The Quiet: Brittany/Santana, R
Title: The Quiet
Author: Kelsey / marliskelsey
Pairing,Character(s): Brittany/Santana, appearances from Quinn and Puck
Rating: R, for mentions of sex and some language
Word Count: 2,674
Spoilers: Through 1x22, Journey
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee. I can only dream.
Summary: Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?
A/N: Written for this prompt on the glee_fluff_meme, although it didn't really turn out terribly fluffy. I hope what fluff is there makes up for it. Takes place in their Senior Year. Un-beta'd, so all mistakes are mine. Hope you enjoy!
The quiet is where she feels the best. When there is no sound but breathing and the subtle slip of pajamas on linen sheets, and the loudest sound is the beating of both Brittany’s and her own heart.
This is where Santana is truly at peace.
The rain beats the window, a soft pitter-patter. Brittany is curled into her side, watching the TV perched at the end of Santana’s bed. Her parents and brother are at her Abuela’s house for the weekend and the fact that her senior year of high school is coming to an end is far from her mind. Perfection.
She’s almost dozing off again, despite having only woken up an hour ago.
It’s comfortable - Santana is convinced she can lie here forever, listening to the rain pound the sides of her house, feeling Brittany, solid and real, beside her in her bed.
She’s not paying attention - her eyes are drooping sleepily - when Brittany smiles up at her and reaches a pale hand out, cupping Santana’s cheek in her palm. “You’re soft, S,” she whispers.
Santana stiffens under her touch and doesn’t understand why.
--
Santana leans against the cool painted brick.
She grips the textbook tighter in her hand, all four hundred pages of seventh grade math, and stares straight ahead.
She can hear Quinn’s laugh from a few locker-lengths away. It makes her want to punch the wall.
Her laugh is light and lilting. It’s beautiful and it’s horrifying. It stands for things that Santana will never possess, like purity and poise. Never in her life has Santana been poised.
It’s not as if she resents the fact that she doesn’t have those qualities. Santana loves herself - her sarcasm and her wit (and the quiet loyalty she feels for her friends). She’s never questioned herself before, because Santana knows that she is as capable as anyone else. She’s never questioned her hold on this school’s hierarchy.
But Quinn is a new princess and Santana is the girl who thought she had the crown. Forced to the sidelines to make way for the new potential queen.
She braces herself and glances to the side.
Quinn’s smiling brightly. She always seems to be smiling. Fittingly, the early morning sunlight is filtering through the window and making a halo around her hair. Santana smirks unhappily - more proof that Quinn is some sort of angel.
The blonde’s eyes flick to where Santana is glaring at her and she flashes a grin. Santana rolls her eyes and leans deeper. She catches sight of Puck making his way towards her and the way he freezes when he sees Quinn, stunned, like he’s just accidentally looked into the sun. Quinn pays him no attention
Eyes locked with Santana’s, she moves down the hallway, graceful as ever. Her group of admirers look crestfallen as she leaves them.
Santana gives her the best look of disdain she can muster and Quinn just smiles wider, knowingly. “Can’t look away, Blondie?” she sneers. Quinn giggles.
“It’s Santana, right?” she chirps, smiling, huge hazel eyes boring into Santana’s brown ones, like she can see deep into Santana’s brain and her every secret. It makes Santana uncomfortable - she has to stop herself from squirming under Quinn’s gaze.
“Don’t wear it out.”
Quinn laughs, eyes flashing. The sweet smile on her face never slips. “Oh, trust me,” she smirks, “your name isn’t something I’m going to be concerned with saying.”
When she turns to leave, Quinn angles her shoulder into Santana’s chest.
Her face is a perfect mask of apologetic surprise as she walks away.
Quinn turns to look at Santana as she leaves. “Sorry,” she shrugs before giggling at something a boy beside her has said and disappearing around a corner.
Santana watches her go. She stares at that corner until the bell rings and everyone scurries to their next class, until Brittany appears out of nowhere and grabs her wrist. She drags Santana out of the double doors to the field, to under the bleachers, where she pets Santana’s hair and whispers soothing words.
It calms her down instantly, tense muscles melting. Brittany has a way of doing that.
--
“B, what are you doing?”
Brittany furrows her eyebrows and sets her mouth into a frown. She stares at Santana with a confused expression. “I’m touching your face. What do you think I’m doing?”
Santana sighs and moves her head so that it’s out of Brittany’s reach.
The blonde recoils, hand in the air, frozen. “Santana?”
She tries to convey all her apologies on her face, apologies like she’s sorry she just moved away and she doesn’t know why she did that. “Let’s just - let’s just lay here for a second, okay? Let’s go back to before.”
Brittany huffs and sits up abruptly, causing Santana to fall into the bed, face buried in the pillow. She grumbles and snatches at the thin air her girlfriend just occupied. “Lie back down, B,” she whines, lifting her head to speak.
“Why don’t you let me touch you?”
Brittany’s eyes are curious, huge and blue. She brings her knees up to her chin and wraps her arms around them, searching Santana’s face for an answer. She feels compelled to sit up too, folding her legs underneath her body. She stares intently at the wall.
Brittany reaches out again - this time, she catches Santana’s chin and turns her head so that she’s staring into cornflower blue irises. “Your mom and dad touch each other all the time, like, gently. It’s because they’re in love. We’re in love, right?”
Santana nods, reaffirming, for Brittany and for herself. She’s in love with Brittany. This is always the truth, no matter how much Santana’s messed-up brain gets in the way.
“Yeah, B. We’re in love.”
“I don’t understand, then.”
“It’s complicated.”
--
Freshman year, Santana’s entire life is consumed by becoming a Cheerio.
She’s seen the way they’re looked at in the hallways - red uniforms an instant flag to respect them, fear them, admire them.
She wants in. Santana wants to be known. So she trains hard, practicing round-offs and back handsprings in her backyard, cheering and yelling. She petitions Coach Sylvester for an invitation. She proves her worth.
The day she’s pulled out of class for a meeting with Coach Sylvester is the greatest moment in Santana’s life so far.
“You’re tough, Lopez. Not nearly as tough as me - you won’t be on my level until you’ve single-handedly defeated a gang of armed road bandits with nothing but a stick of gum and a pom-pom. But you’ve got potential.”
Santana straightens her back, basking in the glow of praise. She waits for Coach Sylvester to utter the next phrase. The phrase that will potentially change her entire high school career and maybe her whole life.
“You’re in. Welcome to Sue Sylvester’s internationally revered Cheerios.”
Not even days after Coach Sylvester utters the words, Santana is thrown headfirst into the world of cheerleading. It’s so hard, harder than she expected.
But she’s good at it. And nothing feels better than that polyester uniform.
At practice, Santana throws her arms to the side and chants with the rest of them.
She’s lifted in the arms of the guys, smiling as she spins in circles and lands safely in the arms of other Cheerios. She dismounts and catches the gaze of her coach. From the way Coach is watching her, Santana thinks that she’s possibly got a shot at making Captain next year when Melissa Green graduates.
Coach Sylvester calls a two minute break and disappears into her office.
Santana is stretching out her hamstrings when a tall blonde meanders over and smiles at her. Santana can see a wrist with bracelets in front of her face. One a simple silver friendship bracelet, an exact replica of the one around Santana’s wrist, and the other a rainbow-beaded monstrosity with eight letters threaded on. She stands up and smiles.
Brittany beams. “We are so awesome at cheerleading, S!”
Santana grins back and nods her head. “Hell yeah, B, we’re gonna be co-captains.”
It really wasn’t a surprise to Santana when Brittany made the squad too. Her best friend has been dancing for forever and has undeniable talent.
The two friends smile at each other for another moment.
Suddenly, Francine DeLuca walks over and shoves Santana. Hard. Brittany gasps, hands flying to her mouth.
Santana frowns and rises to her full height. She takes one menacing step towards Francine and crosses her arms. “What the hell, DeLuca?” she hisses as Francine plants a hand on her hip and juts out her chin.
“You were blocking me that entire routine, Lopez.”
Santana laughs once. “Please. Coach Sylvester put me in front of you.”
Francine rolls her eyes. “You don’t think I see right through you? It’s obvious that you don’t want to share the spotlight, because you’re too afraid of the other talent on this squad.”
“Are you delusional, sweetheart? The reason I’m in the front is because you’re about three seconds off, you can’t fly worth shit and your arms aren’t straight. Not because I can’t share the spotlight or because I’m afraid. If anyone should be afraid of the talent on this team, it’s you.”
Francine splutters for about three seconds before scrunching up her eyes and leaning into Santana’s face.
“Watch your back, bitch. I have connections.”
Santana smirks and waggles her fingers. “Oooooh, I’m scaaared. Bye, Francine.” She can feel Brittany unconsciously shifting behind her, silently backing her up and Santana thinks she sees Quinn moving towards them. Never has she been more grateful for the strange respect that has brewed between them since their very first showdown in the hallway. Quinn’s voice is clear and cold. “Shouldn’t you be practicing, DeLuca? You really need it.” Francine just glowers at each of them and walks away.
Santana feels two cool hands on each of her shoulders.
“Don’t listen to her, Santana. She’s just jealous because you’re better,” Brittany offers.
Quinn’s advice is a little more succinct. “She’s not even worth it.”
But when practice is called back into action, Santana goes up in a lift. She smiles and snaps out her arms. The last thing she remembers before slamming to the mat is the feeling of nothingness under her body - the lack of Regina Cleary’s supportive hand to catch her and then it’s just black padding under her cheek. Santana lies there for a moment, stars dancing across her swimming vision. She can hear the barely concealed laughter from Regina and Francine.
“Whoops,” Regina exclaims, followed by another peal of laughter from Francine.
Rage bubbles inside of her like molten lava but Santana tries desperately to quell it. She doesn’t need to fly off the handle in front of Coach. Not when power and authority is on the line.
“Shake it off, Lopez. You think falling is hard? Try winning a swimming competition in a pool full of deadly jellyfish, that’s hard!”
Santana pushes herself from the ground, stumbling to her feet and closing her eyes until the dizziness goes away. She squares her shoulders.
Santana shakes it off. She always does.
--
Santana pulls away and bounds off her bed, crossing the room to stare at the wall, the poster board full of notices and medals, pictures of Brittany, pictures of her and Brittany. She closes her eyes.
If Santana’s ever resented the fact that she’s about as emotionally inept as they come, now is the time.
“Santana?” Brittany’s voice is so small. It makes Santana feel worse.
“I’m so sorry, B.”
She doesn’t hear Brittany get up, only feels as two strong, pale arms wrap around her shoulders and squeeze. Brittany rests her head on Santana’s shoulder.
“If you can’t talk, its okay,” she whispers into the fabric of Santana’s shirt.
Brittany moves a hand to capture Santana’s own, her touch feather-light. It’s gentle and loving and it brings Santana to a place that she loves.
She remembers lying in bed with Brittany, hushed conversations about life and love that only they share. She remembers the look on Brittany’s face as she says it.
Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?
Santana sighs, and it’s shaky - she can feel tears, heavy and foreboding, sitting behind her eyes and waiting to spill.
--
His hands are all over. She can see in the way that Puck looks at her that’s he’s probably wanted this for a long time, imagined it a hundred different ways.
Santana did not imagine her first time in the back seat of Puck’s truck.
She imagined it differently, with a different person. But that’s precisely why she’s doing this now, with Puck, to push the thoughts of the person she truly wants away and to fill the void left by her absence.
Unfortunately, Santana’s not completely sure what to do. Neither is Puck.
It’s a lot of groping and blushing apologies, and Puck accidentally moving too hard. He pulls her hair once, by accident, choosing the wrong place to place his hand, and she shoves him away.
Puck looks apologetic. “Sorry, S,” he whispers.
That nickname sounds wrong coming from his mouth.
It hurts when it happens. Santana inhales sharply in surprise and Puck freezes. “Did I hurt you?” he whispers, frantic. She shakes her head, blinking the pain away furiously, urging him to go on, whispering in his ear what she knows he wants to hear.
When it’s over, in an uncharacteristically sweet gesture, Puck hands her his letterman jacket to cover up before slipping back into his boxers and jeans.
They sit like that in the backseat for a long time.
Santana looks at the dashboard and notices that she’s got curfew in fifteen minutes. Swearing under her breath, she quickly pulls on her jeans and tank top, clambering into the passenger seat.
“Take me home, Puck,” she commands.
He nods, sliding into the front seat and pulling his t-shirt over his head. Puck turns the keys in the ignition. Santana leans her head back into the headrest and closes her eyes.
When they arrive at her house, two minutes to spare, Puck glances at her.
“You can keep my jacket, if you want,” he offers.
Santana feels terrible when she drops it into his lap, but she’s tired and just wants to curl into bed and fall asleep and she’ll feed bad about the way his face falls tomorrow. “I’ll see you in school,” she says before vaulting out of the truck and up to the front door.
When Santana is safely in her room, she turns on the light and hears Puck’s truck roar away.
She briefly considers calling Brittany - but there’s nothing to say.
Nothing that wouldn’t scare Brittany away. Nothing that would make Santana feel any better or push away the feelings she’s so terrified of.
She curls into bed and wonders if rough hands are all she’ll ever have.
--
Life is not gentle. Life is a series of punches to the gut and obstacles in your way. Life is something you’re born into and something you must overcome.
Life is rough and it’s hard. It’s so hard.
This is all Santana has ever known.
This is what she tells Brittany, curled on the bed, under a fort of blankets and pillows like they’re back in the fifth grade, trading secrets at sleepovers.
Santana wipes at her eyes. The traitor tears have yet to fully betray her, but she can feel them pooling, waiting for their chance. Brittany reaches over to wipe away the ones who jumped ship early.
“People who love each other are always gentle, S.”
Santana smiles a little. “Not always, B.”
Brittany’s mouth sets into a straight line and she looks very seriously into Santana’s face. “Well, I will be,” she asserts.
Santana exhales, letting all the pent-up breath out of her muscles and her lungs, as Brittany enfolds her into her arms.
“Thank you, Brittany.”
Brittany nods against her body and Santana relaxes; her entire body uncoils.
The tears fall over now, hot and wet against her cheeks, rolling down into her hair and the pillowcase. The way Brittany holds her - soft, like she might break - is easily the nicest feeling in the world.
Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?
Santana has never understood the magnitude of these words until now.
She can still hear the rain beat the window. She can still hear Brittany’s heartbeat. And it’s quiet in the room.
The quiet with Brittany is where she feels the best.
Author: Kelsey / marliskelsey
Pairing,Character(s): Brittany/Santana, appearances from Quinn and Puck
Rating: R, for mentions of sex and some language
Word Count: 2,674
Spoilers: Through 1x22, Journey
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee. I can only dream.
Summary: Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?
A/N: Written for this prompt on the glee_fluff_meme, although it didn't really turn out terribly fluffy. I hope what fluff is there makes up for it. Takes place in their Senior Year. Un-beta'd, so all mistakes are mine. Hope you enjoy!
The quiet is where she feels the best. When there is no sound but breathing and the subtle slip of pajamas on linen sheets, and the loudest sound is the beating of both Brittany’s and her own heart.
This is where Santana is truly at peace.
The rain beats the window, a soft pitter-patter. Brittany is curled into her side, watching the TV perched at the end of Santana’s bed. Her parents and brother are at her Abuela’s house for the weekend and the fact that her senior year of high school is coming to an end is far from her mind. Perfection.
She’s almost dozing off again, despite having only woken up an hour ago.
It’s comfortable - Santana is convinced she can lie here forever, listening to the rain pound the sides of her house, feeling Brittany, solid and real, beside her in her bed.
She’s not paying attention - her eyes are drooping sleepily - when Brittany smiles up at her and reaches a pale hand out, cupping Santana’s cheek in her palm. “You’re soft, S,” she whispers.
Santana stiffens under her touch and doesn’t understand why.
--
Santana leans against the cool painted brick.
She grips the textbook tighter in her hand, all four hundred pages of seventh grade math, and stares straight ahead.
She can hear Quinn’s laugh from a few locker-lengths away. It makes her want to punch the wall.
Her laugh is light and lilting. It’s beautiful and it’s horrifying. It stands for things that Santana will never possess, like purity and poise. Never in her life has Santana been poised.
It’s not as if she resents the fact that she doesn’t have those qualities. Santana loves herself - her sarcasm and her wit (and the quiet loyalty she feels for her friends). She’s never questioned herself before, because Santana knows that she is as capable as anyone else. She’s never questioned her hold on this school’s hierarchy.
But Quinn is a new princess and Santana is the girl who thought she had the crown. Forced to the sidelines to make way for the new potential queen.
She braces herself and glances to the side.
Quinn’s smiling brightly. She always seems to be smiling. Fittingly, the early morning sunlight is filtering through the window and making a halo around her hair. Santana smirks unhappily - more proof that Quinn is some sort of angel.
The blonde’s eyes flick to where Santana is glaring at her and she flashes a grin. Santana rolls her eyes and leans deeper. She catches sight of Puck making his way towards her and the way he freezes when he sees Quinn, stunned, like he’s just accidentally looked into the sun. Quinn pays him no attention
Eyes locked with Santana’s, she moves down the hallway, graceful as ever. Her group of admirers look crestfallen as she leaves them.
Santana gives her the best look of disdain she can muster and Quinn just smiles wider, knowingly. “Can’t look away, Blondie?” she sneers. Quinn giggles.
“It’s Santana, right?” she chirps, smiling, huge hazel eyes boring into Santana’s brown ones, like she can see deep into Santana’s brain and her every secret. It makes Santana uncomfortable - she has to stop herself from squirming under Quinn’s gaze.
“Don’t wear it out.”
Quinn laughs, eyes flashing. The sweet smile on her face never slips. “Oh, trust me,” she smirks, “your name isn’t something I’m going to be concerned with saying.”
When she turns to leave, Quinn angles her shoulder into Santana’s chest.
Her face is a perfect mask of apologetic surprise as she walks away.
Quinn turns to look at Santana as she leaves. “Sorry,” she shrugs before giggling at something a boy beside her has said and disappearing around a corner.
Santana watches her go. She stares at that corner until the bell rings and everyone scurries to their next class, until Brittany appears out of nowhere and grabs her wrist. She drags Santana out of the double doors to the field, to under the bleachers, where she pets Santana’s hair and whispers soothing words.
It calms her down instantly, tense muscles melting. Brittany has a way of doing that.
--
“B, what are you doing?”
Brittany furrows her eyebrows and sets her mouth into a frown. She stares at Santana with a confused expression. “I’m touching your face. What do you think I’m doing?”
Santana sighs and moves her head so that it’s out of Brittany’s reach.
The blonde recoils, hand in the air, frozen. “Santana?”
She tries to convey all her apologies on her face, apologies like she’s sorry she just moved away and she doesn’t know why she did that. “Let’s just - let’s just lay here for a second, okay? Let’s go back to before.”
Brittany huffs and sits up abruptly, causing Santana to fall into the bed, face buried in the pillow. She grumbles and snatches at the thin air her girlfriend just occupied. “Lie back down, B,” she whines, lifting her head to speak.
“Why don’t you let me touch you?”
Brittany’s eyes are curious, huge and blue. She brings her knees up to her chin and wraps her arms around them, searching Santana’s face for an answer. She feels compelled to sit up too, folding her legs underneath her body. She stares intently at the wall.
Brittany reaches out again - this time, she catches Santana’s chin and turns her head so that she’s staring into cornflower blue irises. “Your mom and dad touch each other all the time, like, gently. It’s because they’re in love. We’re in love, right?”
Santana nods, reaffirming, for Brittany and for herself. She’s in love with Brittany. This is always the truth, no matter how much Santana’s messed-up brain gets in the way.
“Yeah, B. We’re in love.”
“I don’t understand, then.”
“It’s complicated.”
--
Freshman year, Santana’s entire life is consumed by becoming a Cheerio.
She’s seen the way they’re looked at in the hallways - red uniforms an instant flag to respect them, fear them, admire them.
She wants in. Santana wants to be known. So she trains hard, practicing round-offs and back handsprings in her backyard, cheering and yelling. She petitions Coach Sylvester for an invitation. She proves her worth.
The day she’s pulled out of class for a meeting with Coach Sylvester is the greatest moment in Santana’s life so far.
“You’re tough, Lopez. Not nearly as tough as me - you won’t be on my level until you’ve single-handedly defeated a gang of armed road bandits with nothing but a stick of gum and a pom-pom. But you’ve got potential.”
Santana straightens her back, basking in the glow of praise. She waits for Coach Sylvester to utter the next phrase. The phrase that will potentially change her entire high school career and maybe her whole life.
“You’re in. Welcome to Sue Sylvester’s internationally revered Cheerios.”
Not even days after Coach Sylvester utters the words, Santana is thrown headfirst into the world of cheerleading. It’s so hard, harder than she expected.
But she’s good at it. And nothing feels better than that polyester uniform.
At practice, Santana throws her arms to the side and chants with the rest of them.
She’s lifted in the arms of the guys, smiling as she spins in circles and lands safely in the arms of other Cheerios. She dismounts and catches the gaze of her coach. From the way Coach is watching her, Santana thinks that she’s possibly got a shot at making Captain next year when Melissa Green graduates.
Coach Sylvester calls a two minute break and disappears into her office.
Santana is stretching out her hamstrings when a tall blonde meanders over and smiles at her. Santana can see a wrist with bracelets in front of her face. One a simple silver friendship bracelet, an exact replica of the one around Santana’s wrist, and the other a rainbow-beaded monstrosity with eight letters threaded on. She stands up and smiles.
Brittany beams. “We are so awesome at cheerleading, S!”
Santana grins back and nods her head. “Hell yeah, B, we’re gonna be co-captains.”
It really wasn’t a surprise to Santana when Brittany made the squad too. Her best friend has been dancing for forever and has undeniable talent.
The two friends smile at each other for another moment.
Suddenly, Francine DeLuca walks over and shoves Santana. Hard. Brittany gasps, hands flying to her mouth.
Santana frowns and rises to her full height. She takes one menacing step towards Francine and crosses her arms. “What the hell, DeLuca?” she hisses as Francine plants a hand on her hip and juts out her chin.
“You were blocking me that entire routine, Lopez.”
Santana laughs once. “Please. Coach Sylvester put me in front of you.”
Francine rolls her eyes. “You don’t think I see right through you? It’s obvious that you don’t want to share the spotlight, because you’re too afraid of the other talent on this squad.”
“Are you delusional, sweetheart? The reason I’m in the front is because you’re about three seconds off, you can’t fly worth shit and your arms aren’t straight. Not because I can’t share the spotlight or because I’m afraid. If anyone should be afraid of the talent on this team, it’s you.”
Francine splutters for about three seconds before scrunching up her eyes and leaning into Santana’s face.
“Watch your back, bitch. I have connections.”
Santana smirks and waggles her fingers. “Oooooh, I’m scaaared. Bye, Francine.” She can feel Brittany unconsciously shifting behind her, silently backing her up and Santana thinks she sees Quinn moving towards them. Never has she been more grateful for the strange respect that has brewed between them since their very first showdown in the hallway. Quinn’s voice is clear and cold. “Shouldn’t you be practicing, DeLuca? You really need it.” Francine just glowers at each of them and walks away.
Santana feels two cool hands on each of her shoulders.
“Don’t listen to her, Santana. She’s just jealous because you’re better,” Brittany offers.
Quinn’s advice is a little more succinct. “She’s not even worth it.”
But when practice is called back into action, Santana goes up in a lift. She smiles and snaps out her arms. The last thing she remembers before slamming to the mat is the feeling of nothingness under her body - the lack of Regina Cleary’s supportive hand to catch her and then it’s just black padding under her cheek. Santana lies there for a moment, stars dancing across her swimming vision. She can hear the barely concealed laughter from Regina and Francine.
“Whoops,” Regina exclaims, followed by another peal of laughter from Francine.
Rage bubbles inside of her like molten lava but Santana tries desperately to quell it. She doesn’t need to fly off the handle in front of Coach. Not when power and authority is on the line.
“Shake it off, Lopez. You think falling is hard? Try winning a swimming competition in a pool full of deadly jellyfish, that’s hard!”
Santana pushes herself from the ground, stumbling to her feet and closing her eyes until the dizziness goes away. She squares her shoulders.
Santana shakes it off. She always does.
--
Santana pulls away and bounds off her bed, crossing the room to stare at the wall, the poster board full of notices and medals, pictures of Brittany, pictures of her and Brittany. She closes her eyes.
If Santana’s ever resented the fact that she’s about as emotionally inept as they come, now is the time.
“Santana?” Brittany’s voice is so small. It makes Santana feel worse.
“I’m so sorry, B.”
She doesn’t hear Brittany get up, only feels as two strong, pale arms wrap around her shoulders and squeeze. Brittany rests her head on Santana’s shoulder.
“If you can’t talk, its okay,” she whispers into the fabric of Santana’s shirt.
Brittany moves a hand to capture Santana’s own, her touch feather-light. It’s gentle and loving and it brings Santana to a place that she loves.
She remembers lying in bed with Brittany, hushed conversations about life and love that only they share. She remembers the look on Brittany’s face as she says it.
Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?
Santana sighs, and it’s shaky - she can feel tears, heavy and foreboding, sitting behind her eyes and waiting to spill.
--
His hands are all over. She can see in the way that Puck looks at her that’s he’s probably wanted this for a long time, imagined it a hundred different ways.
Santana did not imagine her first time in the back seat of Puck’s truck.
She imagined it differently, with a different person. But that’s precisely why she’s doing this now, with Puck, to push the thoughts of the person she truly wants away and to fill the void left by her absence.
Unfortunately, Santana’s not completely sure what to do. Neither is Puck.
It’s a lot of groping and blushing apologies, and Puck accidentally moving too hard. He pulls her hair once, by accident, choosing the wrong place to place his hand, and she shoves him away.
Puck looks apologetic. “Sorry, S,” he whispers.
That nickname sounds wrong coming from his mouth.
It hurts when it happens. Santana inhales sharply in surprise and Puck freezes. “Did I hurt you?” he whispers, frantic. She shakes her head, blinking the pain away furiously, urging him to go on, whispering in his ear what she knows he wants to hear.
When it’s over, in an uncharacteristically sweet gesture, Puck hands her his letterman jacket to cover up before slipping back into his boxers and jeans.
They sit like that in the backseat for a long time.
Santana looks at the dashboard and notices that she’s got curfew in fifteen minutes. Swearing under her breath, she quickly pulls on her jeans and tank top, clambering into the passenger seat.
“Take me home, Puck,” she commands.
He nods, sliding into the front seat and pulling his t-shirt over his head. Puck turns the keys in the ignition. Santana leans her head back into the headrest and closes her eyes.
When they arrive at her house, two minutes to spare, Puck glances at her.
“You can keep my jacket, if you want,” he offers.
Santana feels terrible when she drops it into his lap, but she’s tired and just wants to curl into bed and fall asleep and she’ll feed bad about the way his face falls tomorrow. “I’ll see you in school,” she says before vaulting out of the truck and up to the front door.
When Santana is safely in her room, she turns on the light and hears Puck’s truck roar away.
She briefly considers calling Brittany - but there’s nothing to say.
Nothing that wouldn’t scare Brittany away. Nothing that would make Santana feel any better or push away the feelings she’s so terrified of.
She curls into bed and wonders if rough hands are all she’ll ever have.
--
Life is not gentle. Life is a series of punches to the gut and obstacles in your way. Life is something you’re born into and something you must overcome.
Life is rough and it’s hard. It’s so hard.
This is all Santana has ever known.
This is what she tells Brittany, curled on the bed, under a fort of blankets and pillows like they’re back in the fifth grade, trading secrets at sleepovers.
Santana wipes at her eyes. The traitor tears have yet to fully betray her, but she can feel them pooling, waiting for their chance. Brittany reaches over to wipe away the ones who jumped ship early.
“People who love each other are always gentle, S.”
Santana smiles a little. “Not always, B.”
Brittany’s mouth sets into a straight line and she looks very seriously into Santana’s face. “Well, I will be,” she asserts.
Santana exhales, letting all the pent-up breath out of her muscles and her lungs, as Brittany enfolds her into her arms.
“Thank you, Brittany.”
Brittany nods against her body and Santana relaxes; her entire body uncoils.
The tears fall over now, hot and wet against her cheeks, rolling down into her hair and the pillowcase. The way Brittany holds her - soft, like she might break - is easily the nicest feeling in the world.
Have you ever been touched so gently you had to cry?
Santana has never understood the magnitude of these words until now.
She can still hear the rain beat the window. She can still hear Brittany’s heartbeat. And it’s quiet in the room.
The quiet with Brittany is where she feels the best.