Will this hour ever be over?
Santana was only half-listening to Mr. Schue's droning. Sectionals blahblahblah Journey blah nationals blahblahblah. Nothing new. He said the same thing practically every day—somebody really ought to tell him that his speeches lose their meaning if he lets one rip every time he opens his gob, Santana thought with a roll of her eyes.
As always, Brittany sat next to her. Every so often they exchanged knowing glances, silent agreements regarding Rachel Berry's infantile outfits, and how "New Directions" sounded entirely like something else depending on the context and who was saying it. Brittany's soft eyes met her own. She felt them searching for information, studying her.
Lately, Brittany had always seemed to be touching her. Sometimes there were excuses, but just as often there weren't. Linked pinkies were nothing new to them; now there was scarcely a moment where their hands were free. Massages after Cheerios practice and hair-braiding after school were becoming the rule rather than the exception. Santana would never admit that it was kind of nice, though she was sure something in her eyes was giving her away, otherwise her best friend would have stopped. And she didn't want that to happen.
The corner of Brittany's mouth curved. She looked away. Apparently her eyes found what they were searching for. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, she draped both of legs gracefully over Santana's lap, keeping unwavering eye contact with Mr. Schue as she did so. The feel of her skin snapped Santana back into reality; she was in the chorus room once again, wondering when the hell Schue would stop yammering. Had she been staring at Brittany?
She made a conscious effort to think about something else—anything else that didn't have to do with the incredibly lithe legs that were resting on top of her thighs.
It didn't work. She could feel their weight, their slight movement as Brittany fidgeted.
Santana peeked at Brittany only to find that she was still looking nonchalantly at Mr. Schue, seeming to take in every word he was saying. Her head nodded slightly. She couldn't figure out why this was working her up so much—clearly it had been too long since her and Puck had had a good rumble. How was nobody else noticing that the room was suddenly hotter?
For the first time in her life, Santana was thankful that Rachel Berry had something she wanted to say. With a clap of her hands, Berry stood to address the rest of the club. All eyes darted to her, many in anticipating annoyance.
"I just wanted to say that with the wonderful new additions of Quinn, Brittany, and Santana, we almost have the full number of members necessary to perform at Sectionals! I have high hopes for New Directions!" She finally paused, Santana was surprised she could get so many words out of a single breath of air. "Also, I would be honored if you would consider me as the primary candidate to sing a solo at Sectionals. I think you'll find that my years of tutored voice training have paid off. "
Santana wanted to throw something at her. Brittany looked at her with those eyes. Those eyes that said: San, don't do anything that'll get us kicked off.
She would settle for her trademark vicious words.
Before she even knew what she was doing, Santana picked herself slightly off of her seat, regretfully knocking Brittany's legs forward. An offended expression settled over her face, and she turned to Mr. Schue with a scowl.
"Okay, I don't know about the rest of these losers," her hand motioned around the room, intentionally skipping over Brittany, "but I'm not about to harmonize in the background for Susan Boyle over there." She threw a nasty glance over her shoulder at Rachel, and crossed her arms in indignation.
It seemed like Mr. Schue didn't quite know how he should deal with Santana's outburst; his face contorted in agonized discomfort as he searched for words. "Well, that's okay Santana, we still have a month to think about it."
Santana faltered, realizing she had basically just let a room full of people know she cared about glee club, or at least cared enough to not want Berry hogging all the solos. She saw Quinn quirk an eyebrow at her and Mercedes nod her head in determined agreement. Keeping her arms crossed as a defensive barrier, Santana sat back down, only bothering to look at Brittany. Like always, her eyes said it all.
I told you glee wouldn't be so bad.
…
She had to find Puck.
The two of them had been distant ever since the event at his party, and although Santana could hold grudges like it was her job, she knew it was in her best interest to let this one slide. Yesterday she caught herself zoning out while looking at Brittany's legs- and she had zoned out, she wasn't staring intentionally or anything—and just earlier something similar had happened again.
She wasn't that way.
Which was why she needed Puck—she needed something warm beneath her, something to make that persistent heat go away.
Luckily, he wasn't so hard to spot. His mohawk sailed above the ocean of students like a shark fin gliding through the water; people had the tendency to move out of Puck's path, hoping to avoid any trouble—he was notorious for his temper and reputation. However, nobody wanted to miss any drama or hall-fights either, so he usually had a small entourage of badboys and gossip-seekers trailing behind him, ready to get in on any action.
Unfortunately for Santana, today one of those people was Jacob Ben Israel.
Suddenly, she was looking down through the lens of an expensive-looking video camera that was crowding her face; a microphone was nearly shoved down her throat.
"Santana Lopez! What do you have to say about the rumor that you joined Glee Club? Does this make us fellow social lepers?" His voice was eager and shrill, and his breath smelled like rancid meat as it congealed near her face.
She shoved him backwards against a locker, eyes narrowed in annoyance. She wanted to slap his face off, to see his features slide painfully off of his head and create a repulsive puddle on the floor. Something she could stomp on. Santana knew she was backed into a corner—not answering him would fuel even more rumors, which was something she obviously did not desire. No, she had to answer; staying silent was not an option. She could see Puck watching everything with amusement, ready to pummel Jacob if given the word.
Santana's hands rested confidently on her hips—a stance she inherited from her mother—as she set things straight.
"First of all, Jewfro, come near me with that thing again and you'll wake up one day and find you're missing several vital organs. Me oyes?"
He gulped.
"Good. It's true I joined Glee Club, but everyone knows I'm too popular for it to actually matter. I'm still dating the hottest guy in school." At that, Puck strolled over to her and aimed a predatory grin in Jacob's direction.
"Hey baby," he whispered in her ear. His hand brushed against her clothed breasts, not caring that they were being filmed.
Santana smiled into the video camera, as if her point had been made—and it had been. It didn't take long for Jacob's interest to dwindle. Santana heard him mutter something about Puck being lucky before seeing him skulk off—her attention was elsewhere at the moment.
Puck ran a finger up her neck, eventually using it to prop her chin up. The crowd began to dissipate.
"So," she eyed him with dramatized desire, "I was looking for you. Free tonight?" More of a demand than a question.
"Maybe. Depends what you have in mind." Santana smiled inwardly at his response; he could be kind of cute sometimes. She knew he was only trying to play it cool; there was no way he could ever say no to her. He was powerless to do so.
"I think you know." Her tongue dipped slightly out of her mouth, sliding across where her lips met. She was met with an encouraging grin. Something about it bothered her. Or maybe it was just her.
"I'll come by later."
Hearing her own voice distressed her; something lurking in it sounded eerily like defeat.
…
Brittany walked her bike over to the motocross track and worried her lower lip. She couldn't see Santana anywhere. Santana always came to Thursday practice so they could study for math class afterward.
She tried to focus on her teammates and listen to the safety instructions—she always listened, in case they changed, though they never did—but her eyes danced along the horizon, where she could see the two-lane road and the tall train station in the distance. She couldn't see Santana's dark car or her dark hair.
On the course, her mind hummed like the bike between her legs. She tried not to articulate her concern—what if Santana didn't come? What if she was angry about—what happened?
What had happened?
She felt like she was about to fall off her bike at the turns, the way her insides shifted around when she leaned in, but her body brought her smoothly upright for the thousandth time. Sometimes she almost wished her body could fail her sometimes; wished that fear in the pit of her stomach would finally connect with the dirt, with the concrete, with anything.
That clenching panic always stuck with her afterward. Pushing up along her ribs. Clogging her throat.
Santana.
As she rounded the last turn, she could see a dark ponytail and a flash of red and white. A grin peeled across her lips and she forced her fingers white-knuckled around the handlebars to keep steady. She finished her lap and rode past the line, all the way across the grass. She pulled up only a few feet away from Santana.
"San?"
She tucked her helmet under her arm and studied Santana with a frown. She'd never seen the expression Santana was wearing; it was as if she had taken a random selection of feelings and stitched them all together into something Brittany couldn't recognize. She thought she saw fear, and maybe pain, but mostly something that squinted up her dark eyes and seemed to pinch at her throat so that she had to keep swallowing. It looked like she was full of something she couldn't pour out.
"Hey, Britt," she said, and her smile was strange. "Sorry I was late." She offered Brittany a full water bottle and curled her fingers gently around the helmet.
Brittany smiled gently as they traded. Santana's face was settling into something more familiar—but only slowly. Brittany tried to coax it out. "Thanks," she replied, keeping her voice bright. "How'd I do?"
Santana's eyes flickered over her face. Searching. "What do you mean, Britt-Britt? You finished first." Her tone was guarded. It was obvious Brittany did well.
Brittany just shrugged and walked her bike toward the club shed. "I left my backpack," she realized aloud halfway there, but Santana just smiled at her and held up Brittany's black and pink bag. Brittany smiled back. Bashful. "Oh. Thanks."
"Yeah." Santana was giving her that strange look again. Brittany could swear Santana's eyes jumped down to her lips for a second. It was too quick to be sure. Santana slung Brittany's bag over one shoulder and nodded toward the parking lot. "Let's get going."
Brittany wondered if the strange look—the patchwork of worry and feeling—was going to keep coming back. She wondered if she would ever get to know what it meant.
She wished Santana would tell her.