Dahlia
(My recommendation, by the way, is to listen to Kiss Me by Ed Sheeran while you read, since that's what I listened to as I wrote.)
I look at Santana, so terrified in front of me, her uniform soaked in blood. Her hands dipped in red... The metallic scent of blood in the air sends chills. "Santana," I whisper, worry that I don't understand yet flooding into my heart. I reach out and hold her upper arms with my two hands on either side. She cringes.
I take my hands away and Santana shifts slightly. Just below her neck, where her uniform is a little torn, I can a glimpse of blue. Bruises peek out from where my hands slowly move the stiff, starchy fabric of her uniform aside.
How am I supposed to save you if I don't know what's going on with you?
"Sab?"
He looks over from where he's lying on the ground next to me. Yes, we're both just staring at the sky. This is genuinely an exercise. He says it's to appreciate being a part of this world. You have to love what you're going to save, Red, he tells me almost every day. Open your heart to that.
And he doesn't mind questions. Which is nice, because I've never had someone who could provide even one answer. Anything that would push along angeldom education, he explains patiently.
"Yes, Red?" He likes to call me "Red" at every available occasion.
"Why am I a dahlia? Why not a rose or a lily?" I mean, there needs to be some logic in that.
Sab doesn't answer right away. Instead, he seems to mull over the question. His words come out slowly, "There was an angel who walked in the light, like we do. That angel's name was Procel. Have you heard of him?"
"No, I don't think so." I rack my brains for such a name and don't find any recollection. I watch the clouds move along. Sab has been teaching me how to fly, and he says we need to learn from the clouds. They are ethereal and fleeting, like we are. Watch the clouds, Red, because they are our mirrors, Sab says. Leave it to him to give cryptic answers. It is helpful, though, all his tips on flying. Like using clouds to hide behind as we soar or banking so hard in one direction that we fly in the other direction. Small things that matter.
Right now, the clouds drift lazily along the clear open skies. Our morning lessons always start like this: leaning back into the Earth, watching the heavens light up.
"Procel," he continues. "Procel was a great leader of angels, when we used to be more of guardians of the realm rather than guides. And mind you, this was before my time."
"Oh, god, so this was pretty much the beginning of time," I joke but he doesn't laugh.
"Yes, sometime around then," he replies simply. Okay, I was kidding but that's cool, too. "Procel was one who helped create emotions in humans."
"Wait, what? Someone made emotions?" I look over in disbelief at Sab, who is tracing the clouds' movements with a finger.
"It's rather difficult to explain, Red," he calmly responds. "You're going to have to pick one question at a time."
"Okay, um, go on with the story, which has yet to do anything with what I asked," I reply, reconsidering what my first question was. Why dahlia, right.
"Procel helped create hope. Hope is a beautiful creation that he helped shape into existence. You would love it. Maybe when you join us after this life, I'll show you," Sab continues like I never interrupted. "But you know how we use light to battle the dark? There is a yin to a yang, Red, so Procel grappled with another emotion that contrasted hope: despair."
Suddenly, the sun warming our faces is not enough to appease the chills I feel. I know despair, I have been touched by the Fallen long enough to understand the drowning feeling, the downward spiral of hopelessness. It was the ceaseless pounding waves of darkness, powerful and damning.
"He walked between the light and dark as he worked with hope and despair, both beautiful in its own way. Hope was this lit-up creation, dazzling with white spires and pillars of light. Despair was like that, just dark instead of light. Both had an elegant beauty, Red," his voice is laced with respect and awe.
"Procel fell to deeply into the creation, letting the despair flood. Procel was one of the first to become a Fallen," Sab lets his arms drop to his side and closed his eyes. This is the next part of our exercise, the quiet absorption of our surroundings. I need to focus when I try to take in the world but Sab could multi-task angelhood and humanity easily. He continues, "But Procel had a partner-in-creation, Sienel. They worked closely as they meticulously balanced the light and dark in their work. When Procel fell, Sienel's wings turned red just like yours as Sienel committed to a new purpose. Sienel vowed to bring Procel back someday."
He pauses.
"Sienel did bring Procel back to the light. We call you a Red Dahlia because it is a symbolic name of love, commitment, and elegance. Sienel was committed, Procel was elegant in his work, and well, together, they were love," Sab concludes.
Oh, partners... "Sienel was his lover?"
I hear Sab's knowing smile in his voice, "Red, you continue to limit yourself to the thinking of humans. Gender is a social construct."
"What do you mean?" He never ceases to challenge my understanding of the world. As a result, I only have more questions. Thank goodness he doesn't mind...
"Have you ever found yourself missing someone you never had?"
"Often.." I answer cautiously. I always felt it, that there was something missing in my life.
"We used to be whole beings, Red," Sab explains quietly. "But we were purposeless and meandered. The universe broke us into halves and sent us out into the world, humans and angels alike. Now, we always carry this feeling until we found our other half."
"What if we never find another half?"
"We are puzzle pieces, Red. There will always be an almost piece. Almost perfect, almost fitting. It won't make us whole but it will be enough," he answers. "Sienel was Procel's perfect piece and Procel was Sienel's. We are only puzzle pieces, not genders and races. Love is with a person, not with a gender. I know it seems natural to think that men and women are very different and biologically speaking, you would be correct. But there are things that have nothing to do with your gender that humans think are determined by their gender. I like the color red but that doesn't make me more of a man or more of a woman. Love is... at its essence, genderless. Do you understand now?"
"More than you realize," I answer, thinking of Santana.
"So it is because of Sienel and Procel, Sienel as the first red-winged, their love as a symbol of elegance and commitment, that we call you Dahlia, a flower of exactly that. A flower the represents elegance, loyalty, dignity."
I like that. It makes more sense now. I'm clumsy and really, just trying to figure out how I play in all this. But I come from a place of love, elegance, and loyalty, just like a dahlia. Of course, then I ask another question, "Why are my wings red then?"
His wings shake as his body shakes with a chuckle. Tufts of white feather float around, catching the breeze that brushes the grass on the field. Sab chuckles, "You have many questions, Red."
I protest, "Well, it's not like I can Google this."
"We're not sure exactly why," Sab tries to answer. "Personally, I believe it is the blood of those we lost, Red. Our Fallen brothers and sisters, all those that we need to save, you are carrying that burden, their blood, in your wings." I shudder at the thought but Sab's next words reassure me a little: "Sienel's wings turned white when Procel was saved."
I think about this. Perhaps, there is something to what Sab's speculations.
"Rendered speechless for a change, Red?" Sab grins, getting up. "Well, meditation is over, anyway. It's time for Divinity."
"You know, I'm going to say this once and forever deny it if you ever mention it in public," Santana starts as she sweeps into the seat next to me in Advanced English. Everyone else buzzes around us, getting in as much conversation as they can before the bell rings. Santana scoots her chair closer to mine and lowers her voice: "I think we're going to have to rewatch that movie."
I grin, "It's okay if you loooooove musicals, Santana Lopez."
She puts on a stoic face and turns to the front of class, "I can neither confirm nor deny what you speak of, Quinn Fabray." She turns just so slightly and winks.
"But you know what I do admit," she challenges me, a playful glare in her eyes that made everyone else irrelevant.
"What?"
"I can think of a few things that I do love," she drag her gaze up and down my body once. Is she flirting with me? My jaw drops a little open at her not-so-subtleness, just as the bell rings. She flips her hair as she sweeps into her chair.
Mr. Briggs likes to interrogate us since we seem to be the only two can answer his questions without paying attention in class. Oddly, high school teachers seem to wield too much power...
I look at Santana, who has a careful balance of boredom and indifference on her face, still stoic but no longer joking. My eyes drag down her figure clad in her Cheerio uniform. I know we're wearing the exact same uniform but somehow, she pulls it off so much better than I do. I don't know how I'm going to save her or from what but the thought of her bleeding, a bloodied uniform over that body, makes my heart thud. I want to reach out, pull her into a hug, and hold on. If I held on, maybe nothing would happen. I won't ever see her bleed out or the terror-struck expression in her eyes. Maybe-
I didn't expect her to turn, which is why I feel heat rush into my cheeks when Santana catches me staring at her. Granted, she was daydreaming just moments before. I didn't know she would snap out of it so suddenly.
She smirks and tosses a folded paper, just as Briggs turns around to write on the whiteboard.
Enjoying your view, Q? Her loopy handwriting, half-print, half-cursive, makes me feel like I know her that much better. This is something so entirely her. And this girl. Good god. I can feel myself blushing.
Oh, yeah, I mean, Bradley is lookin' pretty cute. I toss the paper back at her and watch her pout as she reads the words and glances over. I perk an eyebrow in the direction of Bradley, an art student who is a little too hipster for my taste but I know is popular across all the literature and drama students. She sticks out a tongue at me adorably as she throws it back, the square paper landing perfectly in front of me.
Don't degrade yourself. You can do better than that. Okay, I'll admit it. I feel giddy when I read her words.
Santana watches me from the corner of her eye as I place the eraser end of my pencil on my lower lip, trying to think of a good response and-
The air around me is slowly thinning like we're climbing up to Mount Everest. The world, edged by the promise of a blackout, slowly fades...
"It's hard, isn't it, Quinn Fabray?" A voice hisses across the landscape of my mind. The voice is cold, enough cruelty to possibly kill all the puppies in the world at once. The voice sounds composed but angry, a bitterness permanently set into its tone. "You never asked for this burden. You just want to enjoy your life, right?"
I'm choking, gasping for air. My hands clutch at my chest, clawing at my skin like I can rip into my own lungs. The despair, the misery, jealousy, anger, melancholy, they are all so overwhelming. Each miserable feeling rips through my heart, leaving behind layers of scars. The emotions tumble just below diaphragm, making me wish I can vomit it out, hurl it aside and away from me.
"You can just give in," the voice slyly whispers. "We would take care of you. You don't have to do this."
My head is pounding, my heart is beating hard enough to break through my ribcage. I'm screaming, screaming, screaming but no one can hear me under this cloak of darkness. The uninvited presence slides across my consciousness like a wet, unwelcome kiss.
"You will see, Quinn Fabray," the voice fades away.
My pencil is on the floor, my hands on my chest. I feel panicked, my heart still thudding, my palms cold with sweat. It's like being dipped in agony and then deep-fried in misery. My breath comes out in hard huffs, drinking in as much as oxygen, as I realize...
...the whole class is staring at me.
Lovely.
"Ms. Fabray?" Mr. Briggs is staring at me. "Are you alright?" His eyes are wide; clearly, he doesn't want a dead student in his class. Understandable.
"Yes, I- uh-," I stammer. I look at Santana, who is looking at me with a hint of terror mixed in the obvious concern on her face.
She stands up and turns to face Mr. Briggs, "I think she needs a moment. I'm going to take her to outside," she calmly directs, pulling her backpack over her shoulders. I don't even know when she already packed to leave. For the sake of courtesy, she adds, "If that's okay with you."
Nothing about her tone is asking permission and everyone in the class knew it. Mr. Briggs accepts it, though, and nods, his hand holding onto a book like it was his life raft. Santana gathers my notebook and pens, slings my bag over her shoulder, and looks at me expectantly. The class silently watches.
Oh, I realize she's waiting for me. I get up, hands still over my chest. She leads the way out and I follow.
The door closes behind us with a note of finality. Santana doesn't stop walking, though. She holds onto my things as she leads the way, only pausing to hold doors open for me. Dread is still coursing through my veins, hands still shaking. As soon as we step outside the school building, I breathe in the fresh air. The smell of grass reaches us before we even step onto the football field, a damp scent of dew and soil. Santana walks to the middle of the field and drops both our bags.
"You look like you needed air," she turns and looks at me. Santana walks up to me and places her hands on my shoulders. Her eyes look... so earnest. "Are you okay?"
I nod. "I just- the class- you're right. It was just overwhelming for a second and I needed some air."
Santana looks unconvinced, pursing her lips doubtfully. She takes her hands off my shoulders and instead, takes my hands in hers. "You're not... dying or anything, are you?" I want to laugh but she looks so serious.
Instead, I smile, "No, I'm not dying, I promise."
"Okay, good," she breathes a sigh of relief. The way she looks at me, I can tell she wants to ask about it but instead, she seats herself on the grass and explains, "I didn't feel like being cooped up inside anyway. School always feels like a bird cage, all these things you can and can't do." She brushes away my incident in a way that doesn't make me feel like a freak; she makes me feel at home with myself, something even Judy or Noah has accomplished.
Since I was young, I knew I was different, whether I liked it or not. But something about Santana, the way she looks at me with admiration or something I can't quite recognize, makes me feel like it's okay to be in my own skin, visions and all.
Oh, sweetie, I know what you mean about being caged and cooped up, I resonate with her.I'm literally a bird in a cage. Or you know, something with wings at least. I sit next to her, carefully trying to examine her as I do. I think of the bruises I see in my vision, although they're not any part of her body I can see right now.
"Santana," I turn to face her and reach for her hands. I look down, letting my fingers weave and unweave as I try to put together my words. "You know if you needed anything, I'm here for you, right?"
She laughs, "Yeah, I know, Q. Why?"
Blood and bruises, blood and bruises, I think. I look up at her, holding tightly as I lose myself in the depth of her eyes. They have a particular sparkle, one that invites me in, lets me be myself. "Because if you ever needed me, I'd want to be there for you. You always look out for me and I should be looking out for you." Crap, did I say too much? I quickly try to redeem myself. "Because you matter. To me, at least."
She looks back at me, her eyebrows furrowing just slightly as she considers my words. She places her hands on either side of her crossed legs, and presses down, shifting closer to me. The world silences just barely, the more serene quiet blanketing us like we were the last ones alive in the world. We could be, for all I care. All I feel is the moist grass under our bare legs and the keen awareness about the universe slowly shifting, destinies aligning. She grapples with something silently, for a moment longer and...
Last time, I was helplessly drawn to her like she was the magnetic tug on my heart.
Last time, I was surprised by my own actions.
Last time, I kissed her.
But this time.
This time, she moves closer, but like she chooses me. There is no helplessness in her actions, only the decisive confidence she always carries in her body.
This time, she surprises me, leaning into my lips firmly with all the freedom and choice in the world, the taste of spearmint lingering in my mouth.
This time, she kisses me.
Last time, I thought she wanted me.
This time, I know she does.
"Stop grinning like that," Noah scolds from the driver's seat. He's taking me home for a change. I know we can both fly or run home faster than some car but people have a way of looking at you strangely after that. Instead, we take turns, especially because I love being able to put my feet up on the dashboard, drumming my hands against my thighs to the music that Noah always lets me pick. He always protests against my music but I've heard him hum the songs for days after; he's not one to complain. "You look like you're high or something."
I can't stop, even though my cheeks hurt from my grin. "I look awesome, always, Noah Puckerman," I retort, still smiling widely.
"What is your deal?" He sounds incredulous. "You've been non-stop grinning. Doesn't that hurt?"
"Oh, hardly, my dear friend," I fling my arms around his neck, as he swats at them and tries to hold onto the wheel. "It's just been one of those days."
"Okay, okay, crazy," Noah grins at the sight of my glee. "Is it something with Sab? Are you guys getting on, instead of lessons?" He winks.
"Gross, no, he's practically a relic for the angel museum, Noah." Sab is friendly and sarcasm is really suiting his humor but he is as distant from me as any other teacher. As good-looking as he is, he has the sexual appeal of a brick wall.
"Is it that English class you keep acing without trying? 'Cause I'm going to need some help, friend," he smiles with a mischievous glare, an inviting smile that woos any other girl on campus. Of course, I'm already captivated by another smile.
"Not English class, but classmate," I smile to myself, remembering the press of her lips, the lingering scent of Santana, so uniquely her with her spearmint gum and whatever shampoo she uses, the lotion on her skin. When I look over, I read a grimace on his face. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he replies curtly.
I sigh, "Noah, you can't keep pushing me out whenever you feel like it. Talk to me."
He shrugs, "You guys seem to be getting mighty close is all."
"I'm trying but it's just complicated," I try to explain.
"I know what you mean," he vaguely responds.
Do you? His words make me realize we haven't talked about his purpose in awhile, mostly because he doesn't like to talk about it much anymore. Instead, he likes to hear about what Sab taught me and small lessons in Divinity here and there. I mean, we are using his field; it's the least I can do. I prod further, "Have you been getting any further on figuring out your purpose?"
He shrugs, "It's not a big deal." I look at him, incredulous. This boy, who once bothered me for weeks about what is a purpose, how does it work, when do you know, and all other details possible, just declared that this purpose is "not a big deal". More than that, I know that I can feel my purpose in every splinter of my bone, every drop of blood in veins; it is as important to me as the oxygen I breathe.
"Puckerman, what is wrong with you? Are you sick?" I press the back of my hand on his forehead, making him laugh and push my hand away.
"I'm just saying," he relents to my prying. "Maybe things don't always work out like in our visions."
Santana covered in blood…. Yeah, it would be really nice if I never saw that but I'm not banking Santana's life on that uncertainty. I know, with every inch of my body, that I'm here for her and she's going to change the world someday.
Noah pulls into my driveway, shifting gears into park as he turns to me. I smile at him and reach out for a hug. My arms wrap tightly around him, my hands rubbing his back comfortingly. "Noah, I know it's confusing when you don't know how it's going to work out," I reassure as I speak into his shoulder. He sighs, his whole body shifting weight against me. "And it's hard to talk about what you don't know but I'm here if you need, Noah, and things will work out. Whatever you're seeing or saying, it's going to be okay. That's why we're here."
Warm, bubbly, reassured, hopeful, confident, aware. That's how I feel right now, like the sun isn't just shining on me but shining through me, from me. I'm spinning with the world, completely a part of its gravity. Every consciousness touches mine but doesn't overwhelm me; instead, they brush against mine as they meander through with their lives. All the creatures, each blade of grass, every critter in the ground. I let go of my boundaries and let the world rush in.
At some point, hours later I'm sure, I close myself up again, becoming an individual apart from this world. It's quiet in my mind, and a little lonely with the sudden absence.
"That's really great, Red," Sab exclaims, just as I open my eyes, applauding. "How is it, being a part of this world?"
"Uplifting," I recount, trying to shake off the wisps of Divinity coursing through my veins. If someone split my skin open, I'm sure light would spill out. "It's not even just flying, it's like being the wind. It's being part of the air that touches everything."
Sab smiles, "That is what it is." He pauses. "Are you ready to wield it?"
"Excuse me? You do realize this is just warm, fuzzy light," I laugh with disbelief, my palms still glowing. I hold out my palms to show it. "It's not going to do much."
"You think it's only light, Red, but it's not." He steps closer to me within arms-length. He places his palm right over my temple, gentle over the cut that's stitching together. "Watch."
A light peeks out from under his palm and into my eyes, only an inch or less away. My eyes widen, as I feel the ripped ridges reach for each other. I feel my skin come together, weaving shut like nothing was ever wrong.
Sab is grinning when he steps back, inspecting his handiwork.
"Okay, I will admit it," I say as I touch my temple. "That's really amazing."
"And watch this," Sab steps back near me again and places a hand over my sternum. "You're going to want your wings out for this," he grins. I do, bracing myself for whatever he's about to do. "Let the wind catch you."
Let the wind what? I barely get out the "huh?" when he blasts a force straight against my chest, my arms and wings flailing as they try to grab onto the wind rushing away from me. My wings flash out in a single sweep and slow my stumbling body, the heels of my feet dragging along the grass until I reach the end of the football field-sized area we're practicing in.
"Light's not so warm and fuzzy now, huh?" Sab has something close to a smirk on his face as I stabilize my stance and find the ground beneath my feet again. "It's a rush of opposing force. You need to understand that there is power in that."
I nod, "I believe you, trust me."
"Okay, good, because that's how you're going to repel the Fallen, physically and mentally," he explains, settling into a cross-legged seat on the grass. I place myself in front of him, mimicking his style. "The explanation is rather complicated, Red. The Fallen wield an absence, a void. That's how they recruit, when one is vulnerable to giving up the little hope and love they have in their lives. Have you ever felt despair?" I nod. "It's a downward spiral, right? This feeling that feeds on itself until you're deep in the ground, in your own grave. That's when a Fallen can best persuade you, that misery loves company so you should join them," he tries his best to enlighten me.
"So," I chew my words slowly. "This light is supposed to be that opposing force?"
"Think of it like this: they are emptying a cup, or in this case, your soul and heart. We are trying to fill it. They are drains, we are fountains. That blast of light is the fountain from which we pour light, encouragement, faith, hope, love."
"Hey, you," I call out my window, slowing down my car beside a bronze body sprinting her heart out, earphones blasting so loudly that even I can hear her music. "Really, you're actually running to the soundtrack of Phantom of the Opera?"
She catches a glimpse of me, calling out to her from my car window, and after a double-take, her feet stutters to a stop. Santana's eyes widen with surprise, like I caught her when she least expected me. I like that look on you, I decide, musing over how vulnerable she looked for a moment. "Hey," she pants, pulling the earphones from her ears. "Where- are you- coming- from?"
In that moment, it strikes me that I'm lying to her by omission. I wonder how much easier it would be to be close to her if she just knew about me, about my struggles, about why I'm here for her, about why I feel this pull towards her. I shrug, "Just a drive."
"Oh."
"You want to come over for dinner? Granted, I'm not cooking but I will have you know, I am really, really good at calling that take-out place," I wink, while silently willing her to say yes.
She thinks for a moment and grins, "It's a good thing I ran if we're eating take-out then." Smooth as oil, she slips in through the open window on the passenger side, not even bothering with the door. I never quite appreciated how toned her legs were, small dips where her muscles were firmly set.
"Stop staring and drive, Q," Santana teases, letting her playful smile light up her whole face.
"Right," I turn my head back to the road, my hand shifting gears to drive. Santana reaches out and rests her hand over mine for the rest of the ride, still holding the shift.
"Tell me something," I say to Santana, rolling over onto my back, content with a belly full of Thai food. We ate take-out ravenously, me hungry from Divinity and Santana hungry from her run, and groaned as we rolled onto my bed. Our foos settles heavily in our stomachs, leaving me with a drowsy lack of inhibition.
"Like what?"
"I don't know," I wave my hand vaguely. "Anything. Just tell me something," I murmur, rolling to my side, only inches from her. Brave in my dream-like drowsiness, I collect her hands into mine and bring them close to my body like I'm clutching onto a teddy bear. Our fingers intertwine, two pairs of hands clasped at my chest.
Through my heavy lids, I see Santana smile softly, a certain look of tenderness that I've never seen grace her face before. Maybe I'm just imagining it but she let me hold them.
"When I was twelve, I really wanted rollerblades. I begged my mom for them for so many days, I can't even remember how long I begged but she always said no," Santana looks past me, looking into her own memory playing behind me. "No, Santana, you'll get hurt," she mimics in a stern voice that makes a giggle bubble up my throat. "But Brittany got a pair for her birthday and she let me try them, even though she had bigger feet so they were a little bit big on me."
"And how was it?" I can just imagine twelve-year-old Santana putting on those rollerblades, already a touch of defiance in her eyes, clenched jaw.
"I fell before I even made it a block," she laughs. "I sped into a bump and flew a good ten feet before I landed on my side. I broke my right wrist and elbow at the same time. Brittany was screaming, fumbling for my phone from my pocket. She called my dad, who drove straight over from the hospital. He came, sat on the pavement next to me, and fixed it. Wrapped it, put it in a sling, and picked me up. He carried me to the car and bought me ice cream."
She smiles, "He didn't scold me once that whole time. He used to let me make my own mistakes, my own decisions."
I blink open my eyes, seeing Santana in this light. She is someone's little girl, someone that needed to be taken care of, an image she works so hard to fight against at school; instead, she walks the halls with all the confidence of a tiger, precise and smooth in every movement. But right now, Santana curls up around our pile of hands, recollecting the vulnerability of that moment.
And it's one word that strikes me hard. "Used to?" I pause, trying to not pry but unable to stop myself. "What about now?"
She clears her throat, "He died." Her voice breaks just a little bit, a thin film of tears in her eyes. "Three years ago, car crash."
She's… so sad, I realize. Santana isn't alone but she feels lonely. At the sound of her heartbreak, I let go of her hands. She looks up at the sudden release but I reach out my arms and gather her curled body close to my own. Santana buries her face into the space right below my collarbone. I perch my chin on top of her head, holding her until her quiet hiccuping gulps of air dwindles into deep, long breaths. I press my lips against her hair before I fall slowly into slumber and in love.
A/N: Okay, this is probably the fastest update I did for this story but nonetheless, hope you all have been well since the last time I updated. I edited less than I normally do, mostly because I wanted to just put this out there so if you do catch a mistake, let me know; I'll definitely update (I'm thinking of you, boringsiot).
Let me know what you think, you amazing readers. I send you all a virtual hug.
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Always, C.