10pm-11pm
Hot gusts of wind off the Hudson pushed them back toward the city's center and into the rusted doors of the club.
They'd been to so many of these in the last few months that this one didn't feel all that different. The "End of the World" rave and it felt just like last Friday's. It disgusted her. Sweat flooded the air and clogged breathing passages. Condensation from the heat of bodies moistened the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The stench of days old gym clothes clung to the air. Men approached her carelessly. They'd all say the same things.
"I live right around the corner. C'mon."
Their heavy breath was a combination of alcohol and exertion.
"Fuck off," she'd say, not even bothering to make eye contact.
Occasionally, her retorts were enough to rile some dashing young gentleman into platitudes demonizing her sexuality.
"Haven't you heard? You people are the reason for this end of the world shit."
That was probably her favorite response. She and Quinn had had a good laugh over it, since the jerk was dumb enough to approach them both at once.
Disgust, however, didn't stop Santana from coming to every last one of these raves. She was looking for something. When she was drunk, she knew exactly what she was looking for. Her addlepated, intoxicated brain allowed her to find someone who would make her forget. Her mother's voice would stop its ringing in her ears until she'd sobered. Then, when she'd wake from the girl's bed – didn't matter which girl – her mother's voice chimed louder, and louder, and louder. It shamed her out of the girl's room and into the streets. Just like it had in her sophomore year of college.
When she was sober, she was just looking for Quinn. Somehow, her time in New York had empowered her to be Quinn's protector. She controlled the switch ensuring that Quinn's last days wouldn't end too soon, as another nameless face meeting the Maker before her time had come. Before everyone's time had come.
It was apparent what Quinn was looking for. She'd been looking for it ever since she'd left Lima. Santana, frankly, was surprised that Quinn's search hadn't ended yet. Escape. That was what the hair, the smoking, the attitude, were really all about. Escape from her days as a Cheerio at William McKinley High School. Escape from the reputation she'd built as a destructive pregnant teen. Escape from the battered household that had allowed her to believe perfection was a possibility. Escape from the sweet little face she'd created and given up selfishly, selflessly.
Most nights, Quinn found escape in the arms of a nice guy in search of a girl to cross off his bucket list. Santana was glad for those nights. The guys would give her a warm smile when she approached them. They'd exchange phone numbers with her while Quinn was at the bar doing one last shot. She'd tell them to take care of her or else. They'd text her in the morning to let her know that Quinn was on her way home.
Some nights, Quinn found escape with her head buried in a dirty toilet and Santana frantically searching for "the girl with the _ hair." Anywhere from thirty minutes to four hours later, Santana would find herself tucking Quinn in with a trashcan by her side and tears ready to burst from her eyes.
One night, Santana hadn't found Quinn. It was a few months ago, just after the Announcement. Santana hadn't wanted to be a protector that night. She'd allowed herself too much indulgence and found herself the next morning on unfamiliar grounds. A mess of dirty blonde hair stuck to the pillow next to her own and for a moment her stomach dropped as she considered the possibility of having slept with Quinn.
"Baby," the girl had hoarsely whispered as she turned into Santana. Not Quinn. Her head throbbed as she tried to piece together the night before.
Santana found herself on the edge of the bed, pulling on her jeans and a t-shirt. "Sorry, I have to go," she had whispered, her back to the girl.
Just before she'd left, she had to ask. "You didn't see another girl with me? A streak of pink right here?" She fingered the bangs draping in front of her eyes.
The girl's hazy eyes blinked for ages before she shook her head and buried her face under the pillow.
She'd called Quinn more than twenty times before she'd reached their apartment. The trains were still going at the time, so it took her a little less than an hour to arrive. Quinn's bed was empty, as it so often was on "mornings after."
She'd wrung her hands until they were clammy and sweaty. She'd dialed and erased a handful of friends' numbers who Quinn would have never called.
As the sun was setting, Santana climbed to the roof.
"You're here?"
Quinn was in the same vintage flowered print, military boots, and shawl from the night before. Her skin and lips were blue in the March air.
Santana eyed the phone sitting next to her on the lounge chair.
"And you have your phone?" Her hands clenched at her sides. "What the fuck Quinn? Do you know how long I've been looking for you? I called you how many times?" She pulled a chunk of hardened snow from the ledge and threw it with a yell.
"I thought you were laid out at some serial killer's house. Or fucking OD'd on some bench in Riverside Park. I thought I was never going to see you again." She kicked at the ledge and heard the ice slip onto the concrete below.
"Earth to Quinn? Do you give a shit?"
Quinn's eyes met the fury of Santana. "I don't know." The fury decayed into sorrow. She felt the back of the lounge chair dip as Santana sat behind her, pulling her in. She leaned back against Santana for more than an hour as the sun declined.
"How many…" she hadn't spoken in hours and cleared her throat. "How many more of these sunsets are there?"
"Months." Santana whispered.
Quinn hadn't mentioned that night again. Santana worried about it on most nights that began like this one.
"So you're drinking tonight, right?" They were at the bar, shoulder to shoulder with other Realists and Fatalists drinking until oblivion.
"Yeah." She stood on her tiptoes and searched the room. It was the usual crowd for joints like this, but amplified. The speakers were just a little bit louder, the dancers twisted their bodies just a little more recklessly, the addicts wasted away just a little more publicly, the girls opened their legs just a little more easily. Although she wanted to feel, she didn't want that tonight.
Quinn pushed a clear drink into her hand and they walked to the dance floor.
A/N: It's coming.