A/N: Hola beautiful people. I love you all. I hope you like this chapter.
Also, for those who have asked, I AM definitely continuing Fate on Fire. I've just been busy with life, and when inspiration strikes, lately it's been for this story.

Enjoy.

Chapter II

Quinn's POV

"Freak."

I flinched, stumbling over air as I turned the corner, my shoulder bumping hard into the lockers before I steadied myself and flew down the hallway. The sound of my panting, of my heart pounding, of my Toms slapping the waxed floor, echoed through the empty school.

"Pervert."

I cringed, ducking down and swerving, as though it would help me deflect the sound of my mother's coldly apathetic voice. There was a light at the distant end of the hallway, the door to freedom.

"Run harder, you sloppy excuse for a miserable athlete!" screamed Coach Sylvester's voice from somewhere behind me, and I was startled again, tripping over my own feet. My left shoulder slammed hard into a locker again, the lock combination bruising my forearm and sending pain shooting through the entire limb. I sank my teeth into my bottom lip to stop myself from crying out, giving an agonized huff of breath and clapping a hand to my wounded arm as I hurried on, an inexplicable limp to my gait now.

There was an eerie silence, but I was almost there. The light spilling from the crack was growing; the door was slowly opening—

As I released my arm to stick my hand out to push the door open the rest of the way, a figure sprang to being beside me. My eyes widened and my mouth fell open into a perfect comical 'o' as I took in the view of my father, dressed in his Sunday best, staring at me with wild, furious eyes, a vein throbbing in his thick neck.

"You disgust me. May God have mercy on your soul."

The words felt like a physical wound inflicted straight into my heart, and I saw my father raise a hand as though to strike me, but then I was falling forward, through the open doorway and into the warm sunlight.

Deafening cheers met me. I blinked in the light and straightened, my limp and the pain in my shoulder and heart suddenly forgotten. My face broke out into a smile when I saw my best friend facing me, laughing with her arms open wide, gesturing to all that was behind her. There was what looked like a dozen white-clothed tables, decorated with bowl beyond bowl laden with French fries with many familiar faces surrounding them. Coach Tenaka was throwing bits of fries at a cowering Ms. Pillsbury, Mr. Shuester was dressed in a tailcoat, waltzing with Rachel Berry, Mercedes Jones was pointing at her cell phone and laughing hysterically with Kurt Hummel and Tina Cohen-Chang while Artie Abrams wheeled around them in wide circles.

"Happy Birthday, Q!" greeted Santana as she came to meet me. She took my hand and led me down the stairs while I looked around, marveling.

"You did this?" I asked, shifting my wondering smile onto her.

Santana was wearing light blue pajamas, the same ones that Finn Hudson and Noah Puckerman, who were currently lounging in the chairs, were wearing too, as they alternated winking at me between blowing kisses from puckered lips.

"Of course! You wanted a surprise party didn't you?" said Santana, beaming at me.

"Well, you know I don't really care for them, actually, I would have much rather had it be just me and you doing something…" I said ruefully, running a hand through my hair after I saw Santana do the same. "Maybe we could go watch a movie, or…"

Santana was suddenly no longer smiling. Her eyes were fixed intently on my mouth, and I shivered as my stomach flipped, pulled like someone was dragging a fist through it.

"The 'or' was what I was looking for. I know you want to kiss me, so why don't you just do it already? I know you want to kiss me, Quinn," she whispered, and I felt like I had caught fire when she leaned toward me, her eyes fluttering closed, her lips pursing, her voice echoing, "Quinn….Quinn….Quinn…"

"Quinn!"

God, was that really me making those moaning sounds?

I opened my eyes to pressing darkness, the weight on my shoulder pushing into me again. Santana had shaken me awake. She let go of me and I felt the mattress tilt as she leaned off to the side. A moment later there was a click, and the lamp turned on.

I frowned, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the light. Santana propped herself up on one arm to mimic my frown, her voice a sleepy rasp as she said, "What's up? You having a bad dream?"

My cheeks flushed, and I prayed Santana was too tired to notice. Usually she slept like a log through the night, so I didn't understand how me moaning in my sleep would have woken her up. Unless it had been super loud. I resisted the urge to screw my face up in embarrassment. God.

Well, it hadn't exactly been a bad dream. Not by the end of it, anyway. But the beginning had been something akin to a nightmare….I recalled the look on my father's face as he disowned me, and I shuddered, my skin prickling as it grew cold. "Yeah," I grunted, my voice gravely with exhaustion. Santana and I had gone to bed quite late, after all.

Santana's brow creased in concern. I tried not to suck in a breath too obviously as she scooted closer to me, dropping an arm around my waist. This was normal, I reminded myself. We've done this since we were seven years old. Friends did this, they cuddled.

Did friends constantly have wet dreams about each other? another voice said slyly in my ear.

I mentally cringed. Well, no, but I was sure there was some explanation for my recent unfortunate tendency of my friend playing highly non-friendly roles in my dreams.

"What about?" asked Santana. Fear clutched my insides before I remembered she didn't know that I'd just dreamt about kissing her.

"Um…my dad…" I mumbled, turning my face into Santana's shoulder when she made a tut of concern and wrapped both arms around me.

"I'm sorry, Q," she murmured, absently stroking a hand down my arm. I wondered if she realized she left goose bumps in her wake.

"It's okay." She obviously did, because she pulled the blanket up to cover me, clearly taking it for me being cold. She took my hand and intertwined our fingers, and I hated myself for the slight smile that it gave me.

"Love you, Q," she sighed. She was falling back asleep.

I chewed on the inside of my lip, my brow furrowed. The lamplight was still on, and I could see the elegant curve of Santana's tanned neck meeting her shoulder. What a problem, when you couldn't even say "I love you" back to your best friend simply because you feared there were other implications swirling around the back of your mind when you said it.

One thing was for certain, I thought as I snuggled in closer to Santana, closing my eyes to settle in for sleep again. Something was seriously wrong with me.

I woke the next afternoon with Santana's hair in my face. I was ashamed at how disappointed I was when I discovered that we had stopped holding hands at some point in the night, though the fact was almost made up for by how she had an arm slung over my chest. Still half-asleep, I sighed and rolled over, bringing my legs up to curl into her, nuzzling my nose into her shoulder.

Unfortunately, that woke Santana. She turned onto her side, facing me, and blinked sleepy eyes at me. Then she gave me a small, lazy smile, and I felt butterflies explode in my belly.

The repulsion that arose within me at my sudden urge to kiss Santana wasn't as strong as it had once been. Instead, I only felt a small twinge of guilt, as I smiled back at her and wondered what would happen if I just leaned forward and pressed our smiles together.

"You had another nightmare last night," she noted softly.

I gave her a half-hearted apologetic grimace. I couldn't remember very much of the dream now, save for my father's face and Santana leaning in toward me…

"Maybe it's from eating too late. They say that makes you dream," she said thoughtfully. It only took her looking up at the ceiling for me to know she was trying to think of everything we had eaten yesterday.

"Don't even try," I said in amusement. She grinned sheepishly at me. "I don't even know what I had for dinner last night, let alone all the crap we ate throughout the day."

"Oh, Jesus, you're a wimp." Santana was full-out grinning tauntingly at me now. I groaned as she got to her knees and started jumping on the bed. I supposed it was my punishment; usually I was the early morning riser, and I tended to be as perky and annoying as possible to make a grumpy Santana laugh whenever we spent the night at one another's houses, which was at least twice a week, usually.

Santana and I had been best friend for years, and she was undoubtedly the most special person in my life, along with my older sister Fran. When we weren't ruling the school together, we could usually be found making dorky jokes (or pervy ones in Santana's case), or just hanging out cheesing at each other. She was my best friend in the world and I loved her dearly. Of course, lately I had begun to question how exactly I loved her, but that was an entirely complex place I wasn't sure I was ready to delve into just yet. In fact, I didn't know if I ever would be…

Because I wasn't a stupid person. I knew what me having butterflies in my stomach every time I was around Santana meant. I knew what the fact that her smile could make my heart pound meant. I knew what me moaning her name at night with my hand between my legs meant. I just didn't understand how it had come to this.

I couldn't pinpoint the exact moment my feelings for Santana had shifted. Believe me, I'd tried, but there was no certain moment that I could think of, no "aha!" instant of clarity in which I magically realized in happenstance that I had a thing for my best friend. It was like a gradual thing. For years we had casually draped our arms around one another when we sat on the couch watching a movie, and then I realized that for the past summer, I looked forward to our movie nights more for the intimacy than I did the movie itself. Then came the startling realization that, hey, I see Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie making out in Mr. and Mrs. Smith, but what would happen if we kissed like that?

No harm in trying, right?

I wish it were as easy as that. For the past few months, I had been struggling with keeping a tight lock on my confusing feelings. I didn't understand why every time Santana looked sad I wanted to kiss her sadness away. I didn't understand why every time I brushed Santana's hair, I was overcome by the urge to swoop down and fix my lips to her neck. I didn't understand why I would open my locker to get my books before class and would be suddenly overwhelmed with sweeping images in my mind of pressing Santana against these lockers and kissing her, touching her. I didn't understand why I was always looking at her, and why that one time during Cheerios' conditioning when she caught me staring at her from the ground where she was doing her pushups, I couldn't manage even a sheepish smile to sate her curiosity, and I only felt a spark of excitement at the way her brows contracted in puzzlement. None of it made any sense. She was Santana, my friend; by all accounts she should be sisterly to me, as close as we were. But I just…I didn't understand it, but I wanted her in the ways I was supposed to want Finn, my boyfriend. It just didn't make any sense.

On most nights, I prayed for God to show me where I had went wrong, what my sin was in all this. There was no reply, but that was okay. God worked in mysterious ways. Homoerotic thoughts were probably my punishment for that time I stole Frannie's favorite hair ribbon when we were kids. I would just have to suffer the threat of Hell until my karma ran out. That made sense, right? Everything was fine, right?

My jokes were so not funny, even to myself.

"Go make me an omelet," said Santana, collapsing back down onto the bed. She grinned wider when I snorted in laughter.

"You have hands. You go make me one."

"Come on," pleaded Santana, yawning and arching her back off the bed as she stretched out. I fought to keep my eyes from lowering to travel the length of her lithe body, garbed only in silky shorts and a tank top. I was a terrible person for having these thoughts, but I couldn't help it. "I'll give you a dollar."

"Is that all my omelets are worth?" I said, amused. "Or is a dollar the going rate for a maid these days? I'll have to ask my father."

"Well, it would be more if you had one of those maid costumes." Santana cracked an eye open, smirking wickedly at me. I arched a brow in response. Yet another startlingly gay comment by Santana Lopez…

"You wish," I teased, but my face grew hot because now I was imagining all sorts of things, so I rolled over and leapt out of bed, shooting Santana a silly face over my shoulder as I hurried toward the kitchen.

Twenty minutes later, we both sat at the dining room table with omelets steaming on the plates before us. We were laughing over Santana's impression of Rachel Berry being affected by eating eggs when Frannie strolled inside, her brows rising in surprise when she saw us.

"Are you guys seriously just now eating breakfast?" She pointed at the time blinking on the microwave, and Santana and I both crumpled into giggles once more. "You lazy bums. You better start getting ready soon, Quinnie, Dad said we're leaving for the Banquet at four."

"Ugh no, I didn't know there was a banquet today!" I groaned, leaning my head back against my chair. My father's work banquets were the most boring events ever.

Frannie, who was currently nosing around in the pan that I used for omelets, jerked a thumb toward the fridge behind her. I scowled when I read the scrawl on the calendar.

"I didn't see that."

"It's been up there for a month," said Frannie as she scraped a bit of egg out of the pan with a finger, popped it into her mouth.

I glowered at her until she caught my eye. She rolled hers, smiling in exasperation. "Geez, Quinnie, if you don't want to go, just make up an excuse. You can't say that you didn't notice. Especially since Mom was the one who told me to remind you."

"We could go to Puck's bonfire," suggested Santana. I looked at her over the table, frowning. She narrowed her eyes at me in response. "Oh come on. It'd be a great way to say fuck you to Finn."

"Watch your damn language," joked Frannie, and Santana snickered.

My cheeks puffed out as I exhaled sharply. "Yeah, I guess, but…"

"But what?" Santana sent me a taunting grin, her mouth full of omelet. "Don't tell me that the Quinn Fabray is tired of socializing?"

I arched a brow. "You don't think seeing them every single day is enough?"

She snorted. "More than enough. When you count Rachel Berry, it's practically a fucking crime."

I shook my head, smiling slightly at the way Frannie giggled. Santana's foul mouth always made her laugh, for some reason. Probably because we grew up having parents that thought proper little ladies should never curse. "Well, we can if you really want to. I don't care."

"Wait a minute, you had another fight with Finn?" asked Frannie; clearly what Santana had said had only just now sank into her.

Santana gestured toward me, and I fidgeted under Frannie's shrewd gaze. Lately, Frannie and Santana's favorite hobby was teaming up on me to tell me I should dump Finn and date someone better.

"What did he do this time?"

"He's throwing a fit for me to go to the bonfire with him tonight. I told him I can't because Dad's flying in today."

"Yeah, but Dad's going to be at the banquet tonight," Frannie reminded me. "So it's either the banquet or the bonfire."

I dropped my half-finished omelet down on the plate, making a noise of frustration. "Ugh! If I go to the banquet, I'm going to be bored. If I go to the bonfire, Finn gets his way."

"Not necessarily! Like I said, it'll be a slap in his face. Because you won't be going there with him, you'll be hanging out with me. And we all know you'd rather have my cool ass company than his anyway," ended Santana with her upper lip curling in the slightest sneer. I smiled faintly, amused at her inexplicable hatred for Finn Hudson. She had never liked him.

"Alright," I finally conceded, and Santana grinned while Frannie dived back into the pan of egg remains. "But I can't get too drunk."

"Yeah, because I'll kick your butt," said Frannie absently as she began looking around for a spoon to scrape the pan with.

But I risked a glance at Santana over the table, and she winked at me before taking a huge bite of omelet.

Why did God bless some people more than others?

It was a question I often speculated. Usually, it swirled around my mind as my gaze lingered on the reflection blinking resentfully back at me in a cracked mirror, and continued to swirl endlessly, because the words tasted too bitter in my mouth to voice aloud. Why did He give me this face? The golden hair, the long-lashed doe eyes, the sculpted cheekbones—I was not egotistical (not all the time, anyway) but I was aware of how generically attractive I was. So was everybody else. So were the awkward adolescent girls who glared at me with acrimonious envy clearly etched into every acne-riddled line of their chubby faces as I glided past them in the hallways of my school as though if I held my nose up high enough in the air, I could actually convince myself they were just ghosts I could will into nonexistence. So were the tall and lanky, short and stubby boys who ogled after me so shamelessly they practically emanated waves of lust potent enough to nearly overpower the reeking BO and overwhelming AXE cologne (there seemed to be no in-between).

Why did He bless Mike with such insane dance skills? Why did He bless Puck with abs clearly made straight from a Greek sculpture? Why did He bless that annoying Rachel Berry with a voice meant only for the very best of brightly-lit stages? Why did He bless Santana with pretty much everything anyone could hope to be blessed with?

I mean seriously, it was almost ridiculous; the girl was on an entirely higher plane of being from the rest of us. A clever mind and a sharp tongue, striking beauty, a husky, sensual voice, fierce athletic prowess, a refreshingly filthy sense of humor… (though I'd never admit that, of course. She was my best friend, but her head didn't need that much inflating). And the question was, why? What was the point? Why did we all even exist in the first place?

It was a question that had haunted me for as long as I could remember, and some nights, it still kept me up wondering if I was going to be asking it for the rest of my life.

"Q, are you even paying attention to me?"

I jolted, tearing my gaze away from the vanity mirror to instead settle upon Santana. She was glaring at me from where she was lounging on her bed, only her eyes and the top of her head visible over the Cosmopolitan magazine she had been reading aloud.

"Sorry." I smiled apologetically, hoping it would soften her up, but it only made her narrow her eyes. Santana and I had been best friends for too long, so consequently she knew me too well. She was probably the only person I couldn't sweet-talk.

"Don't make me kick your ass," she warned, and I laughed, moving off the chair to lie beside her on the bed. Her weight tipped toward me slightly as I sank into the mattress, and our sides pressed together.

"Okay, okay. Sorry. Where were we?"

"I had just reached the juicy part. And I mean literally juicy, she shoved a peach up her vagina," she added, gesturing at the article in explanation. I made a face.

"Ew, Santana, come on? Like I needed to know that."

Santana's smirk was as wicked as her wiggling brows. "At least it wasn't another cucumber."

"Ugh."

"Okay, fine, we don't have to read it. If you're ready, we can just go."

I sighed, glancing at my reflection again. I opened my mouth to say I guess, but before I could, Santana cut across me. "No, don't do that."

"Do what?"

"That thing you do." She motioned toward the mirror.

"What thing?" I muttered defensively, but I ducked my head down in guilt, pretending to be absorbed in the magazine. Santana snapped it shut, forcing me to lift my gaze to hers again.

"Where you look at yourself like you don't see it."

"See what?"

She was looking at me with that look in her eyes again. I felt my stomach contract, tighten with a low sweep. I sank my teeth into my bottom lip as I held her gaze. Why did this happen all the time? Why did she make me feel like this?

"You know what."

I couldn't resist a challenge, I really couldn't, and I could hear it in her voice. I arched a brow. "Tell me."

"No." She watched me in silence for a second, and I watched back. I was torn between whether the look in her eyes was wariness or curiosity. Maybe it was both.

"Show me," I ventured. Her eyebrows lifted, just a fraction, and my eyes couldn't stray from the movement of her full lips parting.

And here was that moment, where our words hung in the air and the tension solidified it so much so that we could hardly breathe. It would just take a simple movement. Just my head, a couple inches forward, and I could finally taste her lips. Just that one movement and I could kiss my best friend, who had been driving me crazy for an immeasurable amount of time—

"Hey, girls, are you hungry?"

Santana and I both swiftly leaned away from one another, Santana fumbling to open up her Cosmo magazine while I pretended to be fascinated with my nails. Ms. Lopez cracked the door open, popping her smiling face in to say, "I'm about to put some chicken nuggets in the oven if you want any."

"No thanks, Mami," said Santana in an overtly airy voice. "We're about to go out to hang out with the team."

"Oh, okay." Ms. Lopez disappeared, then reappeared half a second later. "Have you talked to your Dad today?"

Santana cleared her throat, silent for a beat too long. "No, he's probably busy."

"Mmm. Well, you girls have fun today."

"Thank you Ms. Lopez," I said with a smile, watching her retreat. I looked at Santana, who was avoiding my eye contact.

Santana's parents had divorced when we were both kids. She had never been particularly close to her father, but she had at least been closer to him when he used to live with her. Once they divorced, she lived with her mother and grandmother and her father moved to Cincinnati to work as the general surgeon at Christ Hospital, and Santana eventually went from seeing him every other weekend to seeing him every other month. He was notorious for not answering her calls, and despite how blasé she tried to act about how much of a jerk he was, I knew it really, truly bothered her. And that broke my heart.

I could only assume that Santana's father was being a dick today, so I leaned forward to save her by saying gently, "We can leave now if you want."

She closed the magazine again and let it slide to the floor before hopping to her feet. "About time. You take forever to get ready."

"Me?" I said indignantly, taking her hand as she helped me off the bed. "You were the one who made us late leaving my house earlier!"

"Yeah, but that's just because I didn't feel like having to deal with your dad giving me the shifty eyes, so I had to listen to Frannie jabber on about Harry Potter instead." I started to give her a withering glare, but she had that infuriatingly gorgeous smile fixed on me, so instead I just gave a huff of breath and led the way out of her room.

I knew I shouldn't have agreed to come to this stupid bonfire.

Everyone was already trashed, of course, and Finn kept being annoying and hovering nearby me, even when I finally snapped and snarled at him to leave me the fuck alone. Of course, then he just shouted back that he was "just trying to talk!" and I had to scream at him until I was red-faced and fuming, and Finn mumbled and muttered under his breath about "what a girl" I was being until Puck pushed a third can of beer into his big, clumsy hands and he started stumbling around on the beach playing football with the rest of his football team instead. Parties were so much more enjoyable when I could be drinking too, and considering what a dick Finn had been acting like, I definitely wanted to be drunk right now, but my father had just flown in this morning so he was already irritable, and I didn't want to go home and meet him after his banquet and let him catch me smelling like alcohol. He wouldn't notice a little, but he would definitely notice if I reeked of it. Or of puke. In which case, I prayed to God that no one would vomit on me.

Right now, the only danger of that happening lay in my best friend. From the moment Ms. Lopez had asked Santana if she'd spoken to her father, she had became withdrawn, quiet, and grumpy. The moment we arrived at bonfire, she took a beer from Puck and dropped her towel in the sand to go wade through the lake shoreline. Now, though, she was on fast track to getting drunk off her ass, or so it seemed. By midnight, I had had more than enough (but in a way, not enough) of seeing her running around in her bikini top and short denim shorts, giggling and randomly dropping her phone, nearly plummeting it into the water twice and once almost accidentally tossing it into the fire. I wasn't sure exactly what was wrong with her, but it wasn't too hard to guess. I supposed I would just wait until she was ready to tell me.

Damn it, not again. I sighed as I got to my feet; I had been watching Santana through the fire as she meandered along the shoreline again, and it looked like she had her phone in her hand again.

"San," I called out. She didn't turn at my voice, so I just hurried forth in vague exasperation, taking her phone out of her hand and stuffing it into one of the pockets in her shorts. "Geez, you smell like booze, San. Come on, let's go sit down by the fire."

"I have vodka." She lifted the bottle and offered it to me as I hooked an arm around her and started to steer her back towards the bonfire.

"Let's sit down first," I said, making a mental note to not let her have another bottle after that.

"What a good friend you are," said Santana, and for some reason she found that hilarious, and laughed nearly the whole way across the shore.

Santana's drunken peals of laughter echoed across the beach as she tripped over Shane Tinsley. He was passed out drunk, and the plastic blue cup he loosely gripped in his hand was tipped over; half of the liquid was now soaked into the side of his shirt. I pressed my hand more firmly into the small of Santana's back and determinedly led her toward the bonfire flickering in the distance.

There was only one more casualty, which wasn't too significant considering it was just Santana driving her heel into Dave Karofsky's balls as she walked over him, but either way I was relieved when we finally reached the fire.

In all honesty, it was almost surprising that I was the one taking care of Santana. Considering my blowout with Finn today, I had kind of planned on getting trashed myself, though as I mentioned before, my father being here kind of ruined that from happening. Yet Santana had been the one to down four shots and steal a bottle of straight vodka from Puck's stash. She had been acting weird anyway, ever since her mom mentioned her father to her, and I suspected the fact that it was her father's birthday must have something to do with it.

"Santana, you should move from there," I warned when she plopped down directly in front of the fire. I sighed when she didn't listen. "Okay, let's scoot you back a little." I swaddled my arms around her stomach so I could pull her back an adequate distance. I remained standing for a moment, watching to make sure she would lean back against the logs and not try to scoot nearer to the fire.

"It's hot, but it feels nice," murmured Santana, raising an arm and bearing a palm toward the warmth.

I eased down onto the log beside the one Santana was leaning against. "Be careful, San." Santana nodded, taking another drink of the vodka.

I narrowed my eyes as I watched her for another moment, deliberating how best to take the vodka from her without causing her to throw a fit to keep it. She'd had too much though. I studied her expression carefully. Her jaw was clenched, the muscles thrown into relief by the firelight, illuminating every beautifully etched contour of her face. My best friend was so…stunning. She was gorgeous.

Fuck, my heart was beating fast. It had been all night, ever since she first peeled her shirt off and I watched her wading through the water in that skimpy red bikini top and shorts. My mouth tightened at the thought of it, at the fact that I was thinking that way about my best friend, about a girl. Why did she make me feel like this?

"Give," I finally said, extending a hand and waggling my fingers, hoping that would let her know I wasn't too serious.

Santana held the bottle to her chest and huddled over, half turning as though that would hide it from my view and my mind. "Don't take it away," she implored, but I ignored her and reached beneath her arm, gripping the bottle tightly and yanking it free. She aimed a glare at me, but I just shook my head, raising the bottle to my mouth.

"Relax. I just want to share."

"Oh."

We sat in silence for a while, no noise except the sputtering fire. I chewed on my lip, wondering how best to begin the conversation I knew we needed to have. Something had upset Santana enough that she decided to get trashed off her face, so clearly I had to get it out of her. It was obvious who it was regarding. Santana's father was an asshole. Maybe even more of an asshole than my own father. "So," I began nonchalantly, setting down the bottle before I drew my towel around me more snugly. "You wanna tell me what has you so upset?"

"Nothing," said Santana at once. There was a crease between her brows, and the corners of her lips were tilted down. She was really upset, but she would open up to me soon, I was sure of that. I watched as she drew her towel more tightly around her shoulders before she took the vodka again. I resisted the urge to sigh. She was going to make herself sick, and guess who would be the one holding back her hair while she vomited it all up? Not that I minded. I would take care of her always (and that was a deep and scary thought I should probably not think about right now).

Santana drank a long swig and shut her eyes. I waited, watching her. "My dad is a man," she finally muttered, and opened up her eyes to level her pained, glossy gaze onto me.

Not a surprise, but I figured Santana would appreciate it if I at least tried to lighten it up with a joke. I arched a brow. "Well, I assumed that, Santana, seeing how he knocked your mom up and all."

Santana shook her head as she brought the bottle to her lips again. "No, no. I mean…he's a typical man. He's an ass. I haven't talked to him for three months. He didn't text me yesterday or today about the game. And it's his birthday today, and I've texted him four times and called him twice, and he hasn't answered me."

I kept my face deliberately emotionless as I listened to Santana. I knew if she knew I felt sorry for her, she would stop talking. That was always what happened with Santana. She was like me, kept her emotions bottled up. We were best friends, though, so we could talk to each other. It was just when she thought I pitied her that she would get upset. She hated it when anyone pitied her. It wasn't like I could help it. I hated seeing her upset over anything, and her dad was a jerk.

Damn it. By the way Santana was looking at me, her gaze intently focused on mine, and by the slight crease in her brows, she knew I pitied her.

"Will you stop that?" I ordered. Santana leaned back from me, clearly affronted. Damn it again.

"It's like you're trying to read my mind," I added, hoping that would appease her, but I couldn't completely keep the irritation out of my voice.

Santana frowned as she swallowed down another gulp. I bent down to snatch the vodka from her so I could take a drink myself. "I am trying to read your mind," she said. "I want to know what you're thinking."

I shifted my gaze up at the sky, stalling as I observed the stars twinkling in the sky. If she knew what I was thinking…

Hi, Santana. Generally there's a lot on my mind, and that's all down to you. Sometimes, I want to hold your hand. Sometimes, I want to slam you against the wall and kiss you, which makes no sense because you're a girl, plus you've been my best friend since we were seven. By all accounts, I should have purely sisterly feelings toward you, but instead, you're what I'm thinking about late at night, when I'm taking care of business (business that only exists in the first place no thanks to you). On top of that, most of the time I want to go track down your dad and beat him upside the head with a baseball bat, because he doesn't deserve you as his daughter, not at all. He's a selfish prick who can go choke. Of course, I can't tell you any of this, because of what you'll think of me if I do.

I gnawed on the inside of my cheek as I deliberated on how exactly to say to Santana that her dad was a douchebag. Maybe I should just be blunt about it. "I'm thinking that your dad is a dick. You shouldn't get so upset by him."

"He's my dad!" Shit. Of course that would offend her. The guy may be as asshole, but he's her asshole father. I should understand that, considering how I felt about my own father.

"No, San, I mean..." Agitated by my lack of tact, I set down the vodka in the sand and moved to sit on the log Santana was leaning against. I bent down to grasp her toweled arm and bracingly squeezed it as I said, "I mean that you don't deserve that. It's not your fault that he's like that. It's his own loss, and I know you'll still be upset, because in the end, he is your dad. But I mean you shouldn't get upset because...because I guess it's something not worth getting upset over." This was so frustrating. Why was I so terrible at comforting people? Santana always said I do great comforting her, just by my presence, but it never felt good enough to me. I wanted to completely erase her pain. My words sucked, which was ironic considering how much I loved reading and writing. Aggravated, I bent farther down, hoping perhaps that the closer my gaze got to Santana's, the more what I said would impact her. "I don't know how to explain this. It's like, I know it's your dad and that's always going to hurt, but I wish it wouldn't, I wish it wouldn't upset you so much because it's him doing that, and that's not your fault."

I stared at Santana, praying that she at least got the gist of what I was trying to say, and that it made her feel better. Instead, I found myself marveling at how beautiful her eyes looked, fringed with impossible lashes and so dark that the firelight reflecting in them appeared to turn her entire eyes gold. "Um."

God. I straightened, immediately moving back from Santana. My heart was beating rapidly in my chest, and my cheeks felt inflamed. I shouldn't have gotten that close to her, and who knows what my expression had been? I probably freaked her out. I had probably been freaking her out ever since I had been so bold flirting with her, back on my living room couch yesterday. I was usually so in control of myself, but when it came to Santana… God, it's always so hard to think around you.

Santana took a swig of the vodka and then passed it to me. "I know you're right. You're always right."

Whew. Okay, she wasn't creeped out. She'd just actually been affected by what I said. Thank God. I forced myself to relax, and smirked at Santana after taking a mouthful of the vodka. "Finally, you admit it."

Santana's brow quirked, and I knew she wasn't about to just compliment me and get away with it. "Hey, you're not always right about everything. Look at your loser boyfriend, for example."

Here we go. I knew Santana must have been waiting all night to jump into her 'I told you so!'s. I rolled my eyes, biting my tongue to resist both snarking back at her. I took another drink to keep my mouth busy.

"He's a total douche-bag. You shouldn't be with him."

"Oh, is that right?" I said, amused. I wasn't about to give her the satisfaction.

"Yes, that's right!" Santana slurred, and made a wild frown at it, as though she couldn't believe how tipsy she was. She cleared her throat. "I already tell you all the time how he's so rude and disrespectful to women. He's so sexist. He's always making those stupid women-should-make-me-a-sandwich jokes. It's so annoying. And he doesn't deserve you at all."

The soft laughter escaped before I could stop it, though I did manage to turn it into snickers behind my hand. I couldn't help it; Santana was so cute when she raged about Finn.

"I'm so serious, Q! He pressures you into having sex when you don't feel like it. If I were him I wouldn't do that to you."

Ha. "I bet you would." I smirked, winking at Santana again. Curiously, I wondered if she was really blushing, or if it was just the alcohol in her blood.

"Really," persisted Santana, clearly ignoring my comment. "You're so awesome and he's a total tool. You should dump him. He doesn't deserve you."

Jesus, Santana. It was pathetic how a simple quasi-compliment like that could make my heart pitter-patter in my chest. "Then he's a lucky tool," I joked, trying my hardest to sound totally nonchalant. I took another sip from the bottle, hoping desperately that Santana would just drop it, because I couldn't, not tonight. Not when I had spent this day all wrong. I should have woke alone in my own bed; I should have been upset at my fight with Finn. I shouldn't have woken up with an ache inside me; I shouldn't have been struggling all day to keep my eyes off my best friend's bikini-garbed body. I shouldn't be sitting here, wanting more than anything to put my mouth on hers.

"No, he's a dick," said Santana, her voice thick. "You're amazing and he's just an idiot. And he doesn't even kiss you right."

I laughed, because God she was right. Kissing Finn was what I imagined kissing a dishwasher would be like. It was a wonder I hadn't drowned in his saliva. Sometimes I wondered...was he really worth the popularity?

Or was I with him just to distract myself from...

"Honestly, Q. You're so perfect," added Santana, her voice turning almost hopeless, and I felt another long drag in my heart at her words. "And he's an asshole who doesn't deserve you. No one deserves you. You're so perfect," she repeated, and I felt my breath hitch and catch. God. Santana. What did it mean when she said stuff like that? How far did friendship go before it was blurred with…something else?

Faintly, I could hear the fire still crackling and the lake waves hitting the shore, but it was so distant to my ears. I was hyper aware of each rapid beat of my heart, of the overtly casual way I slowly drew breath in and blew it out. I was no longer smiling. I was surveying Santana, trying my best to appear sane even though there was a war raging in my mind.

I wanted to kiss her. God, I had wanted to kiss her for…

Maybe I could kiss her. After all, we'd been building up to this, hadn't we? It was inevitable, wasn't it?

Santana wasn't looking away from me. Did she feel the same way? Surely she wanted to kiss me too. I thought, when we were close to it yesterday, and earlier today, that she had looked at my lips…that she had wanted to kiss me just as much as I'd wanted to kiss her.

But God, wasn't this crazy?

I blushed as I ripped my gaze from Santana's and instead turned unseeing eyes toward the lake. I wished I knew what Santana was thinking. Did she want me to kiss her or not? What if I just did it? Just took a risk and…

But what if she didn't want me to? I couldn't bear that…. I couldn't imagine kissing her, and getting shoved away, Santana crying out "What are you doing?", the look of disgust in her face… just the thought of it was like a stab to my heart.

Santana reached over to snatch the vodka bottle back from me, and I felt a tingle move up my spine at the feeling of her tan fingers brushing mine. I sat there shivering for a moment while Santana drank the remainder of the vodka. The silence between us was stretching, and I was growing more aware of the certain charge to our atmosphere. I was trembling, my mouth had gone dry, and the ache in my heart had grown into almost a dull throbbing. It felt like someone was pushing against my stomach, pulling at my insides, panicking me with this indefinite ache that told me with every fiber of my being that I had to do something, I had to be closer to her, I had to kiss her—

Surely she wanted it too. Please, God, Santana, tell me you want this too.

I risked a glance at her. She was frowning, looking down at her lap, clearly deep in thought. What was she thinking? Was she at all affected, like I was? Fuck, what do I DO?

Maybe I could test the waters, so to speak. Just…just move closer to her, and see how she reacted.

I abruptly moved on the log, shifting closer to Santana. My left leg and left arm were almost pressed to her right leg and arm. It was crazy how such a simple touch made my skin feel like it was on fire, rippling with nerves. I didn't know if Santana wanted this, but I had never wanted anything more.

Santana, look at me. If she looked at me, I would kiss her. If she looked at me, if I could just see in her eyes that she wanted this, that she wanted me…

I fidgeted, determinedly staring out at the water, though I couldn't see anything. My jaw was as rigid as my back, but I chewed on the inside of my lower lip, thinking myself into a frenzy. Maybe I should just leave. Maybe I should just kiss her and see what she thinks. Maybe I should just ask her if I could kiss her, and see what she says.

It was almost unconsciously that I moved even closer to Santana, now sitting beside her in the sand, and I turned my head to face her. Santana's eyes were widened slightly, and they were a little glossy, but they were focused on me. I watched them flicker down to settle on my lips, and my heart jumped. She's looking at my lips, she's looking at my lips. Does that mean she wants me to kiss her too?

Santana leaned toward me just a fraction, and my heart leapt, but then she looked away. Fuck it, I can't stop, I can't—

I kept leaning forward, closing the distance Santana had started to cross; when she turned to look at me again, her breath hissed as she inhaled sharply. Our noses brushed, which must have surprised her, because she dropped the empty bottle. Biting my tongue at my own daring, I put my hand on hers and laced our fingers together.

As I gazed steadily into her dark eyes, I felt my nerves melt away.

Please let me kiss you, San.

Santana's head jerked forward marginally. I didn't move, wondering whether I should just go the distance and kiss her, or if I should let her cross the line and kiss me.

Santana's eyes darted around, and I felt lead hit my gut. Was she scared she would be caught kissing a girl? Was she worried she would be humiliated if anyone saw her kissing me?

It didn't seem to matter in the end, because she looked back at me, holding my gaze for a moment before looking at my mouth again. She closed the distance between us.

She was so beautiful. I hadn't been this close to her before, with the skin of our lips nearly touching. Unable to stop myself, I looked down at her parted lips. They looked so full, so soft…

My breathing was definitely uneven as I shifted my gaze back onto Santana's eyes. Fuck me if she wanted this, fuck me if she didn't. I couldn't help it anymore.

I angled my head back and up, moving my lips closer to Santana's, to where our bottom lips were touching. I watched Santana close her eyes, and my heart jumped again. Was she closing her eyes because she didn't want this? Or did she? Should I stop? I should stop. I should stop before I did something that couldn't be undone.

The problem was that I didn't want to. I needed to taste her. I needed to kiss my best friend because I wanted to kiss her more than I had ever wanted anything ever before in my entire life.

Please forgive me, San.

I pressed my lips to Santana's.

Oh my God. My head reeled. How could this feel so good, just the pressure of her lips on mine? I had kissed before, but what I called kissing before didn't do this justice, not even close. This was heavenly soft lips touching mine. This was fucking angelic, and this was fucking erotic.

I moved back slightly before pressing in again. It was like I wanted to relive it. I kissed her three times, and each time was as incredible as the first. I parted my lips, brushed them against hers and swallowed my own sigh as I began kissing her, my head spinning and floating like I was lost in the clouds.

Santana's mind seemed to kick in at that point; she started kissing me back. God, could she fucking kiss. She was tipsy, but the way she kissed me was more technically precise and pleasurable than anyone sober or drunk ever kissing me before.

The ache in me was on the rebound, and I felt the pull stronger in my lower stomach, felt an insistent yearning between my legs. Santana.

My heart leapt in my throat when I felt her tongue swipe across my lower lip; I parted my lips at once, and nearly whimpered as the taste of her exploded in my mouth when she dipped her tongue in to meet mine. She tasted like vodka mostly, but it was something else, something that was intrinsically her. I finally tasted my best friend, and she tasted sublime.

Santana cupped the back of my neck and tugged me closer to her, her mouth moving against mine with more insistence. I felt like I was drowning in feeling. I had never felt this much before. My heart ached, my body ached; I wanted to press even closer to her, but at the same time, there was no room to breathe. She was everywhere, burning like the brightest light, yet I wanted more of her.

I had tasted, and now I wanted to touch. I drew the towel down from Santana's shoulders, blood rushing through my veins as I traced my fingertips along Santana's skin, shoulder to wrist. Suddenly lost in my urge to touch places I was definitely sure were not appropriate to want to touch on your best friend, I clapped my grip onto Santana's side. Pleasure spiked through me when Santana's hips bucked, shifting her so close to me she was nearly in my lap, but then she broke away from the kiss, and surfacing from it was like breaking water when I desperately wanted to stay in it.

My eyes fluttered open with effort; it was like I had been in a dream and I was being forced to wake up. Fuck, Santana was beautiful. Her eyes were big and dark and gorgeous, her lips slightly swollen, her cheeks reddened, her hair mussed from where I had touched it.

I wasn't ready to stop what this was, not yet. Maybe not ever. I could happily live in this moment for the rest of my life. I was terrified as to what that meant, but I'd worry about it later.

I took a fistful of Santana's hair and tugged her back to me, closing my mouth over hers.

The ache in me just kept growing, and the hand that was on her side twitched. What would happen if I touched…?

But no, I couldn't do that. Kissing was one thing, but touching….Santana was tipsy, she might not…

Santana rolled her tongue against mine, and holy fuck. No one had done that to me before. The whimper escaped me before I even knew it was happening, and I didn't care. I bit down into Santana's bottom lip and felt the apex between my thighs throb at the resulting moan. Santana moved a hand to my own side, and I almost felt frustrated. No, I don't know if I can touch, but I know you can.

"Santana." I hadn't even meant to say her name, but I did. My voice was low and thick with need, and I hoped it told her what I wanted. You can touch me. Touch me.

Santana's lips sought a particularly tender spot on my neck for her to focus her attention on, and I blindly gripped her back, fingers scrabbling along her skin as I struggled to regulate my ragged breathing. I could feel Santana's fingers at the skin of my lower back, dancing there like she was hesitant as to whether she wanted to move them somewhere else.

I was just about to tell her "What are you waiting for?" when the person lying nearest to us suddenly moaned and stirred. Santana and I jumped to our feet and stumbled several steps back from one another. We regarded one another, and I swear just the look in her eyes and the way her chest was heaving made me want to dart over to her and peel off her clothes and fuck that's not an appropriate thought to have over your best friend who is also a girl.

"Santana?" The asshole who had woken up had rolled over and spotted Santana, who stood nearest him. I could tell even from here by his bad dye-job that it was Sam Evans.

"What?" snarled Santana, and I glared at her. Why the fuck would you talk to him? Why wouldn't you just ignore him and walk back over to me and take my hand and we could go to your car and—

Santana looked down, and the obvious humiliation and regret on her face felt like a slap to mine. Oh God, she regretted it. She didn't want me. Something was wrong, something went wrong. My stomach dropped nauseatingly fast. She didn't feel the same way.

"What time is it?"

Santana probed her pockets for her phone, fury evident on her face. My heart sank as my stomach took another sickening turn. She was angry with me now, probably. "Half past four," said Santana, and I could tell she was trying to keep the anger out of her voice, but what for? Sam was half-asleep so it wouldn't bother him. But me. I knew she was angry.

"Ugh." Sam ran a hand over sleepy face before he started to struggle to his feet. I moved over automatically to help him up, more for something to do rather than just being nice. Santana didn't move at all.

She was obviously freaking out over the fact that I just kissed her. God, she was probably disgusted with herself. Had she really wanted me back at all? Had I just imagined it because I wanted it so badly?

My eyes stung and a lump obscured my throat. I needed to get out of here as soon as possible before she saw me cry, or before she started questioning me. "Hey, look…" I let go of Sam so I could get my own phone out and stare at it to avoid eye contact with Santana. "I should probably get going. You know if my parents realize I'm gone, they'll freak out. I'll—I'll see you later." I chanced a glance at Santana, repulsed with myself when I saw the expression frozen on her face: regret.

"Okay," I heard her say softly as I turned and started walking toward the street. My house was two blocks away, and I knew I would have to deal with my heart exuding pain each step of the way.

I had thought that kissing her was all I wanted, all I needed. Now I knew I was even more fucked. Because if I hadn't known before, I did now: I was attracted to my best friend. And even worse than that, she didn't feel the same.

Why would she? I thought bitterly.

She was perfect, after all. I wasn't good enough. I would never be good enough. I should know that by now.

Even now, as I walked down the street, each step as numbing as the last, I knew what was about to happen. I would enter my home, and listen to my father telling me that I was out too late and that wasn't good enough because I should be studying instead, and my mother would tell me that I wasn't good enough because Frannie would never be out so late, and I would go up to my room and take a shower and crawl into bed and close my eyes and listen to the words "you aren't good enough" swirling around my head while tears slid down my cheeks and I imagined Santana's lips burning into mine and wished that I could be good enough for her.