The deafening sound of my heartbeat rippled in my ears, matching the throbbing in my throat as I tried to swallow. The auditorium was blanketed in silence, and if it weren't for the steady thumping, I would have felt like I had lost my senses. The exhale of my breath fell flat in the air, as if the noise was being dampened by my own heart.
I recognized the stage as one I had found myself in countless times before, usually accompanied by an unwelcome stranger. This time I was alone, yet the frightening space suddenly felt… unfamiliar, for all the reasons it also was.
The stage was dark, as usual, but not so dark that I couldn't see beyond the spotlight - because the spotlight was gone. Instead, I could see the worn wooden surface of the stage floor, and beyond it, the rows of empty seats. My head tilted back as I gazed upwards. Where I expected to see the birdcage, all I saw were unlit theater lights.
Why was it so quiet here? I recalled so much frantic movement and the hysteric rise of the crescendo as an orchestra played. Puzzled, I looked back to the pit in front of the stage where musicians should be. No one was there, but had there really ever been music?
Something drew my attention to the back of the auditorium, but the thumping in my ears made me question if it had truly been a sound. Beyond the space dedicated to seating an audience of none, a door was ajar. Dim monochrome light seemed to pour into the room like ink in water, illuminating the area around it in a dull, gloomy way. I took a cautious step across the stage towards it. In all but a moment, I found myself off the stage, just a few feet away from leaving this dreadful place.
As I grew closer, my legs froze, and a prickle crept up my neck. Almost fainter than before, I heard it again.
The quiet stroke of a piano key. Then another. And another.
"-uh?" My eyes snapped open as Lord Tubbington dashed over my body, scampering to the other side of the bed and disappearing underneath it. I lifted my face from my pillow, recoiling lightly from the damp spot I felt against my cheek where I must have drooled.
"Gross," I murmured, groggily smacking my hand around for my phone, shifting my body so I could use the other to wipe my face. It had been hours since I texted Santana, and I must have fallen asleep.
"Did something spook you, LT?" I asked, pushing myself upright. Hours? A slow blink cleared my vision of my dark, but empty bedroom. I rolled over the side of the bed and looked underneath. "Did Santana come home?"
Her last text said she'd be home soon. Odd. Wouldn't she have woken me? My body began to react more as I started to wake up, and I felt my stomach tighten.
"Don't assume," I smacked my hands to my cheeks lightly as I sat back up to untangle from my sheets. I had no reason to worry about the time. It was pretty typical of Santana to be home later than her shift ended. Maybe she'd stayed late to talk to Tina or Mike. Still, the uneasiness didn't go away as I turned my head to the right as I exited my room. The back of my neck tingled as I looked down the dark hallway. I must have been on edge because of my dream. I took a step towards her door, but a clatter down the stairs made me jump. The noise was followed by a low, disgruntled groan, one I immediately knew belonged to my girlfriend.
"Santana…?" I called softly. I quickly made my way to the bottom of the stairs. A light from under the kitchen cabinets helped me make out her form. She was kneeling next to the dining table, a glass tipped over on the surface, busying herself with cleaning up the overturned liquid with anything but urgency.
"Britt?" Her eyes widened slightly as she looked up from the floor. The way her body moved sluggishly gave me the impression she was tired. Or possibly… I glanced at the rest of the kitchen. A cabinet door was ajar, bottles strewn about the counter top. I felt my brow furrow on its own accord, and I regretted that my concern was so plainly visible on my face. Santana reacted immediately.
"This isn't-" she started, quickly setting the glass upright, her movements a little more busy as she mopped up the remaining liquid with the nearest thing she had grabbed. Her jacket, it looked like. She seemed to have just noticed as well, a grimace forming on her face.
"It's just water," she mumbled, bustling to the washroom past the kitchen. I followed slowly, stopping at the edge of the counter, and glanced back. A glass bottle was overturned, empty. Was that true?
She came back out of the washroom, running her hands through her hair. Her usually perfect makeup looked a little dry, with small bits of black crust forming at the corners of her eyes where she had applied her mascara. There was a firm look on her face I didn't see too often. The expression softened slightly when she caught my gaze, seemingly unaware I had moved from the stairs.
"Are you okay?" I asked, glancing back at the table. How long had she been sitting in the dark?
"Yeah," she huffed, brushing past me lightly. "Never better."
The second part sounded like she'd meant for me not to hear as she bustled herself with putting the glass in the sink and tossed the empty bottle in the recycling. It clattered a bit louder than I think she intended, and her shoulders tensed. We both glanced up at the ceiling and paused for a moment.
"I wasn't drinking," she said, her back to me, shoulders still squared up. Her palms were pressed to the edge of the counter.
"I didn't-"
"You were thinking it," she grumbled, reaching for one of the bottles. It rotated in her hands for a moment. I opened my mouth to speak, but then she suddenly twisted the cap off and started pouring it down the drain.
"Santana-" I gapped, my hand reactively reaching out, hanging weakly in the air as I watched. What was she doing?
"It's fine, it's mine," she sighed, setting the bottle down. The small amount of remaining liquid sloshed at the bottom. Her head fell forward a bit, and another sound of exasperation found its way from her mouth.
"I don't want to be around alcohol right now," she admitted.
Hesitantly, I spoke.
"You work at a bar…"
She glanced up at me. The light catching in her eyes caused my throat to run dry. Her expression was foreign to me, and my chest felt tight all of the sudden. She almost looked dangerous. Then, as sudden as it came, it was gone. Her shoulders dropped, and she bowed her head.
"I meant in this moment," she said softly. She reached for another one, and my hand shot out again, this time taking it away from her. I knew from the way she said it, she was being honest about everything, in spite of the strong smell of alcohol emanating from the sink and her clothes. If she had been drinking to the point of this odd behavior, I was pretty certain more of her makeup would be messed up anyway.
I held the bottle just out of her reach as she reacted in protest, and shook my head.
"I know this one isn't yours," I said gently. I raised it higher and put it on the top of the cabinet, straining on my tippy toes to do so. "How about we settle on it being out of your reach for now?"
She stared up at the cabinet and made a weak attempt to grab it. The bottle remained out of her range. She withdrew her hand and nodded.
As silently as I could, I moved the remaining bottles to the same space. In the time it took me to do so, she had leaned back against the kitchen island with her arms crossed. Her gaze was fixed out the window above the sink, and I couldn't help but feel so, so far away from her.
I didn't know what was the cause of this behavior, but I could tell there was a storm brewing inside her. Something happened in the span of time between her last text and coming home, but what, I couldn't gather-
"I need some space," Santana said, her voice quivering sadly as she averted her gaze.
"Just for a bit," she added, twisting away from me around the kitchen island and heading towards the stairs.
"All night…?" I asked weakly. My voice cracked.
She paused midway up the stairs and shook her head.
"No, Britt, I need to shower," she sighed, tugging at her collar lightly. "I stink."
I watched her disappear and stood alone in the kitchen. What was going on?
"O-kay…" I stayed where I was, slowly looking over my surroundings.
In the dark.
Again.
The bathroom door closed from the full weight of Santana's body leaning against it. Her head made a small thud as she tilted it backwards, an even smaller sound escaped her lips as she sighed.
Her head slowly tilted to a view of herself in the mirror. Her expression hardened, a discernible scowl on her face, and she pushed away from the door.
"I'm so stupid," she uttered, hastily opening her drawer with the contents full of cosmetics. A line of products made their way to the counter as she began to aggressively remove the makeup from her face.
Her eyes darted away quickly any time she caught her own gaze, as if staring too long was like touching hot coals. Another hurried movement, and the contents were cleared from the sink counter. Still avoiding herself, she griped and groaned at the process of stripping out of her dress.
Once naked, she caved, finally giving herself a look in the mirror. Her body was lean, with light shadows forming along her stomach indicating muscles that had formed in recent months thanks to Brittany - both from dancing and other… physical activities. Gaze moving upwards, small dark marks decorated her chest and along her collarbone, fading reminders of some of those activities. They could be found elsewhere on her body, but her eyes traveled up to stare back at her.
The expression she met was not kind. A mix of anger and loathing, eyes narrowed into sharp blades and her perfect brow - minus the barely present scar forming on it - stitched together as if it was struggling to become one under a few creases of skin. Her mouth was curled downward into a frown and she closed her eyes.
Scary. She exhaled audibly, wondering a moment if the thought had escaped her lips. She stood there a while, breathing in and out through her nose. Her hand raised as she pinched her brow for a second, before smoothing her fingers back as if to force her expression into a neutral state.
She opened her eyes again and gave herself a glance, followed by a light nod. Better.
Another quick movement and the shower was on, and her body submerged under not yet warm enough water. It didn't matter.
I fidgeted at the edge of Santana's bed. I had initially thought I'd wait in my room, but with the bathroom across from it, I'd felt like I was intruding somehow. Santana didn't typically take long showers - especially this late - so I knew I didn't have long to make too many decisions. I tried not to second guess this one, and pushed myself away from the bed as I glanced around the room.
I spent a lot of time here. Maybe more than my own room. Even so, I didn't feel so comfortable that snooping around didn't have me on edge, but I didn't know what else to do with myself.
I had turned on her bedside lamp, because otherwise it was a bit hard to see. Her desk had a few things on it, one of which was her laptop. It had stickers on it, including a small unicorn I had recently added for her. There was a thing with lots of buttons and dials on it next to the computer, and a pair of worn out over-the-ear headphones that looked like they had been expensive when they were new. My fingers dragged over the cushions, tracing the small cracks that had formed in the material. Santana wore these most of the time when she did her homework. I realized I never really knew what sounds came out of them. Just the select few instrumental pieces she occasionally shared when we studied together. She expressed herself so much through song, but kept whatever she did for her major mostly to herself. What else didn't I know about her?
The thought made me withdraw my hand. Santana was behaving strangely, and my whole body felt tense as a result. Twisted, like a wet towel being wrung out. Before I could make more sense of this confusing feeling, the door opened.
Santana slipped in, a towel wrapped around her damp body, with hair wet and her clothes scrunched in her free hand. She acknowledged me with a small hum, and occupied herself with her closet. She looked more tired than anything now, and she didn't seem upset that I was in her room. I realized she probably saw my room door open and empty.
"I-" My voice faltered, not knowing what to say. I wanted to say something, but I wasn't sure what she needed. I settled for observation instead, leaning back against her chair.
She was still relatively slow in her movements, the towel dropping with a flop to the floor. I flushed lightly and my breath hitched a moment as my eyes drifted to her exposed buttocks. She slipped on a clean set of nightwear - for her, underwear followed by a loose black tank top and some fairly small white shorts - and picked up the towel from the ground and tousled her hair with it, removing some of the moisture. Santana had mostly ignored me since she walked in, giving me ample time for my eyes to wander. Her frown wasn't as strong as it was before, giving her an almost bored, distant look to her face. She moved to toss her laundry in her hamper and to shuffle the closet doors closed.
I couldn't help but admire how cool she looked sometimes, momentarily ignoring the tightness in my chest. The way the fabric of her tank accentuated her curves, and the shorts exposed almost all of her smooth, tanned legs. Her damp, dark hair cascading around her face. She could be sexy and cute and charming, too. How could one person be so many things, all so attractive?
"What are you doing?" Santana spoke just above a whisper, tilting her head to the side as she ran a hand through her hair. She leaned back against her closet door and stared back at me curiously.
"S-sorry," I stammered. I knew something was bothering her, and here I was ogling her.
A pause. Then, the tiniest smile curled in the corner of her mouth for a moment and she walked towards me.
"What are you apologizing for?" Her voice was smooth and velvety, a significant shift in tone from before. Her hands reached for mine and held them gently. "I'm... the one that kept you up late."
"You didn't, I just woke up," I murmured. I had been staring at our hands and slowly lifted my eyes to meet hers. "…have you been home long?"
"Mm," she shook her head and looked down at our hands. "No, I had only just gotten home."
"Did something happen…?" I hesitated, gulping as I felt the dryness in my throat return. "You said you'd be home soon."
I felt like I was accusing her of something. She didn't respond, just squeezed my hands lightly.
"Nothing important," she said softly.
"You look like you're having big thoughts," I replied, leaning down slightly to try and catch her gaze.
"Do I?" Her voice sounded distant again.
"A bit." I paused. "A lot."
"Mhm," she hummed, stroking my fingers with her thumb. "Let's focus on you, hm? You were staring."
Heat rose to my cheeks and along my neck. She noticed that?
"Sorry-"
"Don't apologize," she said, shifting her weight forward. "I like when you stare. At me."
My mouth fell open slightly and I knew my cheeks were getting even more red. Was she flirting with me? When had the mood shifted? And why did I feel behind?
"You look pretty…" I whispered, my throat constricting.
"Just pretty…?" Her eyes glimmered in the low lighting, and she looked at me darkly. It made my breath catch.
"…Sexy," I admitted, barely above a whisper. I earned another smirk from her lips and she walked me towards the bed, her hands still holding mine. The mattress hit the back of my legs and I faltered, landing on my butt with an 'oomf', but I couldn't be bothered to do anything but stare up at her.
"I see…" Her weight pressed into the mattress as she leaned her knee up next to my waist, and I shuffled up the bed as her other leg swung over to straddle my hips.
"Santana-" I started, but her lips crashed against mine and I moaned, the thoughts of concern for the time or anything else on my mind slipping away like waking from a dream.
"Mm," she hummed, kissing me harder and deeper. It was unexpected, but I wanted to catch up to where she was going with this. Wet hair tickled my neck, and I strained to match her movements, scraping my fingers up her sides and slipping under her shirt as she kissed me back roughly. Rougher than usual.
I gasped for air when she broke the kiss briefly to push her hair out of her face. She seemed unfazed by the lack of oxygen, and dove in for another kiss. Her teeth bit into my lower lip and I whimpered, squeezing her hips tighter and pulling her into me. Abruptly, her hands moved from their place at my jaw and the side of my head where she'd been propping herself up to snap to my hands.
"Uh-uh," she tutted, pulling my hands away and lifting her hips lightly. I missed the contact immediately, and tried to pull my hands out of hers, but she lifted them up and roughly pinned them above my head.
"Santana..!" I gasped, surprised. Her grip on my wrists tightened, and she lifted her face away long enough for me to catch a glimpse of the reflection in her eyes. Dangerous, I remembered thinking earlier. I was caught in a trap, and she was hungry. She moved to my neck, biting and sucking hard.
"F-fuck," I uttered, squirming beneath her.
It could have - should have - been hot. Not being able to touch her was just as much of a turn on as being able to. Yet, somehow her pinning me down and kissing me roughly was tugging more at my heart than anything else. Her grip on my wrists was unusually tight - in fact, it was unusual for her to grip my wrists at all. When she went back to kissing my lips, I lifted my head off the pillow to try and soften it, but she pulled away and continued down my cheek and jaw.
It was when I felt something moist and warm on my face that made me pause. I opened my mouth to speak, but my voice faltered. It wasn't the cold wetness of her damp hair. She kept moving, sucking hungrily at my neck, teeth scraping my skin.
"Stop," I said in a whisper. Her body tensed, and her lips froze. Slowly, they drew closed and she rested her face on me. The noises of her kisses ceased, and we were blanketed in nothing but heavy breathing.
"Shit…" I heard her hiss.
I slid a hand out from hers, surprised I wasn't met by any sort of resistance before I dragged my fingers up to my face. The wetness there wasn't saliva or sweat, but something else entirely.
"...Santana...?"
She sat up, hair strewn about and her tank top strap draping over her shoulder. Her chest was heaving up and down, her attention focused hard on the wall beside us. A small amount of liquid pooled in one of her eyes, her brow furrowed. It looked like she was angrily intent on willing the tear not to fall, and as it formed into a small droplet that began to roll off her eyelash, she lifted her hand and wiped it away quickly, turning even more to avoid my gaze.
"-fucking can't believe myself," she exhaled sharply. Her eyes closed tightly, and for a moment she sat frozen in my lap. I shifted, raising a hand to touch her cheek, and she recoiled. Eyes wide, she panicked, and started to push herself off me. I caught her hands and held her still.
"Santana, stop," I whispered again, softer this time. She stilled, but kept her eyes clenched shut.
"I'm sorry, Britt, I'm sorry," she shook her head, trying weakly to pull away.
"Why…?" I ran my thumbs off her hands and slipped them away to stroke soothingly over her thighs. "I'm not mad or anything. Just… concerned? You're being weird."
Her eyes opened, but she kept her gaze down and to the side, as if ashamed.
"I just don't want to do things with you if you're not enjoying it," I said, determined to feign more confidence than I had. I shifted a little, holding her in my lap as I sat upright.
"I… shouldn't have done that," she murmured.
"Done what, exactly…?"
We sat in silence for a while. Santana didn't seem to be able to find her words.
"Any other day, I'd be into it, Santana," I assured her. "If you want to be rough, or-"
"I don't," she muttered. My head tilted to the side in confusion.
"Then why-"
"-because I just wanted you to stop focusing on me," she said, harshly. She was still avoiding my gaze, and I could tell that she was talking more to herself than me. I waited, giving her time to find her words.
"I hate that I do this," she grimaced. "Use… sex… to manipulate people."
Manipulate? My brow furrowed, and a frown formed on my face.
"You didn't," I urged, finding her hands again and squeezing them lightly. "I was into it."
"I knew you would be," she sighed. "And I wasn't."
I was confused. Even if she wanted a distraction from whatever was bothering her, it didn't mean she manipulated me.
"Santana, it was hardly sex. I don't care about that."
"I do," she said sternly. "I do."
My expression softened from frustrated confusion to a slow nod, understanding now.
"This isn't about me, is it?"
Santana had called me out in a similar way before. When I ran away from our feelings for each other. You really don't see how wonderful you are. I remembered her saying. She was running now, just in a different way, for a different reason. Hiding, maybe. But she was being hard on herself needlessly.
"No. And yes. But no," she muttered, shaking her head. I ran my hands over hers a few times, trying to coax her into unclenching them. After a few moments, her hands relaxed enough for me to wiggle my fingers beneath hers. I played with her hands a while longer before smiling softly to reassure her and settled on gently locking both of my pinkies with both of hers. A small bounce of our hands in her lap caused her to hiccup softly.
"I love you, you know," I said quietly. "And I trust you. You can trust me."
Blinking slowly, Santana looked up at me. Her expression was heavy and sad.
"…I hurt someone I really care about," Santana whispered. Her pinkies squeezed mine tightly. "I used him as a shield for a long time."
I nodded, hoping she'd continue.
"He didn't deserve it. And I'm scared that he's right about me."
I hummed softly. "Right about you, how?"
"I'm a selfish person." Santana's chest heaved under a heavy sigh, her shoulders rounding as she slumped in my lap. "And a coward. I use people to protect myself from getting hurt."
None of what she was saying made any sense to me. From the moment we had met, Santana had been kind and brave and true. I kept having to convince everyone else of that. How was it possible that this amazing person, the person I loved so much, saw herself this way?
"Did he tell you that?" I asked softly.
"No. But he was pretty clear about how he felt tonight," Santana sighed. "And I think he has every right to feel the way he does."
"Not if he made you feel bad about yourself," I said sternly.
"Puck is allowed to be upset, Britt," Santana sighed.
I felt my body tense, and I knew she felt it because she was sitting in my lap. She flinched lightly and I tried to maintain my composure.
"Upset, sure," I nodded, but I remained steadfast. I was gripping her hands tightly now, and I knew I was glowering. This man was such a source of trouble for everyone in our home. For Santana… for Quinn, even Rachel. Not everyone gets a happy ending. Quinn's words echoed in my ears. Why did he get to be upset when he caused so much heartache for these girls? Why did he get a pass?
"But what did he say to you?"
"…that I'm a self-centered bitch and a liar," she muttered.
"You're not!"
"Britt, it's fine." She averted her gaze. She wouldn't believe me. I don't think she could at this moment. I gulped, trying to push my anger down. I could tell she didn't want me to be upset for her. I looked at her hands and lifted them gently to my lips, kissing over them lightly.
"You can't take hurt and throw it back at people," I murmured. "Then everyone's just sad."
"I've hurt people, too, Britt," Santana said.
"But you stopped," I urged. "You've changed. Everyone says so."
There was a long pause between us, and Santana slipped her hands from mine.
"Have I?"
My phone was blowing up. I was getting text after text from everyone but Santana. Including people who weren't in my contact list. I assumed at least one of them was Kurt or Mercedes.
Apparently, Puck had confided in Sam after talking with Santana last night. Sam told Mercedes, and Mercedes told Kurt, and Kurt told Rachel, and so on and so forth. Everyone knew the details before I'd even stepped into class. Another buzz, and I let out an exasperated sigh.
I was so tired. Even though I hadn't been able to get Santana to agree with me that she wasn't a terrible person, I was able to coax her into bed and had cuddled her all night. She eventually fell into an unsteady sleep, but I stayed up until the sun was rising and my alarm went off.
I leaned back, shrugging my shoulders lightly to relieve some of the uneven stiffness in my neck, tilting my head from side to side. I was sitting in a lecture hall that had a small stage at the front where my Acting for Dancers professor was speaking, her arms moving about as she spoke adamantly. She spent more time lecturing than we spent doing any practical application, and it was often really dry content. I yawned, blinking back the bleariness in my eyes, and stole a peek at my phone for the time. I was grateful that it was digital.
There were tons of notifications on the screen, and it buzzed lightly again as another message popped up. It was from another new number. I didn't get a chance to read it, as a sudden sound made me snap my gaze back to the front of the class.
"Ms. Pierce, no phones in class," my professor said after clearing her throat.
I sat up rigidly and shoved my phone quickly in my pocket. I usually never text in class, but things had changed a lot lately. I didn't have people to text before.
"-As I was saying…" my professor continued. My shoulders softened, but I redoubled my efforts to pay attention. Professor Jacobs went back to the topic at hand.
"As performers, your obligations to your craft are of the utmost importance," she drawled. I placed my pen above my lip and tried to balance it, making a sort of duck face to do so. I needed to do something physical if I was going to focus on what she was saying.
"-Your bad days? You can't have them. If you let your emotions impact your performance, you're not just hurting your own credibility, but the entire production could be impacted by poor cues or bad synergy. This is a career, and as professionals, you have a higher obligation to your craft. You must always be on."
The pen started to fall, and I caught it in time before it clattered on the desk, snapping upright. Was that true? I suppose I didn't perform as well when I had bad days, but to not feel things at all sounded completely opposite of how my parents tried to raise me. My mom always wanted me to share how I was feeling when I was younger. It's partially how they knew I needed to switch schools.
"You might be thinking, 'what is she going on about? Isn't bottling things up unhealthy?' Yes, it can be."
I perked up, stilling my hands on the table and leaning forward as if she were speaking in a whisper and about to reveal the secrets of the universe. For me, maybe it was. How did people navigate it?
"But you have to be strong and have emotional fortitude," she said, striking her chest dramatically with a closed fist, right where her heart was. My shoulders slumped slightly at the revelation. How vague.
"For each person, the way you manage your emotions is unique to your own needs, but you must practice and overcome them. Learn them. Use them to enhance your performance, but don't let them control you!"
I hummed softly to myself and crossed my arms. I felt my brow furrow as I stared hard at my pen. I'd always treated dancing as my own expression of my emotions. That's what I always thought art was. But Professor Jacobs was really challenging how I viewed performance as a craft, and wasn't being very clear about what to actually do to address the issue she was presenting. I sucked at dancing when I had bad days, so maybe she was right. But controlling your emotions with the finesse she was describing… didn't sound human. It sounded robotic or fake, like…
Bzt. Another vibration from my pocket.
It sounded a lot like how I had found Santana this morning.
"Hey, uhm, Britt-"
I glanced up again from my phone before I had a chance to unlock it. My hand instinctively pulled to my chest, the other clasping around my phone protectively. My brow furrowed as Madison's hand shot forward to catch the door to the elevator. We hadn't shared a space alone since the locker room.
"Don't call me Britt," I heard myself snap. Why did I say that?
"Ah," Madison hesitated in the doorway. "Sorry, Brittany. I… is it okay if I join you?"
I glanced at the empty elevator and felt my shoulders tense. The door started to beep in protest.
"Fine," I said, stepping further back as she came in. I pressed the button on the elevator, a little too hard and it made an audible clack. The elevator closed quickly, as if grateful there was nothing preventing it from moving again. My stomach lurched a bit as we descended, and we stood in silence for a bit.
"I didn't know you had class today," Madison said, breaking the ice.
"I didn't know you did," I muttered, avoiding her gaze.
"I don't, I was here to use a practice room," she sighed.
"Okay," I said, doing my best to sound disinterested.
"Seems silly now, since class is canceled tomorrow," she shrugged. I peered up at her, eyes narrowing. She caught my look and lifted her hands defensively. "We got an email, I swear."
I didn't trust pulling my phone away from my chest to check while in her presence. I kept my eyes trained on her, brow knit together in suspicion. Thankfully, the door to the elevator opened, but I stepped forward at the same time she did to exit. There was an awkward shuffle and eventually I let her walk out first.
"Sorry…" she said, spinning around to face me. "I've actually been meaning to talk to you-"
"Please don't," I said, my nose wrinkling. I couldn't recall a time I'd ever declined a time someone wanted to talk to me.
"I understand," she said, bowing her head and taking a few steps back. "I am sorry. For what it's worth."
"Not a lot," I scoffed. "You broke my phone."
"That wasn-" Madison grimaced and nodded. "I'm sorry. I…"
"I don't have a lot of money, Madison," I said, stepping forward. I felt so out of sync with my body. "Just cause I have a scholarship doesn't mean I'm made of it."
"I know, I know," Madison squeaked, raising her hands defensively. "And I can't do much to help with that either. I just wanted to tell you I was sorry. Like really sorry. And I don't expect anything from you. You just deserved an apology."
I paused. My hand had raised at some point and was hanging in the air. I lowered it slowly and tried to center myself. Regulate my emotions like my professor said. I glanced around, grateful no one else was in the lobby.
"Why?"
"Because no one deserves to be treated the way you were, and-"
"I know why people deserve apologies. Why are you apologizing to me?" I stared at her hard.
"Because I feel bad," she muttered, rubbing her arm weakly.
"You should." I frowned.
"I do." She nodded. "I didn't mean to cause trouble for you or… your girlfriend. I know she told me not to talk to you, but…"
My eyes narrowed, and I felt my hands tighten into fists. I didn't know what she was referring to, but it sounded like Santana was right. I shouldn't trust Madison, and I really did not want to have this conversation right now anyway. In the lobby of the Juilliard building no less. Santana had so much going on and I was just adding to the problems. The last thing I needed was Madison talking about me having a girlfriend again in a shared space.
"I don't have time for this. Just leave us alone," I huffed, shouldering my backpack and twisting to head towards the door.
"I'm trying to extend an olive branch, Brittany!"
"I don't know what that means!" I shouted and shoved my way through the door.
I didn't hear her follow, just the sound of the door closing behind me. I closed my eyes tightly and tilted my head towards the sky as I breathed in again through my nose. Emotions, huh? What a lot to think about. My brain hurt.
Maybe I needed to be the one to clear my head. Santana needed me right now and I couldn't be so out of sorts because of Madison, of all people. There was still Puck to deal with.
Ugh, Puck. Why was he such a problem? To everyone? I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes tightly before opening them again. I wandered towards the nearest surface I could sit and think. I ended up at a fountain, and pulled my phone back from my pocket where I'd stowed it mid-conversation.
There were so many messages. Something called a group text? It had numbers in it I didn't recognize. They must have been the members of Santana's Glee club that I hadn't exchanged contacts with yet. I didn't know where to start. The newest one was separate from the others.
We need to talk. — unknown
My brow furrowed for the umpteenth time in the last hour. I reread the next line of text twice.
This is Puck.
My stomach did another flop. Regulate emotions my butt. How did he get my number? My phone buzzed again in my hand. Another text? No. A phone call.
"Hey," a voice said quietly when I answered.
"Quinn?"
"I think you should come to The Rabbit Hole and hide out with me," she said. Her voice sounded sweet and kind, not something I felt I had been on the receiving end of much.
"Did everyone text you too?"
"Unsurprisingly, no," Quinn hummed. "But I talked to Rachel, and she's one of those people that, while she means well, thrives on drama."
I heard an annoyed sigh on the other end of my phone.
"More importantly, are you okay?"
I hesitated. Why would that matter?
"This is about Santana, not me-"
"You really don't see your part in all this, do you?" Quinn's voice was delicate, as if she was making an observation rather than asking a question. "You're allowed to be not okay when your partner isn't either."
I was? I scrunched my face and ran my hand through my hair, pressing my palm against my temple.
"I should go home and check on Santana… she has class later," I sighed.
"Rachel's taking care of that," Quinn replied.
"But I'm her girlfr-"
"I know you think it's your responsibility, but you need to take care of yourself too," Quinn said. "And you can start by leaning on your friends. Come to the bookstore, I'm here to help."
I heard the noise on the other end and I had to stop and look at the screen to verify the call had ended. She could have said good-bye, but I guess that wouldn't have been very Quinn of her. Maybe my professor was talking more about people like Quinn.
"Did you eat?"
"Yes" — Santana
"And go to class? You have history today, right?"
"Yes" — Santana
"Are you okay?" I had wanted to type hours ago, but hadn't felt like it was the right thing to ask. She wasn't giving me a lot to work with. I sighed as I locked my phone again and shoved it in my pocket. I had read over the text at least a dozen times since I sent it when I got on the train. I twisted and swerved as people bustled around me, looking up for the sign for Quinn's workplace. I passed it.
"Dang it," I uttered, shaking my head and berating myself under my breath. I almost ran into someone, but said someone didn't move.
"Need a guide?" A familiar voice said and I looked up.
"Mike!"
"To the rescue," he beamed. "Quinn sent me to fetch you when you passed the store."
It was dark and dusty like I remembered from the last time I'd been here. Fairly empty for a Thursday afternoon, but I guess it was a used book store. Mike guided me to the back and took my bag for me while Quinn set me up on a stool behind the counter with her. Mike found a spot on the other side and leaned against it, smiling softly at me. I sighed into the chair and leaned back against the wall, two of the feet picking up off the ground from the weight. I didn't even know how heavy my bag had felt. There wasn't even anything in it except a notebook and some pens.
"Everyone is so annoying today," I sighed.
"Sounds right," Quinn said, leaning on the counter herself. I looked over and noticed she was wearing a beanie today. They didn't say anything else. What was supposed to happen next? I thought they were trying to support me. My face screwed up in frustration.
"What am I supposed to do?"
"I don't think you're supposed to do anything," Mike shrugged. "What do you want to do?"
"Scream and shout," I groaned, tilting my head back and rolling the back of my head back and forth against the wall.
"Reasonable," Quinn agreed, toying with a bin of dice and other knick knacks on the counter.
Infuriating. Quinn asked me to come all the way here and Mike made this out to be some kind of rescue party, and this was the advice they were giving. Why did I come all the way here when I could be helping Santana?
"Reasonable?" I echoed. I snapped forward, the feet to the stool making impact with the ground again, causing me to jostle lightly.
"For you to be angry," Quinn said pointedly.
"I'm not angry!" I snapped.
"You're not?" Mike said, lifting his chin off his hand. "'Cause I am. We know how hard this has been for Santana. For both of you."
"Agreed," Quinn said, pushing away from the counter and crossing her arms as she looked at me, weight shifting as she looked me up and down. "But you aren't, so what are you actually feeling? Do you even know?"
"I-" I hesitated and stared at her. She took what I said at face value. How was I feeling? I had been on edge all day. Ever since Santana told me what Puck said to her. I wasn't angry, was I? No. Maybe a little. Confused, for sure. Annoyed, at them… but also everyone else? I shifted my feet to rest on a bar at the base of the stool.
"I'm disappointed. At myself," I said softly. I stared at the ground for a while and closed my eyes. "I want to be the kind of girlfriend that supports Santana and always makes her feel better. And I don't feel like I'm doing that."
Quinn's arms loosened from their tight position across her chest, nodding as she sat on her own stool.
"You're not at fault here," Quinn replied. "And you do that most of the time for her."
"But not now," I insisted.
"Not now," Mike agreed.
"Why…?" I felt myself whine.
"Because not everything in a relationship is easy," Quinn said softly. She placed her hand on mine and gave it a light squeeze. "But that's okay, because the most important thing is that you want to support her. This is just a complicated issue."
A person-shaped issue named Puck, I grimaced.
"Why is he such a jerk," I grumbled. "And why do you all tolerate him?"
Quinn's hand slipped away and she let out a long, deep sigh.
"My reasons are a bit different from everyone else," she said, and glanced at Mike. "But I suppose he's not as big of a bone head to people he's not actively trying to date. He's been pretty head over heels for Santana for years now."
"Right, but just because Puck doesn't have Santana's fancy doesn't mean he's all bad for the rest of us," Mike shrugged. "We've gone through a lot together. He's still our friend. He's a passionate, talented guy that can be fun in the right setting."
"I don't see it," I said with a huff.
"Count yourself lucky," Quinn said. "For most of us, he can be quite charming. It took a while for the wool to be pulled away from my eyes, at least."
Right, Quinn had dated him too at one point.
"What changed your mind?" I asked. Quinn froze, a pang of something flashing over her face before it was gone. Regret maybe? She really was quite an actress.
"Puck and I have a complicated history," Quinn replied. It sounded like a careful worded statement.
"You haven't told her?" Mike's voice was quiet, almost as if he didn't intend for me to hear.
"Told me what?"
Quinn pinched her fingers to her nose and scowled lightly. Maybe not as good an actress as I'd thought.
"This isn't about me-"
"But it is about Puck," Mike pointed out, nodding his head lightly in my direction.
"It's not relevant."
Mike stared hard at her, and she gave him a look of disdain, her mouth opening and closing. The look of disbelief on her face reminded me that she was usually a very careful, and sometimes sneaky person. Usually.
A sigh escaped her lips and she looked out at the bookstore. Her cheeks looked warm, a pink hue creeping across her face.
"I was pregnant in high school," she barely whispered. "Puck is the father. We gave the baby up for adoption."
"What!?" I exclaimed, almost bolting out of the chair.
"Don't make me repeat it," Quinn grimaced, her face entirely red now. "I don't regret Beth, or how it shaped things for me. But I am… embarrassed at how irresponsible we both were. There were… a lot of repercussions."
She sat in silence for a while and I stared incredulously between her and Mike. He gave me a light shrug.
"I had meant to tell you before," Quinn said, looking over to me, her expression softening from the alarmed one she had previously. "Her birthday is coming up. I usually get her something, but I'm a bit stuck on ideas. Just because we gave her up, doesn't mean I don't want to be involved. A child deserves… to feel loved."
She placed her hand over her head, looking distantly at the ground. The way she said the word loved made me sad. Like everyone in the whole world had stopped loving her. She shifted in her seat, almost anxiously and so unlike how she was normally so composed.
"I don't know what a kid likes," she sighed. "I've tried so hard not to... you know, be one. But I thought maybe you could-"
"-I love kids," I piped up. "I can help!"
She looked up, brow raised in surprise.
"Really?"
"Of course," I nodded eagerly. "I work with little kids all the time."
"That's right, you teach the kids class on Wednesdays," Mike piped up.
"Introductory class," I said adamantly. "It's all ages."
"Yeah yeah," Mike sighed, waving his hand at me.
"Either way, I'm happy to help, Quinn. And… Thank you for telling me."
She smiled softly at me and bowed her head, picking at the hem of her shirt as she looked down. A small sigh escaped her lips. Relief, perhaps.
"That must have been really hard," I said, leaning back in my chair as I thought about the way she'd said repercussions earlier. I couldn't imagine. Being pregnant and in high school. And Puck… he was the father? How could this get any more complicated?
"It was," she nodded, looking distantly at some books on a bookshelf in front of us. A silence fell over us again for a while. Mike had started tapping at a die on the counter, making it bounce lightly to reveal different numbers. Quinn sniffed suddenly and sat upright.
"So," Quinn said, turning to me. "Santana."
"Mm," Mike hummed.
"Santana," I repeated, leaning forward on the chair and resting my elbows on the counter, palms pressed into my cheeks as my brow furrowed.
Quinn abruptly flicked my forehead, just between my eyes. I shook my head in surprise.
"She'll be fine. Puck and her have had their fair share of disagreements," Quinn said.
"Not like this," I muttered. "You didn't see how she acted last night."
"No, that's true. This might be the nail in the coffin," Quinn nodded, tutting lightly as she tapped her chin. "But that's their issue to navigate."
"Will they though?" I lifted my head out of my hands.
"Puck will," Mike said. "In time."
"But Santana," Quinn hummed. We sighed in collective agreement.
"Santana," I nodded.
"She's incredibly complex for someone that shies away from the limelight as much as she does," Quinn said, mirroring my posture and placing her chin in her palm as she leaned a hand against the counter. "I've never really understood why she hides so much. She's talented and she has more than enough confidence when the moment calls for it."
"She can be similar to Puck in that regard. In terms of confidence," Mike agreed. "They both have this 'Me versus the World' attitude, sometimes."
I could see what they were talking about. She had fire in her, and she didn't back down from a fight, ever. To a fault. And while I didn't know Puck very well, he did seem like a fighter too. But I had a feeling they didn't fight for the same things, or the same reasons for that matter.
"A shark," I whispered.
"What?" Mike and Quinn perked up and stared at me.
"No one messes with a shark. Even if it isn't really threatening, people just don't fuck with them…" I repeated, recalling something Santana had said to me once. It felt so long ago.
"I'm not following," Mike shook his head.
"Santana. She sees herself as a shark," I said.
"Okay…" Quinn squinted her eyes slightly. I think she was trying to follow along, but like Mike, wasn't quite understanding. I wasn't being clear.
"Puck, he's like a rebel, or something, right?" I gestured with both hands over my head, miming what I meant to look like a mohawk.
"A punk rocker, I'd say," Mike said.
"Right. Someone that disagrees with authority," I said pointedly, raising my index finger.
"Or the status quo," Quinn nodded, her chin still in her palm.
"But Santana… isn't like that," I said. "She's not fighting a system. She's hiding in it, right? Trying to fit in?"
"I don't get how this has to do with sharks," Mike said, crossing his arms, brow furrowed in confusion.
"She and Puck, you said it's them versus the world," I said, gripping my seat eagerly like I'd finally solved a puzzle. "For Puck it is - him versus the world - but for Santana… she found someone that she thought understood her. Her experience of being different.
"Puck gave her a sense of belonging. Like the way your Glee club gave her community too. For all of you," I said excitedly.
"And the shark…?" Quinn raised her brow inquisitively.
"Just misunderstood," I quoted, remembering how softly Santana had said it. I leaned back into my seat, the excitement fading as my shoulders rounded and I felt my lips turn down in a frown.
"She's lonely."
Mike had been leaning forward as well, anticipating my explanation. He fell back slightly and sighed, but Quinn perked up, eyes widening.
"And she struggled a lot in Glee club. Where Puck could pivot his desire to fight a system into advocating for others, thus making friends, Santana didn't do that," Quinn nodded. "She was too lonely to focus on anything else. That loneliness became resentment and self-loathing, too afraid to let people in. Because…"
"Because she hasn't had support for a long time," Mike hummed. "Not the way she needed it."
"Never the way she needed it," Quinn said, a hint of anger tinged in her voice. "She was a latchkey kid, with parents that wanted nothing but results and weren't even around to demand it."
I blinked and glanced between them. Suddenly I was confused. They had more cards to navigate than I did. What was a latchkey kid? Quinn caught my gaze and her expression softened.
"She had one person she really felt connected to, and she hurt him," Quinn said to me, her voice almost a whisper. "The dam has broken, so what will she do now?"
I felt deflated. What would she do now? And was her connection to Puck that important? It really sounded like he meant more to her than I had realized. And how could I fill in that hole that had caused the dam to burst? I wasn't anything like Puck. I didn't like fighting. It sounded like both of them had pretty pessimistic views of the world, and I always tried to look at things glass half-full.
Self-loathing was spot on though. I felt it last night when she was beating herself up with how she had behaved with me.
"Maybe she'll try to seek forgiveness?" Mike asked. "Try and make up with Puck?"
"Do you think she could?" Quinn hummed. "I don't think she would. She might feel bad, but her pride will get in the way of that."
"No," I shook my head. "She's going to seek retribution."
"Brittany, I think you mean redemption. Retribution is when you place punishment on someone for doing something wrong," Quinn frowned.
"Exactly."
Mike groaned and let the back of his head thud against the bookshelf behind him. Quinn and I sighed and resumed propping our chins up with our hands while we leaned on the counter.
"I hate this," I grumbled.
"Welcome to the last six years of my life," Quinn said, mirroring my tone. "She's going to end up beating herself up and retreating into old habits."
I felt my face contort, as if I could frown harder than I had been already. Old habits, like drinking herself blackout drunk, sleeping all day, and skipping classes? The 'old' Santana that everyone but me knew? I stared hard at the counter.
Santana had been dumping bottles of alcohol out when I found her this morning. And according to Quinn, Rachel had coaxed her to class. My texts with Santana confirmed that, if she was being honest. And dishonesty was not a trait anyone other than Puck had ever attributed to her. Lazy, irresponsible, mean, I'd heard those things. But I had no reason to believe Santana had lied this morning or in her texts.
No, retreating to hold habits, that didn't seem like what she was doing. She'd recognized she was doing something she didn't want to do last night… and stopped herself. She'd held herself accountable, way more than I would have. She was hurt, like a wounded animal, bristled up and fangs bared, but not one that was going to bury its head in the ground and hide away.
She was hurt and scared, and the only way to coax her out of that would be to give her a safe environment full of love and kindness. And that… that was something I could do.
"I should take her on a date," I said suddenly.
"What?" Mike and Quinn said in unison.
"When LT is upset or in a bad mood, I coax him out of it with food," I said proudly. "He loves food. I just need to do stuff with Santana that she loves to do."
"Brittany…" Quinn smiled weakly, her brow stitched together with worry. "I don't think it'll be as easy as that… Santana isn't your cat."
"Okay, if not a date, at least I can try smothering her with love and cuddles," I said triumphantly, balling my hand into a fist and pumping it in the air.
"I think it's worth a try," Mike grinned.
"Fine," Quinn scowled. "Whatever you think is best, Brittany. You're her girlfriend."
The elevator jostled to a stop, and I flicked the screen on my phone away from my email back to my text messages. No reply from Santana, still. At least I'd confirmed I didn't have class tomorrow.
"What a long day," I murmured to myself as I approached the door. The subway had been really busy after I left Quinn and Mike at The Rabbit Hole, so it took me longer to get home than I had planned. My enthusiasm for coming up with a plan to navigate Santana had waned, as the lack of sleep and stress of the day caught up with me. I fumbled with my keys, taking solace in the fact that at least Santana should be home by now.
The living room was empty when I stepped in, and I gazed across it from the dining table to the kitchen as I kicked my shoes off. There were indications that the kitchen had been in use earlier in the day - a pot in the sink and some recently cleaned plates left to dry. I would have to thank Rachel later for taking care of making sure Santana ate something for lunch.
My brow furrowed as I tried to remember everyone's schedule. It was after four, so Quinn would still be at work until the evening, and Rachel would have class for a few more hours before she had her theater production stuff. That meant it was me and Santana for the night.
Easy-peasy. Alone time with Santana was something I could handle.
I set my keys down on the coffee table and tossed my bag on the couch, stretching lightly before running my hands through my hair. In a fluid movement and a few twists of my wrist, I had pulled my hair band off my wrist and put my hair back as I shuffled towards the kitchen. Things Santana loved - warm tea and kisses from me. I could do this.
"Santana?" I called softly, a small tray holding a mug in and a plate of cookies in one hand as I bumped my hip lightly against the door. I peered in and found a large, lumpy form bundled up in the bed. No reply.
I moved to set things down on her desk, noticing a bag was propped up at the base of it and that her computer was no longer on the desk. The headphones had moved from their place earlier, strewn across the surface with less care than they had been placed before, the cord hanging off the edge instead of neatly wrapped. Definite signs of life had occurred in this room, but I still had to seek out the source.
"Hey," I hummed quietly, climbing into her bed and peeling back the covers to see if I could find my girlfriend. Sure enough, bundled up in the fluffy comforter, Santana was curled up in a small, tight ball, purple fluff wedged between her limbs and pulled close to her chest. She was breathing softly, her hair pulled back in a pony with a few strands out of place. She was wearing her day clothes, something I'm sure she wouldn't be happy about any other day, and her brow was creased just so. I could tell she had fallen into an uneasy slumber.
Waking her would startle her, for sure. So I settled on scooting up gently behind her and delicately draping an arm over her so I could spoon her. She made a soft sound and rubbed her face into her pillow.
"Britt…" she huffed softly. A sleepy sound or a waking one? I wasn't sure.
"I'm home," I whispered softly.
"Mhm," she hummed, her hand raising weakly. Her hand floundered in the air, and I lifted my arm to grasp it. She took it and held it to her chest, or rather, Jeremy's head that was resting on her bosom.
"Welcome home…" she uttered sleepily.
"Long day?" I knew it was, but I wanted to gauge how awake she actually was.
"Yeah…"
I shifted as carefully as I could to lean forward and press a kiss to her temple. I held there for a moment and felt her squeeze my hand. As I pulled back, I saw her eyes flutter open a bit. She looked up at me, giving me the weakest attempt at a smile she could muster.
"Sorry I missed you for lunch."
"It's okay," she murmured. "I wasn't really hungry."
"Rachel made you food though?"
"Yeah…"
"And you ate it?"
"A little…"
I expected as much. A small sigh escaped my lips.
"Are you hungry now?" I nudged my nose to her cheek, because I could tell she was falling back asleep.
"Mhm," she nuzzled back. I couldn't quite tell if that was a yes or a no.
"You shouldn't sleep too much during the day, or we'll have trouble sleeping tonight."
"Okay." She sniffed and slowly started to shift herself upright. I was expecting more resistance, but she was being surprisingly compliant with me. Encouraged, I lifted myself away from her to retrieve the snacks I'd brought up. She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest, fluffing Jeremy lightly in her lap.
"I tried to make it how you like it," I said as I handed her the mug of tea and kissed her cheek. She smiled at me again weakly and held the mug delicately with the tips of her fingers.
"You don't have a headache from your pony, do you?" I nodded at her hair. She blinked a few times and lifted her hand to pull the hair tie off. Her hair fell forward, draping her neck and she huffed a small sound before raising the mug to her lips.
"Thanks, Britt."
"Of course." I maneuvered us so that I was laying next to her, arm wrapped under so she could lean her body into me. She didn't seem intent on drinking any more tea, so I set the mug on her headrest for the bed and hugged her close. She curled into me and laid there for a long while, letting me scratch my fingers through her hair.
"Do you wanna talk about it?"
Her hand balled around the fabric of my shirt, resting just above my belly button. A sharp inhale and a light head shake gave me my answer.
"Is it okay if I talk?"
There was silence between us for a moment and I glanced down. She slowly nodded into my chest.
"Mm," I hummed and continued to drag my fingers through her hair. "I know when people hurt other people, you have a pretty strong sense of justice. And you're determined to see that through."
I ran my fingers gently over her back, tickling up and down in a steady pattern.
"Someone hurt and used a person you care about," I breathed the words out in a whisper, but I knew she could still hear me, because her grip on my shirt tightened. "That person hid away from the world, and pretended she was okay when she wasn't."
My chest heaved and I could feel her snuggle her face deeper into my side.
"Hurt people… hurt people sometimes," I murmured. "But the person that hurt Puck-"
Another squeeze.
"You can't punish her," I said softly. "She's not here anymore."
A soft sound came from her lips and I held my hand steady against her shoulder.
"You're not that person anymore, no matter what other people think. You stopped being that person when you were brave enough to stop hiding," I said quietly. "And I think that started when you bumped into me.
"Please don't punish the person I love," I squeezed her shoulder. "She needs people to be kind to her as she learns to accept herself."
I felt her shudder against me and heard a small, strangled sob escape her throat. I gazed up at the ceiling and hummed, running my hands soothingly across her back. I felt wet streaks on my own cheeks, but I did my best to stay silent.
"It's alright, Santana," I cooed. "It's alright."
I don't know how long Santana and I laid in bed together, or how long Santana had cried in my arms. It was dark by the time we had found the strength to address the light gurgling that came from our stomachs. She still barely ate anything. I made her drink water, mainly because the stains on my shirt made me believe she had expelled a lot of it crying.
We had showered, not remotely like the sensual showers we'd taken together in the past, but still full of love and care as I helped her change into clothes for bed. I made her sit up on her mattress for me while I dried her hair with a towel and then a hair dryer, before finally letting her succumb to the confines of her bed again. I had a bit more to do around the apartment - check on Lord Tubbington and such. It was still early enough that Quinn and Rachel hadn't come home yet, and I found myself absently staring out the window in the kitchen again.
What a long, long day.
I had the top of my phone pressed to my chin, my other arm resting on the counter of the kitchen island as I leaned against it. A thrum came from next to me and I looked down to see Lord Tubbington rub against my hand, nudging his way under it. I scratched him lightly, and he continued his fluid movement to drag my hand along his body.
"Lord T," I said in a whisper. "Santana's hurting."
He gazed up at me and made one of those small meows that rumbled in his throat.
"I'm not going to let her fight on her own anymore."
My fingers tickled under his chin lightly, my nails scraping his favorite spot. I set my phone on the counter and scooped him up, turning to carry him up the stairs.
My phone screen was still on when I walked away.
"We need to talk. This is Puck." — Puck
"We do. But we're doing this my way." — Brittany
A/N:
Songs:
Both of Us (ft. Taylor Swift - B.o.B
And It's Alright - Peter Broderick