champions."
Santana puffed herself up at Coach Sylvester's words. She would be a champion.
"Except for you," Sue digressed, pointing to a brunette further down the line, "Your face looks like the wood chips my poor deceased grandmother used to eat with almond milk for breakfast. Get out of my sight! And you too!" She pointed to one of the few boys trying out, who was nervously chewing his cuticles. "And you!" She pointed further down the line, to someone Santana couldn't see without craning her neck.
"You see," Coach Sylvester turned back to address the line. "Your parents and teachers and the blasphemy that is the Board of Education have been telling you that you're all special, that you're all winners—I'm here to tell you you're not. My Cheerios are the elite of the cheerleading world; the victorious, sweet, first bite of an apple, the cute fluffy head feathers on carrion crow, the famed P-39 fighter jet."
Santana let her gaze flicker to the right to see how Brittany was faring. She had her lip drawn into her mouth, chewing on it nervously. Her eyes were large and teary. Santana fought the urge to nudge her because she knew Sue would sense her movement and lunge.
Sue continued ranting for a moment, occasionally yelling at a particular person's flaws in her megaphone. She seemed to be going on about personal injuries and a war, but Santana didn't really care. Then Sue yelled at them to start running—and the first forty girls who dropped or lagged behind were automatically off the team. Santana took off in a sprint, with Quinn at her heels. Brittany raced ahead, her long legs carrying her across the circumference of the field faster than Santana's could.
Santana cleared her mind as she ran; she felt the burn in her chest and legs and embraced it, pushing through it until she felt like she was soaring. And soon enough, Sue was screeching that they were done and that because the Board of Education required she give them a mandatory five minute break, they could catch their breath.
Santana stumbled over to Brittany, who was chugging from her water bottle like she'd been stuck in a parched desert for years.
"Stop," she croaked, reaching for it. "You'll just get sick, remember?" She tipped the water into the back of her throat, shivering as she felt the chill spread through her chest.
"I don't know if I like this," Brittany admitted, frowning at Santana. "Sue is really mean."
"She'll make us champions, Britt," Santana's gaze flickered around Brittany's flushed face. If they had been in private, Santana would have reached out to smooth stray wisps of hair away from Brittany's forehead, but because they weren't she tried to smooth them down with her eyes. "She's just trying to scare off the wimps. You looked amazing out there."
Brittany blushed, which made Santana's heart constrict. Brittany dragged her toe around in the cracked, dry dirt. "It was just running... it's so easy. It's like dancing super fast in a straight line."
The rest of the Cheerios tryouts passed in a blur of pain and delirium. But neither Brittany nor Santana was kicked out of the tryouts, so feeling like her stomach was getting kicked around somewhere outside of her body was totally worth it. They had this one in the bag.
A few days later, after they had found out that they both had both made the team, Brittany had jumped into Santana's arms and planted an excited, vibrant kiss on her cheek. And Santana allowed it, even though that was totally not okay, because holy fuck, they had made it! But after Brittany had buried her face in the dip of Santana's neck and started peppering sweet kisses there, Santana swore she could feel a few burning stares on her back. But the rich smell of Brittany in her nostrils calmed her, and the tingles just added to her excitement.
"Sweet lady kisses later?" Brittany whispered. Santana was thankful that Brittany had finally mastered the art of whispering, because she didn't think explaining Sweet Lady Kisses to her teammates, who would probably understand what the fuck Sweet Lady Kisses meant, sounded like fun.
Santana opened her mouth to decline but Brittany's voice stopped her. "Please? I'm so sore, Santana. I need some cuddle."
Santana couldn't say no. They didn't have sex, though—not that what they did together was really sex, anyway. But there was no below-the-waist touching and neither of them came; instead, they just curled up together and traded gentle, slow-and-sweet-as-molasses kisses. They were too tired and sore to put any effort into, like, actually moving, and Brittany had said it was better just to get their cuddle on and feel close than attempt anything fancy. It felt nice, just to be held. Brittany's attention made Santana feel so much better.
Being a Cheerio had its perks. Within weeks, Santana was balancing on one of the highest rungs on the social ladder. Her attendance at parties was mandatory and her approval was coveted, even though she was cruel and snappish to everyone except Brittany. She didn't need friends. They were just going to find out her secrets—even untrue secrets—and use them against her. Caesar was an idiot for letting Brutus get close enough to end him. Santana wasn't that stupid.
And the boozy, flickering high school parties she attended were exactly like those in the movies, though the screen could never capture the smell: sweat and musk and bitter smoke and the sharp sting of alcohol. Parties made Santana feel alive and hot, lost in the wave of dancing, touching bodies.
Brittany was always her anchor at these parties; a golden-haired, whirling blend of colors that Santana was drawn to. But she was careful not to cling to her—and careful not to let Brittany cling back. They were besties, not conjoined twins. And it was totally uncool to ignore all the arm candy in the room, because McKinley high churned out some superfine boys, even if they were all show with nothing inside.
Then Brittany started finding guys on her own, and that was totally not okay. Brittany was too special for those guys who stared at her like she was a fucking possession or notch on their bedpost.
And Santana was getting pretty sick of that. She tried to explain it to Brittany—that she couldn't stay too close to Santana, but she couldn't just go off with some guy either—but Brittany had just mumbled something about beggars in rock candy houses and shuffled away.
It was at one of these parties where Santana almost lost her virginity—well, the real one, anyway. It was some guy's fault, because Brittany was sucking face with him on a musty old couch and Santana didn't like it. Santana wrinkled her nose; he probably smelled like soggy Doritos and, to add insult to injury, he kept putting his hands in places that were not okay to put his hands, because Santana put her hands there, and Brittany liked it, and Brittany couldn't like whatever that guy was doing.
Santana watched them from a corner, clutching a dented, sweating plastic cup. She was paralyzed; watching some guy kiss Brittany like that made her stomach twist itself around, but she couldn't do anything about it. Like, at all. If she went over and broke them up the dude was sure to make a fuss, and people would wonder why she cared so much. She didn't even know the dude's name—and Brittany probably didn't either.
Seriously, why was Brittany doing this to her? Just because Santana wouldn't let her cling to her or dance with her or anything didn't mean she had to flaunt herself, beg for attention like some pathetic puppy, like that.
And why was she focusing so much on Brittany? She was just her friend. Jesus. She probably wasn't drunk enough. Yeah, that was it. Those shots she had done earlier weren't doing their job. With a grunt, Santana pushed herself off of the wall and she made her way over to kitchen.
"Hey," a rough, rich, deep voice rumbled pleasantly. "You want some beer? Or I can totally make something stronger if you want."
"Thanks," Santana smirked and took a sultry sip from her cup only to realize it was empty; but whatever, his eyes glazed over as he watched her lick an imaginary drip from her upper lip, which made her pulse rush. She felt powerful, and she never felt powerful.
The boy shook himself a bit as he loped off to find stronger alcohol. He began to pull apart the kitchen, taking different objects from around it and placing them on the table—a cocktail shaker, a lime, some warm canned juice, a bottle of Glendronach Scotch, and some powdered cinnamon. He made a big show of pouring everything into the bottom cup with a flourish, waggling his eyebrow at Santana. She giggled, because that's what she was supposed to do, even though she felt like laughing at him. What the fuck was he trying to make with expensive scotch, canned pineapple juice, cinnamon, and a lime?
"I'm Angelo Michael," he said, slicing off a sliver of lime and resting it on the edge of her glass. "Like the painter dude?"
Santana's laugh was snippy and cruel. "Wasn't Michaelangelo like, totally gay?" She sneered. "No straight guy could have carved something like David, that's for sure. Not even a European straight guy."
Angelo blinked a few times, looking like Brittany's cat whenever she took a flash picture of him. "I... guess?"
Santana took a delicate sip of her drink; it tasted like deodorant and rotten fruit. "This is totally hot," she purred, brushing a slip of hair behind her ear. "I'm Santana."
"That's super sexy," Angelo took a sip from his glass. "You're Mexican, huh? I hear your people are great in bed."
Santana raised her eyebrow, because seriously? Mexican? Her people? Who was this guy kidding? "I'm not Mexican, but I am pretty great in bed." Santana started to giggle. Fuck. Her drink was strong. She took another sip of her drink and everything blurred like an unfocused camera. Angelo looked so handsome from this angle, all dark hair and high cheekbones and sandpaper stubble.
"You're Hispanic, though." He smirked, coming in closer to her. He smelled like root beer and sweat. "I like that."
He leaned in and she kissed him. His mouth was sour but his technique was flawless. He wasn't the first boy Santana had ever kissed, not by far, but he was the best. He tilted her head up so he could get a better angle and then he flickered his tongue to run across Santana's teeth, which she'd totally have to try with Brittany because those little shivers were fun.
When they broke their kiss, he stared at her with slightly unfocused eyes. Then he cocked his eyebrow and husked, "Wanna go somewhere else?"
Santana nodded shyly. What did he mean by that? In movies, it meant sex, but they were in high school—he probably just meant more kissing. Maybe some heavy petting. Yeah.
He led her upstairs, past more couples hooking up. Santana spared herself a glance in Brittany's direction. She was still making out with Mr. Asshole on the couch.
Santana and Angelo paused on the landing to start making out again. She could feel his erection pressing against her thighs. It made something clench inside her. This was going to be awesome, even though her stomach was churning with apprehension.
He pulled off his shirt as soon as they found a room—the master bedroom from the looks of it. Then he shucked off his jeans and stood in front of her in a pair of tented Spongebob underwear. Then he pulled those off too, baring everything for her. It was the first time she'd ever seen a penis in real life. It bobbed with his movements and was about as thick and long as a pickling cucumber—probably why they used those in health class.
Angelo stoked himself and his penis moved in his hand. Bile rose in Santana's throat. The prospect of actually doing anything seemed really revolting now. Angelo began to leak a bit, and he was all veiny and pale and shit. Santana began to wonder how women ever found penises attractive, because in real life, they were totally a turnoff.
"I..." Santana whispered, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't..." How could she say no without upsetting him? He'd definitely make a fuss if she refused. But he... it...
"You can give me a handjob to start if you want," Angelo sighed, sinking onto the bed behind him. She must have looked like a rat in a trap because he grunted awkwardly. "You ever done this before?"
"Of course. Who hasn't? You're..." She wanted to say he was tiny to insult him, but his girth was impressive, even if it was stiff and grotesque. "Big."
Angelo grinned. "So I've been told. Here, come sit down." His voice was honey sweet but his twitching penis made Santana uneasy.
She whispered, hugging herself harder. "I don't want to..."
Angelo groaned. "Are you seriously going to back out now? Fucking cocktease!"
Santana flinched.
"C'mere, baby." Angelo's voice had turned sickly sweet again. "You don't have to like, swallow or anything. Just come here. We can make out and stuff. You're really pretty—no, you're sexy. So sexy."
"No," Santana backed up against the wall. "I don't want to."
"That's totally unfair," Angelo whined, sitting up and moving toward her. Santana began to shake. "You teased me like a fucking slut and now you want to beg out? How do you think I feel with you blue balling me like this, bitch?"
He moved to grab her arm and Santana let out a piercing scream. She froze and slid down the wall, shaking and hugging her knees. There was a sudden draft in the room that made Santana's hands and feet turn to ice. Don't hurt me, don't hurt me.
The doorknob rattled. "Hey!" The voice was muffled from behind the door. "I don't think she's enjoying that!"
The door opened and Miles stepped through. He had matured over the summer; he wasn't a gangly boy anymore, but a slim, muscular man.
Angelo sprung back, shielding himself with his hands. "Dude!" He whined. "Not cool!"
Miles ignored him, crouching next to Santana. "You wanna get out of here?" He asked, mirroring Angelo's words but with a soft, gentle tone. "Come on, I'll take you home. Or for a burger. Burgers make everything better."
He slipped a cool, dry hand under Santana's arm and pulled her to her feet. He slung his arm protectively over her curled shoulders as he led her downstairs. She allowed herself to be led. Her pulse was still racing; it started to hurt her chest but she couldn't calm down because every time she tried she saw his eyes and she saw it and holy fuck she was terrified.
She wanted Brittany. She wanted Brittany now. Santana looked for her; she was still on the couch, still making out with that idiot guy. Santana could cry. That guy was just making out with someone hot but Santana needed her Britt Britt.
But Brittany didn't care about Santana, because if she did, she wouldn't want to hurt her like this. She just wouldn't.
And if Brittany didn't care about her, Santana didn't want her. She wasn't blind. If Brittany didn't love her anymore, Santana wouldn't try to make her.
Santana tucked her face into the crook of Miles's neck. She was holding her breath so she wouldn't start crying. It was so gross watching some unappreciative guy suck face with Brittany.
"Angelo's a jerk," Miles whispered in Santana's ear, weaving her through pulsing bodies. Nobody stared, for which she was thankful. "And a spoiled brat. I'm glad I heard you scream."
They slipped through the front door. Miles turned them sideways so they could still be side-by-side. If Santana wasn't so shaken she would have shrugged him off, but she felt so unsteady, like she would topple and crash like a Jenga tower if Miles let go.
Miles poured her into the passenger seat of his car before looping around the front to settle into the seat next to her.
"What's your address again, 'Tana?" He asked, peeling out onto the road.
Santana groaned and rested her forehead on the frosty glass. "Don't call me that," she said, her voice a cracked whisper. Everything was so fuzzy but she knew she didn't want to go home; she was at her mom's that weekend and Lima Heights Adjacent wasn't exactly pleasant this time of night. And no matter how quiet Santana would creep inside, her tía was sure to hear her and get all riled up, and seeing her in her ruffled nightdress-cum-matching-dressing-gown and hair curlers was not something Santana ever wanted to repeat.
"Burger," Santana mumbled, lifting her tender skull away from the window to stare at Miles. He shifted the car into gear and they rolled down the street. "You can't deny me my burger now."
Miles laughed. "Sure thing, Santana. You ever been to Burger Burger? I think they're open this late. They're so much better than Mickey D's."
Santana bit back a tart duh. She stared out at the rows of identical houses passing by outside her window. The streetlights made a flickering pattern as they picked up speed.
Miles talked as they rode. "Don't worry, I didn't have anything to drink tonight. Well, except some lemonade. But like, my grandma drinks too much, and I don't like that. So I never drink. It makes my head all fuzzy."
Santana didn't reply, so Miles put the radio on. Some classic rock song flitted through the speakers.
The burger joint was still open when they got there, though not by much. A bored, gum-snapping cashier was mopping the floor when they walked in, but she took their order just the same. Miles ordered them two burgers, two fries, and two milkshakes, and for once Santana was glad she didn't have to choose.
The food tasted like sawdust in Santana's mouth and she couldn't choke it down. She was just so fucking tired; she rested her head against the table and closed her eyes when Miles got up to throw their trash away.
"You ready to go home yet?" Miles asked, rubbing her shoulder gently to get her attention. She shivered; nobody except Brittany touched her like that.
"Can I stay with you tonight?" She made her voice as weak as she could. She didn't want to go home; didn't want to be alone.
Miles pursed his lips and thought a moment. "Sure," he finally said, letting his fingers trail through Santana's ponytail. "My grandma won't notice anyway. I'll sleep on the couch."
Santana clung to his torso instead of thanking him.
Miles's house was small and humble on the outside, but it was even smaller on the inside. It smelled like mothballs and cigarettes. Miles winced, embarrassed, as he led Santana to his small bedroom, not bothering to turn on any lights.
Miles's room was small and stuffy, with clothes and video game cartridges strewn carelessly around the floor. His bed was unmade and Santana had to sidestep the mess on her way to it.
"Do you want a shirt and boxers to borrow?" He asked, digging through his dresser drawer. "They're clean, don't worry. Never been worn." He tossed her an unopened package of boxers and a faded t-shirt from the Lima Y.M.C.A.
"I'll go get some water and an Advil," he offered, turning on his heel and walking toward the kitchen, closing the door behind him. Santana buried her face into the shirt and inhaled its bitter, cheap laundry detergent smell. Then she peeled off her clothes and shrugged into Miles's. She stuck her finger in the crotch hole of her loaned boxers and giggled because guys were so weird and the fact their underwear had a hole to pee through was really funny.
Miles knocked before coming back into his bedroom. His eyes looked soft and worried in the dim light from his bedroom lamp. He handed her the pill and scratched plastic cup, which she took gratefully.
He had his shirt around his neck before he seemed to remember Santana was there; his freckled cheeks darkened to a molted pink color and he pulled his shirt back around his torso. He ran to the bathroom, a blush staining his cheeks.
Santana laid down in his bed, pulling the covers up around her neck. She hated sleeping in unfamiliar rooms. She hated sleeping in beds that weren't hers or Brittany's.
Miles walked back in, dressed in a pair of Superman boxers and a t-shirt.
"Cute," she drawled, leaning back into his pillow. He laughed, obviously not hurt.
"Are you sure you're okay, Santana?" He asked, twisting his hands in front of him. "I don't like when you're so pale and... calm."
Santana scowled. "I'm fine."
Miles let his hands rest across his abdomen. "Do you want me to... I don't know, stay here until you fall asleep? My momma used to do that and I liked it."
Santana felt tears burn the backs of her eyes. She didn't feel deserving of his kindness. "You can sleep here if you want," she finally whispered.
"Really?" he asked. "Are you sure you want me here? 'Cause with what happened to you tonight, I don't want you to feel... unsafe. And I don't want you to wake up all afraid."
Santana scooted over so there was room for Miles to lie down next to her, which he did. "You'd make me feel safer, actually," she said, throwing an arm around his torso. It was muscular, flat, and so unfamiliar. "But your clothes stay on."
Miles chuckled. "Sleep well, Santana." His voice was as silky soft as the blanket that was wrapped around her shoulders.
"You're a cool guy, Miles," Santana sighed. "Thanks."
Santana didn't sleep that night; her stomach ached and her head throbbed and she just couldn't get comfortable in Miles's embrace. But she was okay. Miles made her lumpy, stiff pancakes that looked like little air hockey pucks for breakfast, and after she picked at them for a few minutes, he offered her a ride home. She accepted and gave him the address to her dad's condo.
Miles talked a lot—about TV shows, about how he was a baseball player, about how he was sad baseball didn't have cheerleaders because then maybe they'd see each other more—and Santana listened. She kissed his burning cheek when he pulled up in front of her characterless building.
"Bye, Miles," she called, slinging her purse over her shoulder. She made her way up to her dad's condo. It was empty, like always. She didn't even feel sad anymore. It had been too many years to bother feeling sorry for herself like that.
Santana plugged her dead phone in and undressed so she could take a shower. She turned the water as far towards burning as she could to try to get rid of that grimy residue of smoke, sweat, alcohol and shame.
When she walked back into her room, her hair and body wrapped in identical plum-colored towels, her phone was blinking furiously. She opened it and saw she had fifteen unopened texts—most of them from Brittany, each one more panicked than the last. There was a random text from Quinn, too.
Santana- Im having a sleepover in a week. Details to come. Ur coming rite? I invited Britt. ~Q
Santana sent her back a text that said duh, she would be there, and then she shot of a quick text to Brittany that said she was okay, was sleeping off a mega sucky hangover, and that she'd see her on Monday.
And then Santana collapsed, fast asleep, onto her bed.
It was Brittany who opened the imposing wooden door of the Fabray house when Santana knocked on it a week later. She let out a soft "Yay!" before tackling Santana into a bone-crushing hug. Santana hugged her back, a bit shocked.
"I spent the night here," Brittany explained, brushing her fingers over Santana's face, remapping her because they'd been apart since early the previous evening. Santana darkened under her scrutiny.
"Really," Santana mumbled, pushing past Brittany into the house. Large was the first word that sprang to mind, followed by imposing and stuffy.
"Quinn's house is like a library," Brittany whispered. It echoed across the house. "You can't make any noise."
"Sounds fun." I spent the night with Miles again was on the tip of her tongue. And she had. He had texted her and asked if she wanted to come over and watch a scary movie, and because Brittany had left her house in a huff after failed Sweet Lady Kisses (Santana's fault, but seriously, her mom was going to come home any minute and that was something she didn't want her to see) Santana had accepted. Miles held her hand throughout the whole thing in case she got scared, but judging how clammy his hand was he was more frightened than she was. She normally hated horror movies—blood and gore made her nauseated and frightened—but she'd just held Miles's clammy hand and watched the shadows and blood swirl like syrup on the screen and she hadn't been upset at all.
"Hi," Quinn floated downstairs, dressed in a lime and cream babydoll dress. "Santana, I'm so glad you could come."
Santana grimaced up at her. "Who else is coming?"
"Not many people," Quinn said, leading her into the den, where all the furniture had been pushed against the walls. "Megan, Catherine, Katherine, Kirby, Victoria, Rebecca, and Tiffany. You could put your sleeping bag here if you want. Brittany already called the couch."
"You can share with me if you want," Brittany whispered. Her breath kissed Santana's ear.
"Let's get started!" Santana said too loudly. "What movie are we gonna watch?" She loped across the room to flip through Quinn's movie collection.
The other girls arrived soon, including Tiffany, whose skinny days were long gone. Her clothes bulged at the seam; her face was swollen; and her eyes seemed to have sunken in. Not being the Cheerio captain must have caused her to like, become a hippopotamus or something. She certainly had small enough ears.
Cheerleader sleepovers hadn't changed from when Santana was a knobby-kneed sixth grader, though instead of gossiping about cute boys, they talked about hot boys and sex.
"I've heard you can get pregnant from oral," Victoria whispered, her perfectly manicured hands covering her Cupid's bow lips. "But only giving it. It like, travels through you."
"No way," Kirby gasped, her hazel eyes wide. If her face hadn't been so narrow, she could have passed as Quinn's sister.
"Well I heard you can get AIDS from public restrooms," Rebecca's doe eyes were wide and gravely serious.
"Oh my god," Tiffany drawled, taking a sip of her Diet Coke. "You guys are so stupid. Let's do something fun—Never Have I Ever or Truth or Dare."
"Never Have I Ever, definitely," Quinn said, reaching for her gray soda can. "But with soda, right? I can't touch my parents' alcohol..."
"Duh," Tiffany rolled her eyes. "Here, I'll start. I never kissed a boy."
Everyone except Quinn took a sip. Santana burst out laughing and Quinn's cheeks colored.
"Catholic school," she mumbled. "I'm saving myself for someone awesome."
"Yeah, yeah, don't get your chastity belt in a twist," Santana griped, taking another sip for good measure. Was Quinn for real?
Catherine smirked. "I've never kissed a girl before," she giggled, rolling it in her palms. Santana jumped a little. Shit. Shit shit shit. Her soda was frozen against her leg.
Brittany took a dainty sip from her can. The group gasped.
"Who?" Tiffany cried. "That little thing with Santana at my house doesn't count!"
At the mention of her name, Santana sunk further into the footboard of the couch. Please, she pleaded, screwing her eyes up tight. Don't say anything, Britt. Don't say anything.
"Um..." Brittany blushed and shifted around on her pillow. "I totally made out with my cat once. Charity's a girl, right Santana?"
"Right." Her voice sounded really far away.
The other girls sighed and rolled their eyes. Someone spat retard into their can but they weren't loud enough for Santana to know who to plot revenge against.
"Next one," Santana said, spinning her drink in her hands. "I never smoked before." She'd done it three times—marijuana once with her cousin, which only made her jumpy and paranoid, and twice with cigarettes she stole from interns when she went to work with her dad. She liked cigarettes; they calmed her, made her voice feel rich and dark like coffee.
"I've never drank alcohol," Katherine said, tipping her Coke can back into her mouth. All the girls followed, even Quinn.
"Wow, Quinn," Santana teased, batting her eyelashes. Quinn glared.
"I'm not that stuffy," she said.
"Yeah, whatever." Santana blew her off.
"I never... you know before," Tiffany said with a smirk in Santana's direction. Santana froze again. Her stomach flipped when Brittany took a sip.
"Ooh, with who?" Megan said, looking eagerly at Brittany. "Was he cute?"
Brittany smiled, a coral blush spreading across her nose and cheeks. "Super cute."
"What was his name?" Victoria gasped, edging closer to Brittany to hear her reaction.
"Guys, she's probably making it up," Tiffany rolled her eyes.
Please don't say something obvious like Santiago, Britt. Please. What we do—did—isn't sex, I promise.
"Carter Cerio." Brittany smiled. She liked being the center of attention when people were kind.
What? When had... when did... Brittany with Carter Cerio? Why hadn't Santana heard of this?
"What?" Santana's voice was winded like she'd just been punched. "When?"
"A party." Brittany's good mood had dissipated and she drew into herself.
"But when?" Santana was about two seconds from bursting into tears, and she didn't have the guise of alcohol to cover her.
"A week ago..." Brittany bit her lip and stared at one of the porcelain angels on Quinn's bookshelf.
"Don't you feel bad you didn't wait?" Quinn's voice was clipped. Brittany shook her head, still avoiding Santana's eye contact.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Santana finally hissed. "Don't you think I would have wanted to know something like that?"
Brittany shrugged, her face turning stony. "I forgot."
It was a blatant lie, and they both knew it. Santana curled herself into a tight ball like a crumpled shirt, trying not to let her tears overflow.
Brittany—her Brittany—had fucked some random guy. That was... that wasn't supposed to happen. She hadn't even told her! The room spun around Santana, flinging her against the walls. Why hadn't Brittany asked her advice first? Wasn't she supposed to ask her? Weren't they supposed to talk about everything together? It just wasn't right.
And where had she been? A week ago... she'd been at that party. The party where she was angry at Brittany for making out with someone, the party where that asshole Angelo had almost assaulted her, the party where she went home with Miles. Santana's heart dropped into her stomach. She hadn't been there for Brittany, and Brittany had made a mistake.
She really wanted to cry now.
After Brittany's confession, Santana found herself shaken up. She couldn't eat, and when she tried, it just sucked the moisture from her mouth like she was trying to eat a cotton ball. And she was always freezing, trying to pull her jacket tighter around her chest to get some warmth.
Brittany was avoiding her. She didn't wear her friendship bracelet anymore, not that Santana noticed at all. And it wasn't like Santana wore hers anymore, either.
Maybe Brittany was scared of Santana's anger. That had to be it. The other possibility—that Brittany didn't want to be friends with her—was just too hard to bear.
And because her schedule was suddenly much freer, she found herself drawn to Miles. He, as archaic and dorky as it sounded, was courting her. He took her on dates, paid for them, and kissed her sweetly before dropping her off in front of her dad's house. He gave her little presents: trinkets from the carts at the mall and candy and a little white teddy bear that said Be Mine on it. Santana relished his attention. It felt good to be wanted.
But she never trusted him completely, either, though he knew more about Santana than anyone except her. After that first night he never saw her cry. There were so many things she'd refuse to talk to him about, even though she felt like a bitch about it later—what she wanted to do in life, her secret hopes and dreams, and her family. She wouldn't talk to anyone about her family, even though Miles talked about his.
Every other week, they had a dinner-and-a-movie date-the local theater had cheaper student rates on Thursday nights and Miles got them tickets. He and Santana sat side-by-side in the back of the theater, their elbows clenched at their sides because otherwise they'd have to share the armrest. One cool November night they watched a movie that made Santana think of Brittany because it was one she would have loved because of how witty it was. Santana found herself wishing she could take her, but they hadn't talked in weeks and Santana wasn't ready to bridge the gap.
Brittany. Santana wondered how she was doing. She was probably reading to one of her nasty cats right now, or making a blanket fort with her sister. Maybe she was... no. She wasn't fucking some guy right now. She couldn't be. Could she?
Santana bit her lip. Where was she? It was Thursday night—who has sex on Thursday nights? Maybe Brittany's dad—who was more distractible and dyslexic than she was—was trying to help her with her homework. Now that Santana wasn't around Brittany's grades must have been slipping, but it was her fault for fucking that random guy without asking first, so Santana totally didn't feel guilty about that. Not at all.
The movie continued on, colorful splatters shifting around the screen like paintballs. Santana stroked her belly, thinking of Brittany; her soft skin, the smile that looked like she had bottled the sun inside of it, the way her voice became downy soft whenever they cuddled after something exciting.
She really missed her, okay? That pressure in her chest wasn't going away and now Santana wanted to cry. Why was she doing this now? She was on a fucking date. Brittany probably didn't even miss her, at least not like Santana missed Brittany.
Santana reached over and pulled Miles into a kiss. It tasted metallic, like guilt.
She loved him. She had to.
Miles's lips were gentle against hers. She let her hands trail around him—anything to distract her. He had a super nice back; supple and warm and strong. His biceps were defined from all the baseball he played. Santana liked to feel the raw, masculine power underneath his skin.
Santana pulled Miles closer by the back of his head, tilting her mouth so she could press her tongue to his. They spent the rest of the movie making out. His hands began to awkwardly skim over her body, tickling her. She grabbed his hand and placed it over her breast, which he squeezed like a stress ball. She clamped down ruthlessly on his lip in return, because shit, that hurt. Then she smoothed his hurt over with her tongue, because he was just a stupid boy who didn't know anything.
Santana purred against Miles's lips after the lights flickered back on, blinding them because the idiot in the booth had never heard of a dimmer switch. "Your place?"
Miles nodded, shifting in his seat.
If Santana had paused to take it all in, she would have stopped it—but she hadn't, and she didn't. Thinking about what she was doing, and what she was throwing herself into, would just make her cry.
The ride back to Miles's house was filled with shy touches and lusty kisses at each stoplight that made Santana's lips tingle, but they lacked the electricity hers—Brittany's—had. But Santana wasn't thinking about her at all, because she had Miles and, ew, she wasn't like that.
They were hardly through Miles's bedroom door before Santana pulled his shirt off and pushed him onto the bed, running her palms possessively over the muscles of his chest. They felt smooth and warm, pleasant but not awe-inspiring. They were like naked marble statues at a museum.
But apparently Miles didn't think so; he gasped as she stroked his chest, and when her fingers brushed his nipple he jerkily reached over to brush her hair out of her face. He had a look of pure adoration on his face, not unlike the one that—no. She was done thinking of her.
"You're beautiful," Miles whispered up at her. She tried to smirk, full of confidence and swagger, but a sudden chill swept over the room and she found herself unable to find the words for her lame tongue. This was real.
Miles helped her out of her shirt. He was shaking with excitement. Santana was shaking, too, but more from nerves than anything else. But that's how all virgins felt, right?
Miles looked confused by Santana's bra, so she helped him by reaching behind her back to unclasp it. When her breasts were released into his waiting hands he just stared at her in awe like she had just placed the most precious jewels in the world in his open palms.
Having learned his mistake from the movie theater, he gently caressed her. His hands were surprisingly soft and smooth for guy hands, which had always felt rough before. Santana felt her nipples harden under his palms.
This felt good. She moaned and pressed into him further, the rough material of his jeans cutting into her bare stomach. He laid down on his bed, pulling her with him. She fit into his body; her slim hips against his, her shoulders in the dips his made.
They stayed there for a few minutes, soaking in each other. Miles smelled like velvet seats and popcorn and sweat and boy. It tickled Santana's nostrils and made her inhale deeper, filling her chest with him; his sweat, his almost worn-off cologne, his quiet strength.
Miles's fingers twitched against her back; they trailed lower, over her hips and the curve of her ass.
"Can I touch you, Santana?" he asked, breathless. His fingers were pressing against her through her underwear, making the room spin. Santana nodded and ground against him before sitting up and peeling off her skirt and underwear.
Miles's eyes were huge now, eager and sparkling. He moved his hand reverently to wrap around Santana's thigh, massaging the crest of her hip with his thumb.
Santana closed her eyes. This felt good; she felt her body reacting, the dip between her legs getting wetter and hotter, but her mind was somewhere else. She didn't want to think right now, because thinking hurt too much.
Miles's fingers were thick and his movements clumsy, but what he lacked in experience he made up in exuberance. Every thrust of his fingers slid into her easier than the last until she was riding his fingers in a steady, rolling wave. It wasn't like Brittany; his fingers were thick and rougher and they didn't send shivers everywhere, but wow did this feel good.
"S-Santana?" Miles's voice cut through her bliss. "Can I... can we... you know? I have condoms, don't worry." He pulled his fingers out from between Santana's legs and, using his clean hand, rummaged through his bedside drawer. He pulled out a small, black package.
"I, um," he swallowed, "Do you want to?"
Did she? She liked kissing Miles; he was soft and gentle and sweet. She liked kissing Brittany better, but that was just because they had been doing it longer and Brittany's lipgloss tasted awesome. And when she and Brittany touched each other—it was pretty awesome. So yeah, she totally had this one in the bag. Sex with Miles would feel great.
"Yeah." Santana could feel her face split into a shy grin. She slid off of Miles and curled into his side, watching him pluck a foil square from the box and shimmy off his pants and underwear. His erection sprung free, long and pale and stiff. The tip looked softer than the shaft; more sensitive, softer, wetter. With a gentle hand Santana reached over to touch it. She brushed her fingers over his stomach, his wiry treasure trail, towards his base. She wrapped her fingers around it like she used to hold the slippery water snakes she got from museum gift shops.
Miles chucked because her touches were too light; he wrapped his hand around hers and squeezed, holding her there, his warmth sandwiching her hand on both sides, his smooth shaft against her palm and his smooth palm against the back of her hand. He turned his head and kissed her like he loved her.
Santana let go of him and reached over to grab the sliver of foil from his fingers. The wrapper sparkled in the lamplight. She picked at the corner until she could tear off a side to pull the condom out. It felt like a silver dollar in her fingertips.
He showed her how to put it on, how to roll it over him and make sure it wouldn't slip. Santana stroked him again once it was secure. It felt like feeling skin through a balloon; she could feel his warmth under the latex; feel the give in his body through the lining.
"What does it feel like?" She asked, brushing him again. He moved into her hand.
"Muffled," he said after a moment. "Kind of funny... shielded almost. I can't feel as much so I'll last longer. But I don't really know; I've never done this before."
He gave her a sideways smile and molded her hand against him again. He showed her how to stroke him: not too hard, not too soft, not too fast, not too slow.
"Here, you lay back," Miles nudged her, crawling up the length of her body so he was poised between the dint of her hips. "Tell me how you feel, okay? Shhh, don't be nervous. Do you want me to move?"
Santana closed her eyes. She could feel his weight above her, pressing so close to her center, which felt more open and exposed than it had with Brittany. This felt different than it had with Brittany; where she'd felt warm, she now felt cold. She was more nervous than excited, unlike her first time with Brittany—but maybe it was only in retrospect that she was excited with Brittany. And she was excited now. Definitely.
Santana reached between her legs to adjust him so he was pressing against her. It felt different. Not bad. Not good. Different. Weird, because he was frozen above her and his arms were starting to shake, and because she could feel herself clenching at nothing, trying to pull him inside.
He pushed inside slowly, carefully, making sure that she was okay and he wasn't hurting her. And then he was resting his hips against hers, and he was all the way inside, and oh, that felt good. It hurt; it felt like a muscle getting stretched, but balanced on that dangerous precipice where it doesn't hurt but it could. He stretched her more than Brittany's fingers did; his weight felt more solid inside than fingers did.
Santana could feel her head buzzing, and the ache between her legs buzzing with it.
"You can move," she whispered, snaking her arms around his strong back so she could feel his warmth against her chest. He began to trust, so slowly she was clenching at him. And then he picked up speed, gradually, every few strokes. It was definitely different than fingers. Fingers were controlled; Brittany's fingers knew how Santana worked and how to tease an orgasm out of her like a potter would draw a bowl from a hunk of clay. Miles was hard and thick but wild; he butted against her a few times, and even when they'd worked up a rhythm, he lacked the finesse that had been inborn in Brittany. Maybe it was the dancer versus the baseball player; an artist who uses her body to emote and process versus a boy who hit balls with sticks and ran around a chalky field.
And then Santana was swept away with all of Miles; he was thrusting into her harder, building that skydiving feeling deep inside her belly, drawing it out of her. She could smell herself, musk and sweat and something delicate but faded, like flowers, and him, musk and sweat and something heavier, like the streets outside in summertime.
Miles came with a soulful cry hot against her neck. His pelvis knocked into hers and she grabbed his waist to lever herself away from him. She could hear her hipbones crack like when she fell too fast into a split, and her thigh muscles bunched up in a cramp from being pressed too hard into the bed. She cried out and shoved Miles off, snapping her sticky legs together once his weight was lifted.
Santana closed her eyes and flipped away from Miles. That hadn't felt like she thought it would. She didn't like it like she thought she would. Why did people even do that? Maybe it would get better with time. Yeah. It had to.
The bedsprings squeaked as Miles pulled off the used condom. Then he turned and spooned Santana from behind, gently petting her arm and waist.
"That was awesome," he whispered against her hair. "So awesome. I like you."
Santana felt a sob catch like gravel had been slingshot into her throat. She felt pressure behind her eyes, but no tears came out. No. No no no, no, he couldn't; no one could like her; no one wanted her; she didn't want him; she didn't like him.
Miles shifted around, trying to mold her sandbag body against his. She could feel him against the backs of her thighs; he was gooey and cold and so, so gross. The weight in Santana's throat pressed against her windpipe, choking her. She felt the blood rush into her head as she tried to take a breath, but her constricted chest wouldn't let her inhale. She was drowning on air, on her panic.
"Santana, are you okay?" Miles asked, shifting up to the headboard until the back of her head was tucked into the slight—so slight, nothing like Brittany's—curve of his waist. She flinched and rolled away from him. If she could just take a breath the dizzy feeling would go away, but if she took a breath she'd start crying, and she couldn't do that in front of Miles.
"Santana, you're scaring me." Miles's voice had become nervous. "What's wrong, babe?"
Babe. The sweet nickname shouldn't have given her that suckerpunch feeling deep in her belly, but it did. He shouldn't... he couldn't... She needed to get out. She couldn't think with him there.
She turned to glare at him. "Leave me the fuck alone."
"W-what?" Miles gasped, clutching his musty blanket to his torso. "Santana—"
"You sucked," Santana snapped the first thing that came to her mind, sitting up and reaching for her inside-out shirt. She pulled it on and started looking for her pants, quashing all the thoughts that were trying to make her falter.
"But..."
"It was awful. I never want to see you again."
That one was cruel, even for her, but she was running on autopilot now: get out and go home, by any means necessary. Santana sat up and tugged on her shorts, grabbed her purse and reached for the door. Miles's eyes got misty and he rubbed his eyes.
"But why?" He pleaded. "I can get better... I've never done that before. I... I love you, Santana. I do. Please come back here, I can make it better."
Santana felt like she was going to vomit. She was breaking the heart of a boy who'd been nothing but sweet to her. She was snubbing him out like a lit cigarette under her foot. Miles hadn't done anything wrong. But staying with him? She couldn't do it. There were feelings involved now, feelings that she couldn't handle. Miles deserved someone sweet, someone who would love him back. Or something. Miles didn't deserve Santana.
"I thought this would be a good idea," she growled, gritting her teeth against the tightness in her chest. "I wanted a popular boyfriend to flaunt at school. But you're being clingy and that's such a turnoff."
She didn't even know half the garbage that was coming out of her mouth. That wasn't why she wanted to be with Miles, and she knew it. She was fucking lonely and wanted to be treated special by someone who liked her and wanted her there. But then he had to go and throw around the stupid L-word and ruin everything.
She had to crush him like a cockroach because it was better to break his heart completely than to let him think everything was okay. No pain, no gain. He'd get over it. She didn't care about him. Not at all.
"Please come here, Santana," Miles pleaded. "Come here and we can talk about it because now you're really scaring me."
Santana bit her knuckle to keep from snapping back at him. She was a bitch. A worthless bitch. A fucking heartbreaker.
Santana blinked back the burn in her eyes and slipped out of his door. She tiptoed through the dark house, where every shadow was a ghost and every sound a murderer. Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch; the mantra got louder and harsher the faster she tried to get away. Santana raced all the way home, running from her feelings and too-tight skin.
The self-flagellation had stopped by the time Santana was riding the elevator up to her dad's condo, numb and counting down the seconds until she could walk into a scalding shower and burn everything off. But even a shower that made her skin blister crimson couldn't wash the grime off of the inside, the guilt that was tearing a fire-edged hole into her stomach.
She felt like someone was striking her across her back. She was just so stupid, though she couldn't understand why. She'd done everything right. Everything.
There was something wrong with her. A blackness in her soul or a blockage in her heart. It wasn't supposed to feel that bad. Santana knew she was being irrational, but she also knew she was right: she wasn't supposed to feel like she did. But she did, and she could cry. It just wasn't fair.
She debated calling Brittany a few times, because when she was around Brittany she felt almost normal, because Brittany made everything better. But she couldn't go to Brittany now. She just couldn't. She wasn't supposed to feel the way she felt about Brittany, either. And they hadn't talked in forever. It would be really weird and needy of Santana to call her now.
Santana just had to deal with it herself. She'd get over it. It probably just felt like such a big deal because it was so fresh in her mind. She'd be fine.
The first blotches of pink had oozed across the sky when Santana allowed herself to get out of bed the next morning. She had spent the night half-sleep, curled in a stiff, tortured ball. She showered again, this one cold enough to turn her lips and fingers purple. It didn't make her feel better than the burning one had—she still felt wrong.
To make herself feel a little bit better, Santana fastened her friendship bracelet on again. The familiar weight against her wrist grounded her. She and Brittany had to be friends again. As much as Santana hated her own need, she missed Brittany.
But would Brittany want her back? How does someone apologize for something they didn't do? Brittany had avoided her for this long—had it really been a month and a half?—so it wasn't like Santana could sit and wait for her to yo-yo back to her.
Maybe she could just pretend like nothing had happened? Yeah, that could work. She'd just slide up next to her in class and they'd be fine again. Brittany had to have missed her. Surly she'd take Santana back.
Time felt like it was barely passing the rest of the morning, but when it was time for her and Brittany's first shared class, Santana found herself frozen outside the door, unable to cross the threshold into the room. She'd been sitting in the back of the room for over a month now. Could she just shimmy in next to Brittany like nothing had happened? What if Brittany didn't want to sit next to her? What if someone else sat next to Brittany? What if Brittany ignored her?
You'll never know until you try. The voice in her head sounded like Brittany. Santana screwed her eyes up and pushed through the door. She opened her eyes and glanced around the room—Brittany was sitting at a table in the front, doodling with a glittery pen in her notebook. Santana had to force herself to walk up to her, her thundering heart making her want to run and get it over with already. She inhaled through her nose and slid into the seat on Brittany's left.
"Hi." Santana's voice was trembled.
Brittany snapped her head up to look at Santana, surprise flashing in her eyes. "Hi."
Shit. Brittany didn't look happy. She didn't look sad, either, but she wasn't happy or grateful that Santana was there. Her eyes were guarded, probably because she didn't trust Santana anymore. Shit.
"I... um..." Santana's eyes flickered around the room, taking in Brittany's face, the whiteboard, Brittany's eyes, the door, the window, Brittany's lips.
Brittany just watched her, eternally patient. Her eyebrows were raised slightly in surprise, but the rest of her face was calm as a reflecting pool.
Santana fretted her fingers together, playing with her cuticles until she realized what she was doing. She flared her hands and shook them out a bit to calm herself.
Then she took a deep breath and reached for Brittany's arm, stroking the skin under her elbow delicately and just once, because they were in public and everybody could see them. But Santana couldn't find the right words to say, and she knew a touch would tell Brittany everything.
"I missed you," Santana peeped. If Brittany hadn't been sitting right next to her, she wouldn't have heard. Brittany visibly relaxed when Santana spoke. Her mouth twitched into a tiny grin and she pried Santana's hand off her arm so she could squeeze it once before slipping their pinkies together. It was achingly familiar. Santana smiled in relief.
"I missed you too," Brittany whispered. "I don't like when we fight."
"Do you maybe wanna hang out later?" Santana asked. She looked between both of Brittany's eyes, trying to gauge her reaction. Normally Santana wouldn't have bothered asking; she would have just given Brittany a flirty grin and smirked, "we should totally hang out later." Asking meant Brittany could say no. Commanding was better.
But now she wasn't sure Brittany would say yes, and that scared her. She pursed her lips and waited for Brittany's answer.
"Sure," Brittany looked conflicted for a moment, but her eyes were shining. That was a good sign, right?
"But Santana," Brittany whispered, squeezing her pinky. "I want to talk to you, okay?"
Santana pursed her lips. Maybe. Maybe they'd talk. But did they need to? It was in the past already. They were fine again—things might be awkward, but they were going to be fine. She hoped that Brittany would forget why they'd fought in the first place and then talking about it would be pointless.
Santana didn't let go of Brittany's pinky the entire day, except for one quick trip to the bathroom and Cheerios practice. Without Brittany attached to her finger, she felt too light, which was strange, because Brittany always told her, on those pale dawn mornings when Santana's guard was down, that Santana grounded her, bringing her into the real world and stopping her from rising into the air like an abandoned balloon. And Santana always responded that Brittany pulled her up, dragged her out of the swallowing darkness in her head and the bleak world in front of her.
They went home together after Cheerios practice, fresh, clean and scrubbed raw from their after-practice shower. It was the first time in nearly two days that Santana felt truly clean.
When they got home, Santana scooped ice cream into fancy blown glass bowls, even though ice cream was forbidden and only food for 'spineless, undetermined fatties and failures.' But it made Brittany happy, and if Brittany was happy, she wouldn't want to talk.
"You ignored me for weeks," Brittany said softly, stirring her ice cream around in her bowl, smoothing it down into a disk in the middle. She dented the center and smoothed it over again, worrying her bottom lip in her teeth.
"I don't know why..." Santana admitted, making her spoon match Brittany's circles. Her ice cream began to melt into a soupy puddle. Shit. Her ice cream plan wasn't working.
"I hurt your feelings," Brittany started chewing on her cheek, glancing up to look into Santana's eyes.
Santana laughed. It sounded faker than a porn star's moan.
"It's okay, Brittany. I was being a baby but we're over it now. Let's talk about something happy now. Did you see that new episode of Extreme Makeover? Totally bougie, right?"
Brittany's face fell. "Yeah, yeah it was... She looked like a sunburned rhinoceros."
Santana stifled a giggle.
"Santana," Brittany's voice was dangerously serious again. The edges of her eyes were rimmed red and her face was close enough that Santana could see her squinting to stop her tears from falling. "I thought you didn't like me anymore."
Santana opened her mouth to disagree because of course she liked her, but Brittany kept going. Her voice quivered; the heartbreak in her voice struck Santana right in her chest.
"I felt dumb because I couldn't understand why you hated me. I don't know what I did wrong. Quinn told me it was because you were jealous of me and that you wanted Carter, but that's not true because you told me he was gross because he talked too much about his motorcycle, and I know you weren't lying."
Santana pursed her lips. "No, Britt, I wasn't jealous of you." I was jealous of him.
"And I didn't have anyone to talk to about it, Santana. Because it hurt but it felt good and you know why and you know how to make me feel better. I didn't have anyone to talk to at all. You understand me, Santana. Remember when we read Anne of Green Gables, and Anne told Diana they were bosom friends? Well, even though you thought that was totally wanky—which it was—you're my bosom friend."
Santana had to blink back her tears. An apology was on the tip of her tongue but she couldn't get it out.
"Santana?" Brittany was searching her face now, moving closer until Santana could feel her warmth against her skin. Brittany threw her arms around Santana's shoulders, burying her damp face into her neck. She was shaking and pulling herself into Santana until Brittany was practically cradled in her lap. Santana smoothed her hands over Brittany's hair, screwing up her eyes so she wouldn't start to cry, either.
"And then I saw you and Miles," Brittany admitted against her neck. "He gave you a white teddy bear and you kissed his cheek and I thought you replaced me, only you loved him more, because I'm not allowed to do that... and I tried to be happy for you, Santana, I really did. But it was so hard and I felt like you had thrown me away. And you looked so happy with him and I just couldn't understand why it wasn't okay for me to be with Carter but you were allowed to be with Miles."
Santana pressed a kiss into the dint under the angle of Brittany's jaw. She could feel Brittany's tears dripping down her cheeks and it made her want to make it stop because Brittany never cried. Santana hiccuped into Brittany's neck before she whispered into her soft skin.
"Because you were with Carter first, Britt. And I thought... I don't know what I thought. I'm really sorry. It won't happen again, okay? You can be with Carter if he makes you happy." Even though I hate it because I don't want anyone else to make you happy.
Brittany pulled back a bit. "But I don't want to be with him, Santana. I don't want to date anyone. I don't want to choose between a boyfriend and you, because whenever I try to juggle I break things. He told me I was pretty and I liked that. Sex feels good... it's like you said, it means nothing; it's just relieving tension, and it made me feel special because when he looked at me his eyes were shiny."
Santana closed her eyes against the guilt that crushed her like a wave against the seashore. It was her fault Brittany had fucked Carter, because she thought sex was meaningless and she had just wanted to be special. Didn't she know that that only applied to Santana?
"My legs are going numb," Santana admitted after a terse minute, shoving Brittany off of her lap. She tried not to see how Brittany's face fell into a deep frown because Santana was back to not talking about things. But she couldn't think of anything to say.
She swirled her ice cream around again, before spooning off a sliver. She held it up to Brittany, an encouraging smile on her face. A blush spread over Brittany's cheeks and Santana's heart constricted uncomfortably. Damn. Why was she so cute?
She fed Brittany the ice cream, her own face heating up when Brittany's eyes flashed dangerously.
"You know what would be super fun?" Brittany purred. She was obviously not feeling bad anymore, because her eyes looked almost predatory as she lifted her spoon and watched a melted rivulet run off the edge. "Licking this off each other."
Santana's lower stomach clenched. "Sounds hot," she smiled, grabbing her bowl and standing up. "Super hot."
It was after they had finished the last of the ice cream—which, by the way, tasted way better off of Brittany's stomach and thighs than from the bowl—and were snuggling under Santana's sheets that Brittany summoned up the courage to speak again.
"I still don't understand why you were upset," she whispered, nudging her fingers under Santana's pajama shirt to stroke her belly. Santana blushed and nodded. There was something about being in bed with Brittany—being held by Brittany, surrounded by her warmth and her scent—that made Santana feel safe and almost precious. Talking about scary things wasn't as scary in Brittany's arms.
"But why, Santana?" Santana could hear the words rushing out of Brittany's mouth in a storm, her brain moving faster than her mouth. "We aren't exclusive. You said we can't date each other, because it's gross, and we weren't. I mean, I could understand if we were, because that's how most people seem to do it, but like, it felt good, Santana. Sex feels really good."
Did it feel as good with him as it did with me? Why did you go to someone else if you like me? Aren't I the best, Brittany? The one you like the most?
"I fucked Miles," Santana spat, the words flat on her tongue.
Brittany looked startled, her eyelashes fluttering in surprise. Then her face slid down, her eyes softening until they looked sorry for Santana.
"It's no big deal," Santana continued, "it's just what people do. We're teenagers and we're horny. Plus it's super great for our rep. Guys like girls who are easy."
At least, that's what MTV and Playboy and the jocks who leered at them outside of the locker rooms said.
"And we should take advantage of our hotness, Britt. Popularity is the best. I want all the guys to want us, and all the girls to want to be us. It's fun; you'll see."
Brittany looked dubious.
"Is it okay if I like Sweet Lady Kisses with you the best?" Brittany finally whispered, drawing Santana closer to her chest. Santana closed her eyes against Brittany's shoulder, inhaling deeply. The way Brittany smelled always comforted Santana, even when her words scared her. She did like her the best.
"We should be careful, though," Santana's words were feather-soft against Brittany's neck. "If we're going to fuck our way to the top. Make sure he wears protection, okay? And maybe we should go on birth control. Teen moms are so unsexy and I don't want you to throw your life away on demon spawn."
"What's demon spawn?" Brittany furrowed her eyebrows. "I don't remember that from health class."
Santana bit her lip. Brittany's babies would be beautiful. They'd look like her and sound like her and Santana would love them and watch them grow up, because they were going to move into houses next to each other when they were older.
"All babies are demon spawn when they're born. They're psychopathic squished aliens."
"My sister wasn't. She was beautiful."
Santana laughed. "Fine. Your kids will be gorgeous, Britt. But don't have them yet, because then we'll never go to college together." They'd talked about their future before: they'd move out of Lima and go a big city somewhere. They'd be roommates and do everything together. And it would be awesome.
So the thought of Brittany getting pregnant in high school by some neanderthal that would abandon or abuse her terrified Santana. It couldn't happen. It wouldn't happen. It would never happen because Brittany was better than that, so why should she waste time thinking about it? Especially when she lay safe in Brittany's arms.
"I care about you a lot, B," Santana finally whispered, her voice as delicate and vulnerable as a newborn kitten. It was as close to I love you as she'd get.
But it warmed her heart to hear the smile in Brittany's voice when she said, "Me too."