Chapter Five

"You know something I've noticed?"

It surprises me when Santana says that. I glance up from my history textbook to see her sitting with her back against the headboard, a tablet cradled in her knees. The glow from the screen reflects off her face, and her eyes are downcast. Her fingers skim the screen gently, almost without thought. I don't know why, but something in her tone of voice makes me pause.

"What's that?"

Santana takes a breath and holds it, and then slowly her eyes meet mine over her knees. I'm sitting across from her on the bed, and her feet are a few inches from mine.

"I can't remember everything."

It hits me like a slow but powerful wave. It steals the breath out of me, and my lungs struggle against the sudden vacuum. Faintly, a ringing whines in my ears, high and quiet. I'm stunned, and I feel frozen. Santana's eyes are large and dark, and they scan my face, as if trying to take everything in.

"I can remember funny things. Little things." Santana is being careful, as if she's afraid something about what she'll say next is going to shatter me. Part of me knows how ridiculous that is – that she's even remotely worried about me, when it's her that is missing pieces. "Like I remember what you wore the first time I saw you at Atherton." A smile picks at her lips, gently. "I remember the way your hair looked when we fell in the mud. But," Santana's breath hitches, now, and her face is concerned. "I don't remember the first time we kissed. I know.. I know that it happened." Her eyes glaze over, slightly unfocused, as if she's trying to uncover the memory. "I can remember – other times. So there must have been a first time. Right?"

I know I shouldn't, but I laugh. "You were drunk. It wouldn't surprise me if you didn't really remember it before the accident."

"Oh." Santana looks relieved, and then suddenly embarrassed. "Why did you kiss me when I was drunk? Taking advantage of me?"

"I don't really know." I laugh. "I probably shouldn't have. You had just gotten done puking."

"Oh, gross," Santana's face wrinkles. She picks her thumbnail down the edge of her tablet. "Poor judgment there, Q,"

I feel relieved for two reasons. First, because – well, Santana isn't losing her memory. And secondly, because we're actually talking about things like kissing. I let out a breath that I wasn't sure I was holding, and then I scoot along the bed until I'm sitting beside her, my back resting against the headboard. Santana shifts and then lays her head on my shoulder. I catch the scent of her shampoo and it reminds me of flowers and the way the air smelled in the late autumn at Atherton. She weaves her left hand into my right, squeezing our fingers together.

"We're going to be all right, aren't we, Quinn?"

Santana's voice is soft and hesitant. I'm not used to hearing her sound like that. It makes my throat ache, and I have to swallow before I can say anything.

"Yes, Santana."

"Yo! Milf!"

Puck's voice cuts through the milling bodies, and for some reason it feels like something physical grasping me, holding me in place. I grind my teeth together and wait. The other students pass by me, threading through the hallways, and I sigh against the sound of lockers clattering shut, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum, doors swinging open. Puck's hand touches my elbow and it makes me tense, but his palms are soft and a little cold. He tugs me towards the side of the hallway, away from the rush of people.

"What do you want, Puckerman?" I'm tired today. We have finals coming up, and all of the extracurriculars are winding up for their end-of-the-year activities – for glee that means nationals. It would mean nationals for the Cheerios, too, but they lost during their regionals. It was kind of hard to see all the girls upset like that, especially some of the ones I used to be somewhat close to. But I can't say I regret the decision not to reinstall myself there. Brittany isn't on the squad anymore, either, and it would be just too weird to do it without her and Santana.

"I was thinking now that Lopez is awake, we could still get our siesta on," Puck smells like a combination of chives and sour body. He faces me next to the lockers and I take time to study his face, eyes narrowed. He starts to get that nervous, hand-in-the-cookie jar expression that he always had whenever we were – well, I'll use the term dating extremely loosely – and I caught him flirting with an underclassmen.

"It's fiesta, you moron," I roll my eyes. "And I know you were at a kegger just last week. Something about sorority girls?"

I can't explain why looking at Puck makes me so angry. Maybe he just brings back pregnancy flashes. Has anyone ever been diagnosed with PTSD from getting pregnant? If it were possible, I think I could be; and Puck is like one giant trigger for me.

"Hey, don't go spreading that," Puck flashes defensively. He glances around in the jittery manner he has that always makes me feel like he would rather be somewhere else. "That's just a rumor."

I would roll my eyes again, but honestly, it isn't worth the effort. "Sure, Puck. Whatever you say." I resist the urge to run my hand through my hair, because that would just ruin all the time I spent styling it this morning.

"Look, I just think you and your girl need to unwind." Puck shrugs against the weight of his backpack slung over one shoulder.

It sends a strange zing through my body that Puck referred to Santana as my girl. I'm sure he doesn't mean anything by it – but it's still an odd feeling. "I'm a little bit concerned by how determined you are to get me drunk."

Puck scoffs. "Don't be like that, baby mama. You know that the Puckster has been tamed."

I grimace at him. "How in the world did I ever let you convince me to have sex with you?"

Puck's head whips around when he hears someone else calling his name. "Just think about it!"

I watch as he dodges through the line of students, heading towards someone – maybe Finn – on the opposite side. I don't have long to think about it, though, because Mercedes comes up beside me just then and hooks her arm through mine.

"Is he bothering you again?" Mercedes' smile is big and it makes me smile back at her.

"Not really." I shrug and allow her to lead me down the hallway, towards my chemistry class. "I'm beyond being able to be bothered by him."

Mercedes grins, like I said something clever, and then she angles her head. "Well, I think it's his approach that's the problem."

"What do you mean?" I'm a little wary of the tone she's taking. Usually Mercedes doesn't try to play coy.

"I just think.." Mercedes pauses, and I can tell by the look on her face that she feels a little guilty. "The boy has a point, okay?"

My eyebrows shoot up. "I never thought I'd hear you say that about him."

Mercedes laughs and pats my arm with her free hand. "Me either. But when he's right, he's right." She levels an even look at me. "Maybe you should try to have a little fun. It wouldn't kill you to hang out with all your friends and not look like you're being tortured."

"Are you sure?"

Mercedes just laughs, shakes loose, and turns down a different hallway as they split. "Think about it, Quinn!"

I skip glee club that day, mostly to save myself the pang of watching Rachel act crazy. I mean, I guess I've been doing that for the majority of the last two years, but it gets a little bit intense when you have the words "Rachel" and "New York" in the same sentence.

I decided to be innovative and pick up something to eat on the way to Santana's house. She's been better about withholding the Hispanic food, but sometimes I feel guilty that it's always her feeding me. Ironically, the only thing that sounds good to me is Taco Bell. I shrug it away and order tacos through the drive-thru. I don't bother to call Santana for two reasons; firstly, I know her order, and secondly, she'd give me some kind of lecture about how I'm trying to fatten her up.

I notice right away that Mrs. Lopez's car is absent from Santana's driveway. It's odd because she almost never leaves the house. Well, maybe it's a good thing.

We don't talk about it, but I know Santana wants her parents to get back together. She took their separation a lot harder than I could have anticipated she would. Santana has always been very close-mouthed about her family, so the little things I get come in trickles that I'm not even sure she realizes she's divulging. In some ways, Santana and I had very similar lives, in that our parents are successful and largely absent (my mother's been a stay at home wife my entire life, but that doesn't make her any less absent than Santana's, who works – worked – constantly). I at least had my sister to keep me company, but Santana grew up alone.

That's not entirely true – I know she had Brittany. But can a friend really replace family? I know that in a lot of ways, Brittany was family for her (along with people like Danika and the mysterious Viola). But that doesn't change the fact that Brittany has a sister of her own, and parents, and I know that Santana must have been an incredibly lonely child. It makes my heart ache to think about it, so I push it aside as I open her front door and make my way up her stairs. The house has that eerily quiet, empty quality that houses have when the parents aren't home.

I brush my knuckles against Santana's door briefly, and then push it open without pause. She's sitting in the center of her bed with her phone pressed to her ear, and she smiles at me when she sees me. The reaction on her face is instant, and it sends warmth through me. Late afternoon sunlight streams through her black lace curtains, leaving the room gloomy with errant rays of sunshine patterning the carpet. I set my purse and backpack down on the floor next to the door, and then settle in on the edge of her mattress.

Santana takes the plastic cup from my hand and makes a face at it after taking a sip. I just smile at her and pull out her burritos from inside the sack.

"No, I totally get it," Santana says, and unwraps one of the burritos. She cradles the phone between her shoulder and ear and rips into a packet of the hot sauce. The smell stings my nose and I just pop the top on the nacho cheese container, dipping my taco into it. "Yeah. It's fine. I'll see you then."

"Who was that?" I ask, bemused, as Santana douses her entire burrito in hot sauce. She takes a bite and swallows before answering.

"Puck." Her eyes dip in my direction, almost playfully, as she squirts even more of the sauce along the edge of the rolled-up burrito. "He wants to have a party this weekend before they go to New York."

"And?" I ask carefully, watching her face.

"We're having one." She flashes me a grin, and without asking, pulls the small container of liquid cheese out of my hand. She dips her burrito in it, and I sigh a little forlornly at the streaks of red it leaves behind.

"Hmm." I take another bite, using the palm of my hand to catch the lettuce that tries to fall. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"It's the best idea."

I guess she can tell that I'm less than enthusiastic about it, because her face warps into a scowl the next instant. "What's got your panties in a twist?"

"Nothing." I finish my taco and Santana doesn't bother waiting until I'm done chewing to grab the last of my queso. "Puck's been bugging me about a party for weeks now. I'm tired of hearing about it."

"Well." Santana is oblivious to the fact that I'm watching in mild horror as she stirs hot sauce in with the cheese, and then dunks her burrito in it. "The good news is, we can have it here, because my mom has to go to some business meeting or something. So we don't have to worry about driving."

"Santana." I pull myself away from focusing on the orange mess in that plastic cup. "I don't think you should be drinking."

"Why not?"

I stare at her, trying to decide if she's serious. Her blank, slightly defensive look tells me that she is. "Um, maybe because you suffered a massive brain injury?"

"Oh, can it, Quinn," She shrugs dismissively, and takes another drink out of my cup, even though we both know she doesn't like Pepsi. "I'll be fine."

"Ugh, Santana," I take the cup away from her, silently lamenting the fact that it's probably going to taste like hot sauce and beans now. "Ask your dad about it."

"Oh, right," Santana snorts. "That's a great idea. 'Hey, Papi, you think it's a good idea if I get a little bit wasted this weekend?'"

It never ceases to amuse me the way she puts on a faux-Mexican accent when she mocks speaking to one of her parents.

"I'm serious." I crumple up the taco and burrito wrappers, and shove them inside the Taco Bell sack. "It might not be safe."

"God, you're so boring, Q," Santana smirks, stretching out on her bed, resting on her elbows. "I'm tired of being safe."

I don't have time to think up a response to that, because she's grinning at me like she has a secret that she just can't keep.

"I already invited everyone, anyway,"

"How is that even possible?" I frown. "You just got off the phone with Puck."

"Shh, Q, don't question me."

I sigh and settle down against her pillows. I know arguing with her is a lost cause. She's going to do whatever she wants, regardless of what I have to say about it. And part of me does feel a little bit guilty – Santana has been cooped up in this house for weeks now. Sometimes people come by and visit, but there's only so much fun to be had in her bedroom.

For some reason, it hits me that Santana said she invited everyone. I look over at her abruptly, and she's texting on her phone.

"Did you invite Brittany?"

She glances up, a little sharply, her eyes sweeping my face. It takes her a moment to respond, and then it's just a nod, with the tip of her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

I can feel anxiety growing beneath my ribcage, a bundle of nerves and adrenaline. Santana is watching me, now, her phone forgotten. We look at each other, the light in the room slowly fading, and I can tell Santana is waiting for me to say something.

"I think there's something I should tell you about Brittany," I start, hesitant, and I can see that it has an alarming effect on her. She tenses, her whole body going still, while the look in her eyes sharpens. We don't talk about Brittany, as a general rule – not even when Brittany's here, or I know that it's Brittany she's texting when we lie in bed together.

"What?"

Her voice is carefully neutral, but it feels hard and clipped.

"Well, the thing is," I don't stop myself from running my hand through my hair this time. "We kissed."

Santana inhales, and then her eyes go unfocused. She doesn't move, but I can see her fingers curling into her palms, making fists.

"Why the fuck would you do that?"

I wince, because I wasn't expecting the force of her words. They aren't loud, but they're low and dangerous, and it makes something inside of me recoil.

"She was drunk." I try not to shrug, even though my shoulders are tense and uncomfortable. I can tell by the way Santana's lips are pressed together that she's trying to process. "It was just one time."

"Once?" Santana breathes. "How was it?"

"Bad." I say it instantly, because it really was a bad kiss and all it does is hurt me to remember. It hurts to remember the way Brittany looked at me right before she started crying, and I know now that that image is going to be overlaid in my mind by the look on Santana's face at this moment. It's a mixture of anger and pain and things I can't interpret.

"I don't believe you," Santana says, her eyes narrowing. "Brittany is a good kisser."

I absorb the words as I would a physical blow, and even though they sting, I accept them. Santana is, in a way, trading hurt for hurt – part of me realizes that. I try not to react, at least not in a way that would give Santana satisfaction, or a reason to become irate. "I know," I pause, fighting around the ache in my chest. "But it wasn't something I enjoyed."

Santana watches me, as if trying to discern if I'm being honest. A moment passes between us, and I feel like I can't breathe; it isn't until she shifts, breaking the spell, that I exhale.

"No big deal." Santana says it so nonchalantly that it seems forced. She sits up and tugs her knees to her chest, runs a finger along the edge of her toe. "Will you paint my toenails?"

Santana's complete shift in attitude hurts almost more than it would if she had blown up and started screaming. It's hard to see her like this, so close and yet so distant. I don't know what I want. I want to pull her close to me, and hold her there, even though I know it would feel like touching the sun.

"Yeah," I breathe out quietly, and clear my throat. "What color do you want?"

"Red." Santana answers, without looking at me.

The rest of the week passes with a kind of tense silence between us. For once, Santana doesn't object when I pick up my backpack and go home at the end of the night. Instead she sets her jaw and doesn't look at me as I leave. It feels strange to sleep in my own bed, and not have her mumbling and murmuring against me in the night. I think it makes my mother happy, though. She seems surprised every time I walk in the door, offering me a wide-eyed looks, but the next morning she's awake and handing me bagels on the way out. I feel a pang of guilt for staying away so much, because I know she misses me. But we don't talk about it. We don't talk about anything.

Friday comes and I think I'm prepared for the little party Santana decided to throw. I have half a mind to skip it, just because of the weirdness between us and because, really, the combination of us and the glee club plus liquor just seems like a bad idea. All the different times I've drank with Santana flash through my mind, including that unfortunate episode at the bar in Morrow and the night that Santana spent getting wasted on tequila in our dorm room. All of it points to this being an abysmal mistake, but as much as I want to avoid it, I just can't.

Rachel is buzzing with enthusiasm about it, because she believes it will create a sense of camaraderie among the glee club. Most of the rest of them are just amped about alcohol and a chance to unwind, and because Santana has a pool. It's too cold to swim in my opinion, but the rest of these nutcases don't agree with me.

"Now, Quinn, are you certain that Santana's parents don't mind if we stay the night?" Rachel comes up beside me, falling in step with me as I walk towards my car in the school parking lot. I huff in a breath, but at least she isn't wasting my time like Puck likes to do. I just nod, jiggling my keys in my palm. The air is crisp and bright, and all the trees of Lima are so green it almost hurts to look at them. It's a reminder that summer is only a few weeks away, and that soon cloying, moist heat will cling to everything, withering the leaves and grass into a dead brown.

"Good." Rachel's smile is bright to the point of being spastic. I never realized how often she shows her teeth before. "Do you think Santana minds if Kurt comes along, and brings his beau?"

I frown at her, squinting against the sunlight. "I don't know, Rachel. Ask her."

Rachel's smile falters, but only slightly. "I thought you would know—"

I sigh, this time letting some of my annoyance seep to the surface. "I'm sure she doesn't care."

"Great!" Rachel gives me one last grin, and then she finally leaves. I watch her cross the asphalt to her car and hop inside.

On the way to Santana's house, I'm trying to wrap my brain around the idea of a drunk Rachel Berry. I'm sure it's happened before, but I never paid much attention to it. I decide that it will be something worth seeing tonight.

Santana is sitting in front of her vanity when I walk into her room, carefully applying lip gloss. I smile at her, even though her back is to me, because it's such a normal, everyday thing – even though I don't think she's put on makeup in the last month. It brings back memories of cheer camp, sleep overs, homecoming dances and glee club prep.

"You look pretty."

I didn't realize it was going to come out sounding like some starstruck bumpkin, but the way Santana flashes a pleased smile at me in the reflection of her mirror eases the awkwardness of it a bit.

"Thanks." Santana pops the lid of the lip gloss back on and uses the pad of her index finger to soften the glisten. She's still wearing sweatpants and a tank top, but her hair has obviously been styled. I run my fingers along the tips of it.

"You need a haircut."

Santana smiles at me again. "So do you. Maybe we'll go together tomorrow."

It makes me indescribably happy to know that Santana has snapped out of the moody funk she's been in, but it's also encouraging to hear her talk about wanting to leave the house. I haven't pushed her about it, but I know she has to have a mad case of cabin fever. I do, and I have the luxury of leaving.

"I think I'm going to let it grow out." I haven't actually decided to keep my hair short. I didn't think about it while Santana was out, and I only notice how much it's grown because she brings it up.

"It's weird for me, sometimes," Santana says with a soft half smile. "Some days, I wake up and forget that it isn't still December. Then I see you and your long hair and I feel like Sleeping Beauty after her date with the spinning wheel."

I don't quite know how to respond to that. Santana keeps smiling, but she looks a little vulnerable while doing it. I just squeeze her shoulder.

"Help me pick out something to wear."

A few hours later, Santana is ready. She badgered me into changing out of the jeans and shirt I wore to school, and I feel pretty ridiculous wearing her clothes.

"You look good, Q, stop fidgeting," Santana comments from the side. She can see me pulling at the hem of the slick tight dress, tugging it downwards.

Santana is admiring herself in the full length mirror tacked to the back of her door. She's wearing a different variation of a slick tight dress, in a shimmery red.

"You're going to feel stupid about this when one of the boys gets a wild hair and flings us into your pool."

Santana pauses, as if considering this potential, and then nods once. "That's okay. This dress isn't designer."

I roll my eyes, but Santana plows on, oblivious. "Besides, the pool hasn't been uncovered yet. It's probably icky and green and gross."

I laugh, shaking my head. "Think that'll stop them?"

"Eugh," Santana's face wrinkles, and at that moment, the doorbell rings.

Santana smiles at me, and she disappears into her closet, searching for heels. I just sigh and walk down the stairs, still barefoot. I tug Santana's door open with one hand, and use the other hand to yank the dress down further.

"Whoa! Lookin' good, hot mama!" Mercedes grins and pushes past the doorframe. She's holding two six packs, one in each hand, and gestures with them as she passes through. Puck follows close behind her, with Lauren, and Rachel and Finn bring up the rear.

"Damn, Fabray," Puck says, his eyebrows lowering.

"Hey, fuck off, Puckerman," Santana calls from the top of the stairs. All eyes shift towards her, and I can feel everyone in the room take a collective breath. I smirk, glancing towards Finn, who covers his crotch uncomfortably, and even Rachel's mouth has dropped a bit.

Santana works her way down the stairs and I can tell she knows every bit of how good she looks. She grins big, and winks at me when our eyes catch. I chuckle because it's so typically Santana. She loves being the center of attention. This time she definitely deserves it.

Another round of knocks has me pulling the door open, and Brittany, Kurt and Blaine step inside. I nod in greeting to Blaine, and am surprised by the friendly arm Kurt throws around my neck. I pat it, a perturbed, but he moves on quickly enough. The next instant the living room has erupted in chatter, the daze everyone was in because of Santana forgotten. Puck has a case of beer propped on his shoulder, and Kurt has a bottle wrapped in a paper sack.

"How did you get alcohol, ladyface?" Santana asks with a quirked eyebrow.

Kurt smiles, lifting it like Vana White displaying a consolation prize. "I have my ways."

"I feel overdressed," Brittany says with a small smile. For the first time I take in that she's wearing a powder blue bikini top and cutoff jean shorts.

"That's okay," Puck says suggestively. "Just means you'll have less to take off later."

"Don't be a pig, Puckerman," Rachel says with a scowl.

"Where's Artie?" Finn asks, glancing around.

"He's coming, with Mike and Tina," Brittany says.

"Okay, well, let's take this out on the deck." Santana uses her hands in a circular motion, herding them towards the back of the house.

I come up behind them and close the door leading out of the house. It's still warm, even though the sun is low in the sky. I can tell by the way the air smells that it will turn nippy before the night ends. I immediately regret my bare arms and legs.

"You look good, Q," Santana comes out of nowhere, and I can feel her breath whisper against the back of my neck. I suck in air, freezing, and I can almost sense her smile. "So stop fidgeting."

I turn my head and give her a nervous smile, and she looks pleased as a cat in cream with my obvious discomfort. She runs a hand down my side, fingertips against my ribcage, and it makes me shiver. I watch as she wanders over to Puck, who is struggling to fit an iPod onto a dock connected to an outdoor surround system. She smiles up at him in the breezy, flirtatious way she has, and it makes him smirk down at her.

Before long, between the two of them, they manage to get the system working, and Pink starts thumping out of the speakers.

"Here, Quinn,"

I turn to see Brittany offering me a bottle of something. Her smile is quick and light, and I accept the bottle out of reflex. It's only passingly cold, and the glass sweats profusely against my palm. It's slippery and hard to grasp, and I struggle with trying to pop the cap off.

Brittany's hand steadies mine, and she uses her other one to twist the lid. It's one quick, hard motion and she grins at me as she tosses the bottle cap aside. I take a sip of the liquid and grimace because it's bitter. "Thanks."

Brittany nods, and when I look up, I see Santana watching us from the other side of the deck. Her expression is hard to read, because of the distance, but she doesn't look happy.

I'm relieved to hear the doorbell ringing, so I can escape the uncomfortable position I have between Brittany's easygoing smile and Santana's glare.

The doorbell rings again, impatiently, and I sigh under my breath. "Okay, jeeze," I mutter, even though nobody can hear me.

I'm expecting Mike and Tina when I wrench the door open, but instead, I see Sam. He's tall and his yellow hair is shaggy, falling across his forehead and flipping out over his ears. He smiles at me when he sees me, and for his credit, his eyes stay on my face. "Hey, Quinn!"

"Hello yourself." I step back and gesture for him to come in. I forgot all about Sam.

I glance outside and see Mike's van pulling up, so I decide to wait. I turn back towards Sam, who is watching me with a wide grin. "Everyone else is outside. Out back." I nod in that direction.

"It's okay, I'll wait."

I don't know what to make of Sam. He's a new kid, so I don't spend any time with him regularly. Everyone seems to like him – except Finn, which is neither here nor there to me. He's tried to start up conversations with me in the past, but I never had the presence of mind to pay attention to it. Now, though, by the dopey way he's looking at me and his willingness to hover, I'm starting to think that all those not-so-subtle hints Mercedes dropped about him had to do with something he might have said to her.

"Hey." I wave a little bit as Tina, Mike and Artie approach. I can't help but laugh at Artie wearing swim trunks and a wifebeater. "You look nice, Tina!"

She does, in a skirt and a blouse. She smiles at me, and the pair of them reach down and grab Artie's wheelchair, lifting in tandem. It surprises me that Tina is so strong, but she doesn't even struggle with the weight of it, pulling it up the short steps of Santana's porch. She pushes Artie through the door, and I close it finally behind Mike.

Mike and Sam trade high fives, and their dorkiness amuses me. I catch Artie staring at me, and when he notices, he adjusts his glasses and blinks owlishly behind them. I just shake my head and lead them towards the back of the house and out onto the deck.

The music is loud, but not overwhelming. Right now there's a Coldplay song on, and Rachel is laughing and dancing with Blaine. Lauren looks to be in a deep discussion with Kurt, sitting on the steps, and Santana and Puck are arguing. Sam waves a hello and makes his way over to where the beer is piled against the edge of the deck. Brittany sits on the deck railing, her legs swinging freely in the air. Artie wheels himself over to her, and Mike and Tina go to talk to Mercedes.

I sigh, and settle myself down onto a lawn chair. I lost track of my sweaty beer bottle, but that's okay. I don't intend to drink much. I'd rather keep a level head and do damage control, since it's obvious – from her volume and how she keeps interjecting Spanish into her conversation – that Santana won't be doing it.

It's going to be a long night.

Somehow, as the sun fades from the sky, the level of the music goes up, and everyone else seems to blur at the edges. They laugh too much, and loudly, and more than one impromptu karaoke session has broken out in the midst of dancing. It's a far cry from the parties full of beer pong and body shots that the cheerleaders and football players throw, but still, it's fun to watch. I love these goons, even when they're doing something stupid – like Mike trying to walk along the edge of the deck wall, one foot in front of the other, his body wobbling from inner vertigo. I only caught the end of it, but he toppled over the edge, falling onto the grass. Everybody thought this was hilarious, except Rachel, who shouted hysterically at him about spraining his ankle and ruining their chances at nationals.

Mike, from the ground below, hopped up, no worse for the wear, except for the grass stains on his shirt. He isn't limping now, but that could be the alcohol in him. We probably won't know until tomorrow. But he's dancing fine – he and Brittany are having fun entertaining everyone else.

Santana goaded Puck and Mike into igniting the fire pit located on the far side of the deck, though I'm not precisely sure what exactly they chose to burn. Santana is tipsy, but not drunk yet. I can tell because she hasn't started crying at any point.

Because I'm not saying much, nobody really notices me. I get a chance to watch them in plain sight from my seat in the lawn chair. Rachel gets drunk quick – like she's new to drinking. She's cute, slurring her words and launching herself from one person to the next, singing their praises as she goes. Mercedes and Lauren are talking animatedly from the corner, and I can see Puck watching them with a hungry look. Artie and Sam are having some kind of strange discussion about a video game – I think Mario Brothers – and Tina, Mike, and Brittany are dancing together. I have to double take because in the dim, flickering light, it looks like Brittany and Tina might have kissed. I can't say for sure, though, and nobody else seems to notice, so I let it go.

Even though I know it's a long shot, I'm praying that nobody gets too drunk and nobody has sex with anyone inappropriate. I don't know where Kurt and Blaine have gone off to, but I try not to think about that. I'm more worried about Brittany becoming the center of an Asian sandwich and how awkward that might be tomorrow, in a sober light. I'm doing a mental head count – made difficult by the way Rachel keeps changing directions, so I sometimes count her twice. I go through the entire group a few times before I realize I have no idea where Finn and Santana are.

That notion makes everything inside of me go cold, like a bucket of ice water slammed against my face. I stand up slowly, hoping to not attract anyone else, but there's no luck in that. Sam sees me out of the corner of his eye and tries to wave me over, but I shake my head. Rachel stumbles against me, hooking a hand around my shoulders. "Hiii, Quinn!"

She smells like fruity liquor, like the wine coolers that always make me think of Puck. Her eyes are too bright, and her smile is too big. "Hey, Rachel."

"Are you having fun?" Rachel sounds very concerned, and her face is close to mine. "You don't look like you're having fun. Here! Have a drink!"

Rachel thrusts an empty bottle at me, and it makes me laugh. "Stop, Rachel. I'm fine. Have you seen Santana?"

"Nope!" Rachel's attention shifts, and she flings herself away from me, towards the circle of dancers. I watch as she attaches herself to Brittany, and I notice immediately the difference in the way their bodies fit together. It isn't the same kind of closeness Rachel had with me a moment before, or the various shades of it she's had with the others throughout the night. Rachel's arms weave around Brittany's neck, and Brittany's twist around her waist, fusing them together. I glance around, paranoid for their sakes – but nobody else is paying attention.

I scan the group one more time, and this time I notice Puck is missing. That, more than the absence of Finn and Santana, riles me. I take the steps down into Santana's yard, where it's dark and quiet. The sounds of the party feel far removed, and I watch the ground as I pick my way around the side of Santana's house. I'm wary of things that might be creeping in the shadows, like spiders or snakes.

I take a few steps and round some bushes, and I hear the strangling, wet sounds of someone getting sick. I pick up my pace, rounding the corner, and stop short at the sight of Finn doubled up, heaving.

"Finn? You okay?"

"Ugh," Finn groans, and shakes his head weakly. I try not to laugh, but I can't help the chuckle that squeezes out of me.

"Have you seen Santana?"

Finn shakes his head again, and then promptly vomits on the grass.

I pat the small of his back as I pass by him, and I begin trotting the perimeter of the house. There's nobody else out here, and I come back full circle to where the party is. I climb up the steps of the deck and sigh when I notice more people missing – Mercedes, Brittany, Rachel, and Sam. I'm quickly beginning to realize that this is almost out of control. Santana's back door is cracked open, and I can see the faint glow of lights inside.

I push myself inside. I can tell someone less than sober has been through here, because the chairs to the dining room table are all askew. I'm only vaguely familiar with the lower level of Santana's house, since I spend most of my time upstairs in her room. My first instinct is to go up and check to see if she's there, but I hear a muffled thud coming from somewhere to my left. Warily, I poke my head into a hallway, and see the thin crack of light coming from beneath a closed door.

"Santana?" I'm not exactly whispering, but I'm apprehensive. I don't know what's going on in there – but a dozen scenarios flash through my brain. The most vivid is the image of Santana wrapped up in Puck, or worse, Brittany. Then brief glimpses of what Kurt and Blaine might be doing dart around, and I close my eyes, forcing them aside. Tentatively, I wrap my fingers around the doorknob, and then, with a quick movement, I push the door open.

"Oh!"

I'm not precisely shocked at the sight of Brittany straddling Rachel on a day bed, but it wasn't one of the things I considered. Rachel sees me over Brittany's shoulder and her eyes go wide, but I quickly close the door behind me. "Sorry!" I whisper, though I doubt either one of them can hear me.

Well, at least that means Santana isn't with Brittany somewhere. I don't know if I'm relieved or disturbed by that idea. What is going on? How did this happen?

I can't think about it now. I have to find Santana. I'm more worried, now, that she's with Puck or Sam. I suppose there's a chance she could be with Mercedes somewhere, but I find it unlikely. Probably Mercedes is raiding the fridge in the kitchen or passed out on the couch.

I check both of those places on my way through Santana's house, but they're deserted. I glance up the stairs, to see if there's any sign of life, but nothing. I have no choice but to go back outside.

The group is more subdued, and Sam and Mercedes have reappeared. I don't question their disheveled appearance or the way they glance at each other shyly over the fire pit. Instead, I say, "Have you seen Santana?"

Mercedes shakes her head, and Sam shrugs. Artie is asleep in his wheelchair, his glasses crooked on his nose, hand clasped loosely around a bottle. I tug it out of his grasp and set it down, so it won't spill all over him while he sleeps.

"If you guys get tired, go inside and sleep."

Mike and Tina are making out. I don't know where Lauren is.

I decide to go check on Finn again, just because I can't think of anything else to do. I have no idea where Santana might have gone, and it's a little bit alarming to me now. I know she vanished before Puck did, so there's a chance they aren't together. But I have a sinking suspicion that this is not the case.

I cross the place where Finn's vomit is congealing in the grass, and there's no sign of him. I sigh, because every moment that Santana is missing, I feel more and more hopeless that this is going to turn out badly for me. For us.

I circle to the front of the house, again, and find Finn asleep on the front porch. I'm too tired and frustrated to bother with moving him. I figure I'll send someone – Sam, maybe, or Mike – to move him later.

When I round the final corner that leads to the west side of Santana's house, I know, like a rock dropping in my gut, that Santana and Puck are meshed together against Santana's vinyl siding. I can't make them out clearly, but something inside of me just knows it. I pause, letting it sink in, and take a few more steps, drawing closer. In the darkness I can see Puck's mohawk bobbing, and Santana's thin, bony hand pressed against the small of his back.

It takes a moment to process, even though this has been my deepest fear since Santana disappeared. I can't make heads or tails of the emotions crashing through me, like a stampede; first the shock, chased by the sharp sting of pain. Quick on the heels of that is grief, an immediate sense of loss – but all of that, all of it, is swallowed up by rage.

I can't – I can't even articulate the way it slams into me, white hot, like acid or boiling water. It makes the blood roar in my ears and my fingertips tingle; it surges through me, quick and venomous.

"No! I'm not watching you do this to yourself anymore!" I don't even realize I'm doing it, but a second later and I'm on Puck – I grab him by the shoulder and yank. He stumbles back, off balance, and he yelps when my palm connects with the back of his neck. "And you!" I don't even know what I'm doing. I push at him and he falls back a few feet. "Don't you have a girlfriend, Puckerman? Jesus Christ!"

"Hey!" Puck yelps again, immediately rubbing the back of his head. "Stop!"

"Quinn," Santana blinks slowly, but I can't pay attention to her. I know it isn't fair – it isn't Puck's fault – but there he is, ruining my life again. I want to punch him. I'm not a violent person, and I want to beat him until he can't stand anymore.

I'm on the brink of launching myself at him again when he shakes his head, both of his hands coming up to shield himself. "Nah, man, you're crazy. I'm out."

He stumbles around a thicket and back into the backyard, and I round on Santana, fuming.

"Are you fucking serious, Santana? It could have been anyone but him!" I don't realize it, but I know I'm shouting at her. She has a soft, open expression on her face; she looks on the brink of tears. But I don't care! All I care about is how it feels like my insides are caving in, like something is trying to claw itself out of my ribcage; I can't decide if it's fury or sorrow. "Anyone! I would rather see you fuck Brittany or Tina or Rachel than Noah Puckerman!"

Santana starts to cry, her face dissolving in on itself. For once, I'm not moved by the sight of her tears. I still want to break something. I want to find Puck and skewer him.

"No! You don't get to do that! You don't get to cry!" I reach up and angrily push the tears off of her face. "You don't get to feel sorry for yourself!"

"I don't want anyone else, okay?" Santana chokes out. It surprises me, because I had thought she was beyond speech. "I want to be with you, Quinn!"

"Then why!" I know my voice is high pitched and incredulous. I keep my hand pressed to her cheek, and I see her dark, wet eyes searching mine. I can feel her breath against my hand and the heat from alcohol rising on her skin.

"I saw you talking to Brittany! And to Sam!" Santana sobs, and fat, wet tears squeeze out of her eyes. "I just – it hurt!"

The sad, desperate way she says that cuts through me like a knife. It makes tears well in the back of my throat, squeezing it shut. I can feel the hot moisture behind my eyelids and I have to swallow, blinking it away. "Santana, you are such a fucking idiot,"

"I-I know." Santana heaves against me, and I feel the tentative tips of her fingers pulling against my hips. She tugs, gently but insistently, until the space between us is minimal. "Please." Her breath is hot against my face, and it smells like a combination of tears and beer and the lingering, sour scent of Puck. "Kiss me."

I rest my forehead against hers and suck in a breath. Santana looks stricken, her eyes watery and deep.

"This isn't how I wanted to do this," I murmur against her.

Santana shakes her head, squeezing her eyes closed, refuting my words. "Please."

I sweep my thumb along the soft curve of her cheekbone, and then angle my head and touch my lips to hers.

Santana's hands tighten in the material of my dress, and the moment hangs between us. I can feel my heartbeat in my lips, and then, faintly, I can feel hers, too, pulsing in a rapid staccato. Santana exhales hard through her nose, and the next instant her mouth is open, her tongue pushing against my lips. I let her slide it against them for a moment before I open and let her in.

It's hot and slick, and the taste is jarring and bitter; but underneath the sourness of alcohol is the faint, intrinsic taste of her – and I try to focus on that, instead of the foreign flavor that must be part of Puck. I slide my hand from her face to her hair, and tighten my grip, pulling her close. Her tongue slips against mine, drawing it out, coaxing me deeper into the kiss. I let my tongue dance into her mouth, and I can feel her breath hitch and catch.

It ignites something in me, something that had been kindling so low I forgot it was there. A tightness low in my belly, a tugging from my breastbone to beneath my navel. As if she can sense it, Santana pulls me even closer, until our hips bump together and I can feel her thighs against my legs. Santana groans, quietly, and I can feel the vibrations against my lips and tongue.

I break away from the kiss, and I can tell Santana sees me better now; the dampness is gone, replaced by a sharpness, a narrow-eyed hunger. She rocks against my hips, insistent, and I bite my lip.

"Let's go," Santana whispers.

I let her lead me around to the front of the house, up the porch, over Finn's slumped body. We pass through her dark living room and creep up the stairs, quietly, and I notice that Santana is missing a high heel.

Santana's room is dark, and I stop her from turning the lights on. Instead I sit her on her bed. Through the gloom I can see her watching me. I reach behind her and peel the zipper to her dress down, revealing the bony expanse of her back as it goes. Santana stands up, sluggishly, and lets me slide the dress down her body, pooling at the floor.

She sits back down and watches as I do the same, pulling the dress up over my head. I drop it to the side, and I watch Santana's eyes follow its descent. Quickly, before she can find my face again, I push her down against the bed, scooting us until we lay in the center of the mattress. Santana's hand grips low on my back, tracing the elastic of my underwear, and I watch her face as I slide my hand beneath her, seeking out the clasp of her bra. It gives away, easily, and she shifts, allowing me to draw it from her.

Before Santana – before the kisses and the caresses, the nights spent whining and panting against each other – I used to think that two women making love is one of the highest forms of narcissism. What else could it be, to want to worship a body so like your own?

But looking at her now, laid out beneath me, and thinking back on all the times I've seen her, naked and sweating, I realize that I was wrong. Santana and I are so different. Her skin, even after months of bedrest, is a shaded caramel; mine is like buttermilk. Her hair is dark ringlets against the bedspread, where mine is straight and pale. Stretched out, I can count her ribs and see the muscles taut beneath her skin, and even the divots of her collarbones are different than mine. I lean down to kiss Santana, and this time it tastes more like her, more like my memory of her; it seems right.

I support myself on my elbows, each on either side of her head, and her palms run restlessly down the expanse of my back. I kiss along her jaw, beneath her ear, and I taste sweat there. Santana gasps, arching, when I take her lobe into my mouth and suck gently. I can feel her heartbeat, and my own throbs in response.

I never imagined that just touching her would have this kind of an effect on me. I never thought – before Santana – that I could ever feel like this. Like everything is on fire, intense and raw; like my nerves are on the topside of my skin, instead of underneath it.

I kiss my way down, pressing my lips against her neck and then her shoulder, and slick my tongue against the sharp angle of her collarbone. Santana presses her fingers against me, hard, digging into the skin. She rocks her hips against me, like hurry up, but I want to take my time. I kiss above her heart, once, twice, and then I'm tasting the inside curve of her breast, and she's strangling breaths in her throat. One hand sweeps up against my shoulder, holding tight, as I breathe over the peak of her nipple. Here, too, we're different – Santana's are small and dark, a dusky bronze color, and mine are wide and pallid, a shy pink.

She moans deep in her throat when I lick over one and then the other, and more desperately when I take it into my mouth. I feel her rolling against me as I suck, using my teeth, and she grasps me hard, at the hip and shoulder, as if paralyzed between wanting to hold me in place and push me away.

I shift my weight and use my hand to squeeze over her other breast, pinching the nipple, and now Santana's heels dig into the bed and her back arches, hard, squeaking the mattress springs.

"Fuck, Q," Santana pants, and for the first time I feel the sharp bite of her fingernails. "Fuck. Please. Quinn."

I don't let her hurry me. I take my time, sampling the inches of her skin that I'd failed to memorize before – because I had thought, foolishly, there would always be more time for it. Our lovemaking is almost always hard, and fierce, and fast; I want it slow, this time. I want to watch her eyelashes flutter against her cheekbones, watch her shake as she comes undone. I know that this won't be the first time I do that – but it will be the first time I try to commit it to memory, because I know, now, that there is no guarantee of tomorrow.

Santana shudders when I kiss underneath her breast, and then along a rib, one hand holding her steady, sliding against her torso. She grunts when she feels my teeth against her stomach, nipping, and she pushes me lower. Tiny whimpers escape the back of her throat, pleading, and she shifts her hips upwards.

I taste the skin of Santana's hipbone, and I use a hand to pick at the seam of her underwear. Impatiently, she slides herself up and uses one of her own hands to shove the other side down, in one violent, jerky motion. I smile up at her and draw them the rest of the way down, over her knees. She kicks them off impatiently.

I can smell her, now; a hot, pungent scent. Her legs fall apart, and Santana reaches for my shoulder again, pushing. I just smile as I kiss her thigh.

I can feel the rhythm of Santana's body and how badly she wants me. It makes my head swim and I feel dizzy – almost drunk on the knowledge. She moans, arching again, when I slide my tongue along the crevice between her leg and pelvis, so close to where she wants it. I see her ribs expanding, pushing air in and out, while her free hand bunches against the blanket.

Finally, I kiss the place where Santana is the hottest, and she shudders. I work my lips against it, and she writhes, her hips thrusting into my mouth. I search with my tongue, delving through her wetness, and when I find what I'm looking for, Santana's breath catches in her chest; her nails bite down, and she wheezes out thin, strangled moans.

It isn't anything like I expected. It's better. It isn't like kissing - it's more than kissing; it's like touching the very center of Santana, the part of that I've been looking for this whole time. I can feel her muscles bunch and coil, and her body becomes more restless and frantic, wriggling and shifting.

Santana's breath gasps out of her as I slide two fingers in, and she moans, ramming herself onto me. I go more quickly, now, and when I feel her insides begin to tug, I thrust, hard. I lift my head and slide up the length of her body, and I slam into her so forcefully her body jolts with it. She grips at me, one hand winding in my hair, the other at my shoulder, still, and I watch her as it rolls over her like a tidal wave. Her eyes are screwed tight and her forehead wrinkles. For an instant it almost looks like she's on the brink of crying again, but she gasps, her hips rolling, and her expression changes.

I can feel her insides squeezing my fingers so tight that my wrist hurts from the effort of pushing into her, but I keep doing it until I feel her seize up, her body hanging in mid-motion. I watch her face until all the tension dissolves, sliding bonelessly away from her. Her grip in my hair and on my shoulder finally falls away, and I kiss the corner of her mouth even though she's breathing shallowly between her lips.

"I love you," Santana whispers, so quietly I can almost imagine that I didn't hear it. She shifts, until I've drawn my fingers out of her, and then she slides until our bodies are snug tight together. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

I swallow, because hearing that is like a long drink of water after being out in the desert heat. I didn't even know I was so thirsty to hear it, until I finally did. It keeps spilling from Santana's lips, as if she's brimming over from trying to contain it, and all I can do is hold her closer to me.

"Shh, Santana," I hush her, because it's almost like sobs. I run a hand down her hair and over her back, soothing. "I love you, too."

A/N: Hello everyone! Long time, no see. I'm sorry for the erratic updates. I can't promise it will change anytime soon.

Feel free to contact me on tumblr, if you like. Leave a review and let me know what you think!

This isn't very edited, so I'm sorry for any mistakes.