Disclaimer: Still don't own it. Sorry.
Author's note: Hey everyone. So, here's the latest installment, covering the events of 'I'm not making out with you because I'm in love with you'. I'm sorry it's taken so long to get it to you; I had an absolutely nightmarish two weeks, where all I wanted to do was curl up underneath my covers, and then my laptop broke, so I lost everything I'd written. I don't want to sound like I'm making excuses, but I didn't wanto you to think I'd abandoned the story... Sorry! I hope you like the chapter, I'll have the next one fthe you by the end of next week.
Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid.
You regret the words the moment they pass your lips, a cautious suggestion that floats out in a voice you're desperately fighting to keep casual as her lips capture the spot below your ear, tongue tracing her initials over the flushed skin in a way you know she hopes you'll forget. It's a quiet possessiveness that Santana lets herself feel for you, one which could easily be mistaken for that of a best friend. It's one which only truly loses the veneer of friendship and shows itself for what it is in the lingering kisses her lips press against your skin, revelling in the protection closed doors provide; the tightening of her pinkie finger curled around yours as the hockey team's catcalls follow the pair of you through the corridors; or the vicious edge that creeps into her voice as she cuts into any attempt to ask you out on a 'Brittany and Santana' night. Any other night is fine, welcomed even, but not your night.
You don't know why she still feels the need to interject, to take the decision away from you. She must know by now that you'll choose her, that you'll always choose her.
You don't really understand why you even dared to suggest it; it was obvious when her eyes immediately slipped away from you at Mr Schuester's suggestion of a competition, scanning the potential duet partners scattered around the room, that she was never planning on singing with you. This is just another competition for Santana to win, another way for her to reinforce her superiority at the school (one she's clutching at fiercely now Quinn's been reinstated as Head Cheerio; you're glad the other blonde seems to be recovering from her fall last year, but you can't help but resent her slightly for the extra strain she adds on to the Latina's already trembling shoulders), even if it is in a club most of McKinley takes pleasure in deriding; she won't dare endanger that by duetting with you, not when the memory of last year's disastrous group phone call still haunts her, the mention of which still prompts the muscles in Santana's jaw to clench painfully until you sigh and change the subject. Every new victory is another block in her walls, an extra level to the tower she builds for herself, the ideal defence for somebody who needs to be in charge, to be above everybody else, yet dreads the discovery of her secrets.
An irritated huff escapes her as she pulls back, a frown pulling at her features in a way they were never designed for. You know the rest of McKinley, those who haven't been let into her trusted circle, think that this is what her face looks like all the time, lulled into believing that Santana's battle mask is the face she always wears. They don't get to see her like you do, the harsh lines smoothed out as the tension drips from her body, the troubles of the day forgotten with every circle your fingers trace on the back of her hand as the two of you slump on the couch to watch Sweet Valley High.
"First of all, there's a lot of talking going on, and I wants to get my mack on," she bites, the warning clear in her voice even as the words she won't, or can't, let herself say flit across her eyes. You never really understood what people meant when they said that the eyes are the window to the soul, not until you really looked at Santana. It's obvious how uncomfortable it makes the brunette when you do, but you could spend hours watching the barely contained storm raging behind her eyes, her irises becoming a battleground of feelings, of thoughts deemed too risky, too vulnerable, too open. It's both captivating and terrifying. You know Santana realises what you can tell from a glance into her eyes; you can almost see the itch spreading over the back of her neck before she breaks eye contact, glancing away as the barest of flushes colours her cheeks.
Your chin dips in the slightest of nods as you hold back a sigh of frustration, keeping your eyes fixed on the ceiling as you ready yourself to once again drop the matter in favour of protecting Santana. Everybody thinks that the brunette is the one who looks after you both; you know there are some who think she should just cut you loose, let you drift into the background rather than fight to keep the both of you at the top of the high school hierarchy. It doesn't hurt as much as it used to, to know how little your classmates think of you (Santana's whispered reassurances that she would never do that to you, that you're more than worth everything she does for you, sew up the holes torn into you by McKinley's mockery), but you can't blame them for their ignorance when Santana insists on locking so much of herself away. It's true, the Latina does stand up for the two of you, the feisty nine year-old who grabbed Rick Mulligan in a headlock until he apologised for knocking out your wobbly tooth now finding that her words are much more effective at cutting people down than her fists ever were.
Not that that stops her from occasionally falling back on them as a last resort, your pleas for her to stop fading into the mass of bodies which invariably gathers to watch, though whether they're unheard or simply ignored you're not sure. You know Santana's resilient - you've seen her dropped from the top of a pyramid and bounce back up with only the lightest dusting of bruises, any pain ignored as she launches a scathing criticism at the girls who dared let her fall - but your breathing still stutters every time she throws herself into a confrontation. The brunette's exaggerated confidence disguises how small she truly is, and you can never stop yourself worrying that this will be the time her recklessness lands her with a serious injury, your protector felled by her misguided faith in her own invincibility.
You'll never tell her that though. Best friends don't say those kinds of things to each other.
It's not the external that scares Santana. She can always know where she stands in an argument; she's either right or wrong, she wins or she loses. It's not that it scares you either, but the Latina has always been the better out of the pair of you at dealing with confrontation. It's what lies inside her own head which terrifies your best friend. The uncertainty of emotion, the vulnerability that ripples through her whenever things between you threaten to fall over the barrier into intimacy... McKinley would be shocked to see the mighty cheerleader so shaken.
You gently increase the pressure of your hands on Santana's back, directing her attention back to where it was focused before you foolishly decided to speak, an implicit agreement to let the matter rest wrapped up in the gesture. Much of what passes between the two of you is silent communication, your relationship at times more tactile than verbal. Words can't be misconstrued if nothing is said, and Santana can often be reassured more easily by you hooking your pinkie round hers than by anything you say, comfort found in the familiarity of the touch. You often fail to find the right words to say, or at least she says you do, her mouth spitting out harsh words of rejection even as her eyes soften in gratitude. These days you hesitate before letting loose the soft words that ring of your affection, unwilling to watch them bounce off the walls with which the Latina surrounds herself. It's not that you don't want to say them - the words are ready to flow from your tongue as eagerly as they did in your first year at McKinley - but you've learnt that Santana is trying to convince herself that she doesn't want to hear them, that she doesn't need the love of her best friend to patch up the parts of her worn through by the exhaustion of maintaining the same act every day.
She confuses you. And she frustrates you.
Santana dips her head again, lips grazing against the patch of skin to which she was paying such close attention earlier, and you sigh breathily at the touch. One day, one day you'll manage to get her to open up to you; you feel you deserve it, loyalty to the Latina having spanned more than a decade. It's not a blind admiration, as some people assume. You don't agree with everything she does, and you have ways of telling her you're not pleased, that the last insult was too harsh, that she's been targeting the same freshman for too long, but you know Santana depends on you just as much as you do on her. You can see the motivations for nearly everything she does, fingernails digging into palms as her brain is consumed by the intensity of her planning.
Your focus is dragged back to the present when you feel the absence of her body, the welcome weight she splayed over your chest missing. You're confused. You thought the two of you had agreed to let the matter rest, to ignore defining the vague boundaries of your relationship in favour of trading kisses, but the scoff that falls from her lips as she pushes herself to sit up, her back towards you, shows that what you said is anything but forgotten.
"Besides, I'm not making out with you because I'm in love with you and want to sing about making lady babies."
You don't miss the catch in her voice as she speaks, the tremble loud against the quietness of your room as her voice tightens around the words. You're too lost to think how to respond, torn between various reactions, and your mouth forms silent sentences as your eyes gaze blankly at the red cheerleading uniform stretched across her back, the vivid colour mocking you with its reminder of Santana's concern for her reputation. Disbelief wars with a frustration you're no longer sure is justified; can you really let yourself be hurt by the brunette when it's so clear that she's cocooning herself in just as many lies as she spins to you? You've never considered that Santana may be in love with you, not until the denial slips out of her mouth preemptively. You always thought that she has feelings for you that stretch beyond friendship, an idea which terrifies her, but never did you imagine that the same feelings that cloud your mind, the romantic clichés that reek of a lack of originality in the movies coming true whenever you see her, float around hers too. You love Santana; how you feel about her is the thing of which you're most sure, a definite fact to cling to for reassurance when the other pieces of your life crash into a confused mess. The idea that the Latina could love you back, even if she is sitting there denying the very same thing, sends your mind spiralling, heart thudding along with the slowly building excitement that flickers in your chest.
"It's just that Puck's been in the slammer for about twelve hours now, and I'm like a lizard. I need something warm beneath me otherwise I can't digest my food," Santana continues, seemingly taking your silence as a sign that you aren't going to react. A bitterness seizes your throat at the mention of the Jewish boy, lips curling as the acrid taste coats your mouth. You knows it's purely petty jealousy, that there's no real basis for your dislike - you did, after all, sleep with him last year. But just because it's petty doesn't mean you have to get over it; you've always tried to ignore Santana's boyfriends' faults before, in the vain hope that they were making her happy, but this time the resentment stems from the fact that he can do something you can't. Puck is the one who gets to curl his arm protectively around the brunette in the corridor, who gets to show up to parties with her on his arm, who can kiss her at school, sloppy embraces that are more about the mohawked boy than anything Santana likes. You have to force yourself to be content with pinkie fingers and locked doors.
"Then who are you going to do a duet with?" you mutter petulantly, your eyes dropping to look at your rumpled bed covers as you roll onto your side, head resting wearily on your palm. You try to ignore the smirk you can see pulling up the corner of her mouth.
"Wheezy."
"Mercedes? But you don't like each other."
"And?" Santana shrugs, hands pulling her hair back into the constrictive ponytail, taming any sign of what the two of you have been up to. "You don't have to like someone to recognise that you would sound amazing with them. Plus, she's not that bad...I just like getting a reaction."
"What about me?" you sigh softly.
She shrugs again, glancing over her shoulder at you with the barest of frowns furrowing her brow. You swallow thickly and look away, not wanting the Latina to see how much you're hurt; this is worse than her not wanting to sing with you, the careless shrug wounding you in a way Santana probably doesn't realise. She's always made plans for the both of you, always made sure to involve you in all of her considerations, and even if you decided to do something different, it still warmed you to know that she cared.
Santana has never felt so distant.
You roll onto your other side just as she pushes herself to her feet, wrapping your arms around yourself as unwelcome tears sparkle at the corners of your eyes. You're tired of this game for tonight, tired of second-guessing everything you plan to say, of trying to decipher the meaning behind Santana's words, trying to match them up to her actions, the involuntary ones she can't control. You're tired of the whole thing; part of you wants to rage at her, to launch your frustrations at the girl who is the root of them all, but the other part of you - the bigger part - just wants her to leave.
"Goodnight, Santana," you murmur, keeping your voice quiet so she can't hear the hurt that stains every word. You absentmindedly remember to remind your dad to fix the floorboards in your room when you hear them creak as the Latina shifts her weight uncertainly from one foot to the other. You can picture the look on her face perfectly, from the white teeth digging into her full lower lip to the deepening furrow between her eyebrows. Minutes pass and Santana still stands there; you're tempted to repeat yourself, knowing the hint for her to leave would be less subtle the second time round, when you feel a tentative hand stroke up and down your arm gently.
"Night, Britt," she whispers in return, yet more unspoken words clouding the ones that actually do leave her mouth. The hand falls from your arm after a few seconds and you wait, wondering if Santana is going to say, or do, anything else before you hear two quiet clicks, your bedroom door pulled open then gently shut.
You know your actions shine with pettiness the next day as you're pushing Artie through the corridors, clammy hands gripping the handles to his wheelchair as you prepare yourself to see the Latina. It's probably cruel to the disabled boy too, allowing him to imagine a relationship between the two of you that will last longer than a day, but Santana and Quinn had spent sophomore year drumming the realisation into you that it was your greatest bargaining chip in this school.
(It's a idea that makes you shiver with disgust when you spend too long thinking about it, but you'd do anything to see Santana proud of you.)
For once, you want to be the one who holds all the power, to show the Latina how it feels to have the decision ripped away from her. You can't deny the perverse thrill you feel at the flash of jealousy that crosses your best friend's face when she sees you, or the addictive feeling of power that ripples through you when you gesture at your chest before shaking your finger at her, but as you're wheeling Artie away, his rambling monologue about teaching you to play video games drifting into the white noise of McKinley, you can't help but feel like you're betraying her.
Author's note (2): So there you go; I hope you enjoyed it. Any thoughts (positive, negative or somewhere in between!), please don't hesitate to drop me a review. I love hearing from you guys. Thanks!