A/N: Hey guys, sorry for taking so long to update. I've been so, so busy with school and work, but I didn't want to rush this and make it crappy so.. hopefully the wait pays off. I'm pretty happy with this chapter.
I just want to saythank you thank you thank youto all of you who added this story to your favorites and/or alerts. It means a lot to me. :)
Anyway, just a forewarning, this is an angsty chapter. I hope you enjoy.
And, of course, reviews are appreciated ;) Thank you again! PS. follow me on Tumblr if you aren't already! Causewithfeelingsitsbetter(dot)tumblr(dot)com
The sunlight peaking through the only partially closed blinds was what woke Santana the following morning. Squinting her eyes shut, she rolled over onto her back and stretched her arms above her head, half stifling a yawn. The feeling of silky sheets rubbing against her bare torso reminded her that she was still naked and her eyes shot open, the memories of last night suddenly flooding her mind.
Unsure at first if she had dreamt the whole thing, Santana blinked a few times, trying to adjust to the light. Her eyes darted around the room, across the walls, walls that were not hers. Her bedroom walls were dark and covered with posters. These walls, light purple with shelves full of stuffed animals, belonged to Brittany. Santana turned her head slowly to look beside her and, sure enough, there she was. Asleep on her stomach, arms stretched up underneath the pillow she rested her head on, the sheet tangled halfway to her waist, exposing her bare back. Brittany.
"Oh my god," she whispered to herself. It really happened. What she and Brittany had done was not some crazy dream or outlandish fantasy. It was real.
But, more importantly, so were all the emotions she had felt towards Brittany.
Santana's thoughts raced as she remembered Brittany touching her, remembered the way her fingertips on her skin brought her to life. How she could feel the blood rush to the surface of every contact, leaving her aching for more. She thought back to when she was fourteen, how James' fingers on her thigh made her blood run cold, freezing her with fear. She thought about every guy that she had ever made out with, every guy that had ever felt her up, every guy that had ever touched her in one way or another. It was always the same. None of them had ever made her feel like Brittany had last night. Not a single one.
And then she thought about… him. The guy she had sex with last night, the first guy she'd ever had sex with. She remembered trying to force herself to want it, trying to force her body to react. And how, despite all her trying to feel otherwise, she had prayed desperately for it to end from the moment it began.
But why had everything been so different with Brittany? Why did her body react without her even having to think? Why had she fought to make it last instead of prayed for it to end? What the hell was wrong with all the guys she'd been with that they couldn't make her feel like Brittany had?
And it was then that the realization hit her like a ton of bricks. Maybe there was nothing wrong with them. Maybe there was something wrong with her. Maybe there was a reason that she couldn't get herself to enjoy being touched by boys, a reason that she feared intimacy with them, that she couldn't get aroused no matter how hard she concentrated. There is a word for girls like that. Could she be? Oh my god,Santana thought to herself. I'm not.. I couldn't be.. could I? No, I can't be-
"Maybe I'm bi," she answered herself out loud, so abruptly that she startled herself. The outburst caused Brittany to stir. She rolled over, pulled the cover over herself, and rubbed her eyes. When she opened them and saw Santana was awake, she smiled.
"Mornin', San. How'd you sleep?"
Be cool, Lopez.
"Not too bad, considering I slept all exposed with your family totally right in the next room," Santana answered her honestly.
"Hah," Brittany laughed as she sat up, turning away from Santana. Santana watched as the sheet fell and piled around her waist as she reached over the edge of the bed to retrieve the clothes they had discarded a few hours before. Brittany tossed a pair of the shorts and the tank she had been wearing to Santana.
Reaching for the shorts, Santana suddenly froze in fear. She never let anyone undress her fully, particularly from the waist down. But last night she had been completely naked underneath Brittany, too caught in the moment to give it a second thought when Britt had pulled her shorts off. Too caught in the moment to remember there was a reason she had to make sure that never happened.
Clutching the shorts in her hand, her arm still outstretched, she shifted her eyes towards Brittany. She watched as Brittany fumbled with the tangled shirt, trying to turn it back right side out, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Like there was not a thing to be concerned about.
It was too dark,Santana thought to herself, slowly exhaling a sigh of relief. I'm safe. Vowing to be more careful in the future, whomever she may be with, Santana allowed herself to relax.
"My mouth tastes like.. morning breath.." Brittany muttered to herself as she pulled her t-shirt over her head. Santana didn't want to stare, but she couldn't pull her eyes away as Brittany stood up to put her shorts on. "I'm gonna brush my teeth, and then… chocolate chip pancakes?" Brittany turned and flashed a hopeful smile at the brunette still lying unclothed in her bed, watching her every move.
"Uh, yeah. Chocolate chip. That sounds great, Britt." Despite her overwhelming confusion about her newfound sexuality crisis, Santana managed to force a smile, thankful that it was early and Brittany probably wouldn't catch the hesitation in her demeanor.
Santana had decided, after much consideration, that she was not going to think too far into what had happened between her and Brittany. It had been a rough night, she just needed the comfort from someone who knew her better than anyone else, she told herself. It wasn't like it was going to become a regular occurrence or anything. Hell, it wasn't like it was ever going to happen again. She couldn't be gay or bi or any of that, she couldn't actually like girls like that. She was super popular and super hot. Guys loved her, girls envied her, everyone feared her. She liked sex. She was in the mood and Brittany just happened to be there. A warm body. No big deal.
But when she tried telling herself this after the second, third, fourth… tenth time her and Brittany slept together, the truth of the situation finally started to sink in. She was lying to herself. And she knew it.
Lying to yourself and lying to everyone else are two different things though, she reasoned with her own thoughts. Just because I know how I feel doesn't mean everyone else needs to know, too. No one needs to know.
Not even Brittany.
And so her secret was her own. She continued to go out with guys, continued to sleep with Puck, continued to put up an impenetrable front that no one could see past. She acted the part of Santana Lopez, Queen Bitch of McKinley high school, in the show that was her own life. Because that's what it was. A show.
Even Brittany. Sweet, innocent Brittany, who Santana could feel herself falling for a little more each day couldn't know. She felt bad lying to Brittany, but no one could know how Santana felt, not even her. On more than one occasion she felt a sting of panic when Brittany seemed to sense Santana's real feelings. Once while they were laying in bed together, she had even gotten defensive with Brittany, telling her that she didn't make out with her because she loved her, but because she was a warm body and she thrived on the heat of others. She regretted it immediately when she saw the hurt reflecting in Brittany's glassy eyes, looking like she was about to cry. The guilt weighed down on her chest making it temporarily hard to breathe to the point where she almost broke and told her the truth. But still, something held her back. She just couldn't. So she forced herself to breathe as she sat up and pulled her thick dark hair into a pony tail, ignoring the heartache she knew lay right behind her.
Every day, Santana told herself that she was going to start denying Brittany's after school hang out and sleepover requests, both of them full-well knowing that movie cuddles would lead to sweet lady kisses which would lead to more. But when Brittany looked at her, she could feel herself melt inside, all determination disintegrating into thin air the moment Brittany flashed a smile her way. It eventually got to the point where if Brittany didn't come to her each day with an invitation, Santana would go looking for her. To what Santana couldn't quite determine was her delight or dismay, Brittany never turned her down.
"Why do you like sleeping with me?" Brittany asked Santana one evening while they were lying in bed, things starting to heat up. Santana, who had turned and reached over to turn off the bedside lamp, wasn't sure if she heard her correctly. Hesitating for a moment, she turned back around to face her best friend.
"What?"
"Why do you have sex with me? Is it actually me that you like, or do you just… am I just convenient?" Brittany's eyes searched Santana's, an obvious sadness polluting her blue pools.
Taken aback, Santana scrunched her eyebrows and stared back at Brittany. "Of course I like you. I like sleeping with you because…" Unable to think of anything better, faster, "I just… I like you. Why?"
"Then why do you always turn off the lights?" Brittany broke their eye contact, her gaze falling to her fingers that were absentmindedly rolling the sheets between her fingertips.
Santana sighed and reached a hand to stroke Brittany's cheek gently. "It's for your own good, BrittBritt," her answer not completely a lie. "Yours and mine, both. I just don't want us to get all mixed up, ya know? I don't want to risk us starting to, like, have feelings and shit like that." Santana winked playfully, running a hand through Brittany's messy hair, gently tugging when she reached the ends.
The truth was though, Santana wished with all of her heart that they could leave the lights on. She longed to see Brittany's perfect body again, naked and pleading for her touch. She wanted to see the fire in her eyes as she traveled down her body, taking care to kiss every inch of skin, and the way her expression changed almost instantly from anticipation to pleasure when Santana's fingers found her warm, wet center.
But it was a risk that she just could not take.
"Oh." Brittany half smiled, unconvincingly. Not really wanting to press the issue any further right then though, she looked back up and met Santana's look with her own. "So it's not cause you think I'm ugly or anything, right?" she joked.
Thankful that Brittany had dropped the subject, Santana scoffed and leaned in to press her lips against the blonde's. "Christ, Britt. Have you looked in the mirror lately?" she remarked, rolling her eyes in mock sarcasm as she turned back over once again, reaching for the lamp switch.
A week or two later, Brittany confronted Santana again, this time with relationship concerns. "I mean, kissing is one thing, but… isn't this cheating, Santana? I can't cheat on Artie, he would be so hurt." Fear struck in Santana's chest as she frantically scrambled for an excuse and ended up blubbered out something about how messing around with other girls isn't cheating because "the plumbing is different." Relief swept over her when Brittany nodded her head in understanding, and then changed the subject.
It didn't take long before it all became too much. Santana missed Brittany every second that they weren't together. She couldn't stand Glee club anymore because more often than not, Brittany spent the majority of the time sitting on Artie's lap, giggling and kissing him in such a lovey, sickening way that it made Santana's stomach revolt. Nights were especially hard. Santana laid awake for hours on end, tossing and turning and wishing to no one in particular that Brittany was there with her, holding her in her arms, making her feel safe and loved. She closed her eyes and daydreamed of her beautiful blonde best friend laying next to her, pretending that the fingers tracing delicate patterns and letters across her skin were Brittany's, not her own. She cried herself to sleep nearly every night, desperately wishing the days would pass faster so that they could get to their weekend sleepovers, and wondering what Brittany was doing in those elusive moments.
And then the day finally came. "This is it," Santana whispered to herself as she looked in the mirror. This was the day. The day that she was going to tell Brittany the truth. The day that she was going to risk it all, her whole heart and all of her sanity, to be with the girl that she loves. She was sick of letting her pride swallow her chances of real happiness. Taking one last look in the full length mirror hanging on the back of her door, and a shot of the tequila she kept hidden under her bed for good luck, Santana took a deep breath and smiled despite herself. It was now or never.
It seemed to take the whole day for an opportunity to arise where she could talk to Brittany alone. But eventually Brittany broke herself away from Artie and went to her locker by herself, and Santana knew she had only a short time to say what she had to say. Her lungs felt tight and her hands shook uncontrollably, but she forced herself to walk down the hall. Her eyes scanned the scene, careful not to meet a single passing gaze. She felt like everyone was watching her, everyone knew what she was doing. In a voice that Santana was sure was low enough that no one but Brittany could hear, she delivered her speech. She could feel the tears rising and she hesitated briefly, but then she pushed herself to go on; it was too late to back away now. She poured all of her heart and her deepest fears to the girl standing in front of her. When she was finished, she was sure that she had done the right thing. She was sure that this was a risk that she was willing to take. She was sure that Brittany was worth it. She had spent weeks mentally preparing herself for Brittany to say yes, for them to take the first step, for the looks they were bound to get when people found out.
The problem was, however, Santana had not prepared herself at all for the alternative. To be turned down by Brittany for some four eyed loser in a wheelchair.
Of course I love you. I do.
I would totally be with you…
..if it weren't for Artie.
I love him, too.
..I can't break up with him…
It wouldn't be right, Santana.
Don't. I'm sorry…
Looking back now, everything from that point on is a blur.
Santana doesn't even remember walking away. Did she go to class? She thinks so. But she couldn't tell you which one or what went on. She doesn't remember driving home. As a matter of fact, the next thing she knew, she was in her bathroom, wild tears streaking her face, her body shaking as if she were standing outside in a snowstorm wearing nothing but a t-shirt. Her chest felt like it was caving in as she struggled for each breath, choking on her sobs. Gripping the edge of the white linoleum sink to keep herself from sinking to the floor, she blinked a few times to clear her vision, looked into the mess she had made in the sink and spotted what she was looking for. The way the light glistened off the sharpest edge, Santana could almost swear the little piece of metal was telling her it had missed her.
"Shut the fuck up," she growled under her breath, reaching down and sliding it up the sink bowl until it reached the brim and she could securely grip it between her fingers. "Don't make me think. That's not what you're for."
That sentence ended with a preposition.Her realization made her laugh suddenly. A pathetic, guttural laugh that tickled her throat and made her cough. How appropriate, Santana. Nice. With a smile that contravened what she was actually feeling inside, she stared down at the blade, turning it from side to side in her unsteady hand. Admiring the way the bathroom light made it gleam, she wondered to herself, how could something so small feel so heavy.
Santana stumbled back across the bathroom and turned the lock on the door, though she knew no one was home. She turned around and slid slowly down the wall until her butt hit the floor, knees bent in front of her. She let her right leg go lax and fall to the side, resting it so that she had full access to her inner thigh. As she lightly drug her left hand across her leg, scrunching her shorts up as far as they could go, she traced her old scars with her eyes, suddenly remembering how long it had actually been since the last time she had done this. Each smooth white line resembled a memory, each one held a meaning, each one brought back a painful recollection of self loathing and utter defeat. It had been Santana's way of dealing with emotional turmoil. She overrode mental anguish with physical destruction. While that might not make sense to most, to Santana it was the perfect escape. You have no say in who you fall for, who breaks your heart, who makes you feel bad about yourself, who damages you mentally. But this… these marks, these cuts. They were a whole different kind of pain. A pain that Santana could control.
When Santana was promoted to head Cheerio, she had stopped cutting out of fear that someone was going to look up at her at the top of the pyramid and discover her marks underneath her short skirt. She hadn't worried about it until then because she'd always been careful to do her work high enough that her skirt covered it. But now with people going to be seeing her from a new angle, it was just too nerve wracking to chance it.
Though Santana told herself that she had everything she could want now, there was still something she couldn't identify deep down inside of her, something hollow and empty that sat like a sack of rocks on her soul. It wasn't long before she sought out a new method of coping to replace the one that she'd deemed too risky: alcohol. She started hiding bottles under her bed and in her underwear drawer for days when she felt like she just couldn't handle being sober anymore. The alcohol burned her throat and made her gag, but when she started feeling tipsy, she knew it was worth it. She'd lie in bed and listen to music, her mind wandering far from reality, enabling her temporary escape. Alcohol became the solace that cutting once had been for her, and though she knew cutting dissociated her from reality better than tequila ever could, the burning liquid still helped considerably, and that was good enough for her.
Santana sucked in a sharp breath as she slid the blade across her tender skin. For as long as it had been, Santana was surprised to find that it was exactly how she remembered. Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed harder, feeling the trail of warm blood already starting to run down her leg. "Shit," she muttered as she realized it had run straight into her shorts, soaking the fabric. Without thinking, she wiped her palm across the trail of dark red, only making more of a mess. Deciding it was more trouble than it was worth and that her family owned a washing machine for a reason, she let it go and refocused her concentration on the task at hand.
It was Friday night and Santana had gone over Brittany's house after school, just like she did every Friday. They were 12 years old and had really only been having these weekly sleep-overs for the last two years at best, but Santana felt like she had been doing this for her entire life.
"Why was your sister crying, Britt? Is she okay?" Santana asked, worry clouding her face when Brittany came back into her room looking sad.
"Yeah, she's okay. Just sad, I guess." Brittany sat on the edge of the bed, looking at her feet. "She said her best friend keeps ditching her for her new boyfriend. It must hurt her feelings pretty bad, ya know?"
Santana frowned. "That really sucks, B."
"Yeah," Brittany replied quietly, still looking towards the floor, clearly thinking about something important. After a few seconds, she turned her head and looked up at Santana, tears brimming her eyes. "You promise you'll never do that to me, Santana? Promise you'll never ditch me when you get a boyfriend? I don't ever want to hurt like that."
The look on Brittany's face broke Santana's heart. "Britt," she sighed, reaching her hand out to her best friend. Brittany took it and Santana pulled her in closer. "I would never, ever ditch you for anyone, especially some stupid boy," she whispered honestly, wrapping her arms around Brittany's neck, hugging her for reassurance. Brittany sighed in obvious relief, wiping a tear on Santana's shoulder and sniffling.
"Thanks, Tana. You're the best." Wrapping her arms around Santana's waist and sending the reassurance back through a light squeeze, she added, "And the same goes for me. No boy will ever come between us. You're my best friend. You'll always come first. Promise."
"I know, B. I believe you," Santana laughed softly.
"Good. I love you, Santana. Don't forget that, okay?" Brittany pulled back from their embrace, meeting Santana's dark chocolate eyes with her own baby blue ones.
The sincerity on Brittany's face was more than enough for Santana to trust every word that she said. And she did. She trusted Brittany more than anyone else in the world, even more than her own parents. She didn't have to tell Santana any of these things; she already knew Brittany would never lie to her. She'd never make a promise she didn't intend to keep or tell her something that she didn't fully believe to be 100% true herself. Brittany was the most caring, selfless, trusting person that Santana had ever met, and she believed every word that she said.
"I won't. I love you, too."
Santana's hands shook less and less each time she dragged the cold metal through her skin. Each cut lifted a weight off of her heart, pushed Brittany's rejection a little farther out of her mind. It didn't take long before the pain stopped registering in her brain, and it was like she was outside of her own body, hovering over herself and watching through someone else's eyes.
When she finally let the blade slip from her grasp and fall to the floor, Santana just sat there stared numbly at what she had done. A slow stream of blood oozed from the wounds, trickling down her thigh and dripping into a pool on the floor. Santana felt nothing. She wasn't ashamed, she wasn't mad at herself, she wasn't mad at Brittany. She stared at her new cuts until they started to turn sticky and clot, knowing they would turn into scars someday, turn into new white lines of painful memory for her to look back at and torture herself with. But right now, she didn't care. They weren't a big deal. Just another notch to add to her belt of fuck-ups. All that mattered was that nothing hurt anymore.
The earlier ringing in her ears was now replaced by the soft sound of her heart beating in slow, steady thumps against her ear drums. Taking a deep breath, Santana closed her eyes and let her head fall back to rest against the wall. After all these years, Brittany had broken the promise that had always been so sacred to Santana. Not because she meant to, Santana told herself, defending Brittany like she always did, even to herself. But because she had simply forgotten.
And now, alone this night on the cold bathroom floor as she drifted in and out of consciousness, it was Santana who could finally forget.