To All The Cool Kids On My Block (Where’s The Original Thought?)
Title: To All The Cool Kids On My Block (Where’s The Original Thought?)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: None in particular.
Summary: Every once in a while, she stops just long enough to ask herself: Why the fuck am I doing this?
A/N: [Picture Show 2/14]-"Teenage Sounds"
I’m tired of girls, I’m tired of boys, I’m tired of nonsense
I’m t-t-t-t-t-tired of the process
I’m sick and tired of always feeling second best
I’m tired of never ever making any progress
It gets old. The whole thing, the dancing around in the snow, making sure to only step in ready-made boot tracks. It gets so fucking old, and she’s only been at it for two years. The same song, the same dance, the same prancing idiotic game everyone else is playing, and every once in a while, she stops just long enough to ask herself:
Why the fuck am I doing this?
The answer comes easy enough, as it always has: she has to. The things she wants, the things she needs out of life? They don’t come to those who wait. Or those who stand still. Or those who play nice. Recognition, respect, fame, even out-and-out adoration-these belong to the rich and the powerful for a reason. And, in high school, the rich and powerful just happen to wear uniforms.
And do air splits.
Hey, it’s not a thirty-thou-a-week day job, but it’s a start.
She wouldn’t get what she wants by sitting around in jeans and a t-shirt, scribbling down notes in class and dutifully pushing senior citizens around after school. Maybe it would be easier, but it wouldn’t get her anywhere near where she needs to be. She can’t excuse letting it all go just for easy.
But it gets old. It gets fucking exhausting. Strutting around campus, pushing everybody’s buttons, laying hard truths on the table. They hate her for it. Hate her, or want to fuck her senseless, and sometimes, it’s hard to tell which part is worse. The thing is, she wouldn’t mind if it was for some honest reason, some true interest in her personality, but-
But hardy-har, that sort of shit doesn’t fly in a high school arena. Personality means jack-all when you’re up against fucking Quinn Fabray.
Quinn, who is so pretty, and so smart, and so disgustingly well-loved by the people around them. If love is synonymous with fear, Quinn’s got it in spades, and it's the only reason Santana is half as successful as she is. Which, naturally, leads to bowing, scraping gratitude to Quinn’s girl-next-door charm bottled in a Daddy-buys-the-best body. To Quinn’s uncomfortably strong devotion to the things she wants. To Quinn, and every little thing she embodies about the Midwestern high school experience.
Quinn is supposedly her best friend.
She fucking hates Quinn.
It’s agonizing, how she’s expected to dart from footprint to footprint in Quinn’s wake, never pausing long enough to cut a tread of her very own. It’s unimaginably boring, tracing over Quinn’s shadow again and again as she does the same old shit each and every week. Pick on Rachel Berry. Fake a smile at the football team. Nuzzle Finn Hudson’s dopey cheek. Glare at Noah Puckerman. Hand in the homework on time, ace the tests, stand tall at the tippy-top of that fucking pyramid. Rinse, repeat.
Santana does at least as much of the same work Quinn is regularly ass-kissed for, and for what? So she can watch her boyfriend moon around after Quinn’s idiot good-girl routine?
To be fair, she doesn’t particularly give a shit what Puckerman sinks his dick into, but something about the way he stares at Quinn gets under her skin. Not because she cares, because-seriously-she’s so much better than that shit. Not even because it’s Quinn, no matter how sick to death she is of coming in second to that whiny little Jesus freak. No, there’s something else about the way Puck’s eyes linger a little too long-not on Quinn’s ass, but on her eyes-that makes her want to puke her guts all over the goddamn football field.
She can’t quite place it, can’t quite put a name to it, but if she had to-gun to her head, no other option-she thinks she might call it…
Fuck, is Puckerman actually in love with Quinn fucking Fabray?
The sheer pathetic vibe aside, there is something so wrong about that idea that she can’t shake it off. Puckerman? Her Puckerman, the caveman she puts up with day in and day out? The idiot who spotted her one day in the parking lot and left her no choice, the one she complains about getting saddled with after Quinn got first pick of the football litter-although, be honest: as much of a dipshit as Puckerman has always been, he is worlds better than that idiot Hudson.
Lightyears.
And now Quinn’s going to snag him, too.
Not that, again, she cares. Caring about losing Puck would mean caring about having him in the first place, and good Christ, no. Nothing is more laughable than that, except maybe the fact that Quinn still manages to convince everyone on this campus that she’s a good girl, after all the shit she’s pulled. No, she doesn’t give a flying rat’s ass about Puckerman walking out the door, or even walking after Quinn, but-
Walking out for love?
Man, fuck love.
Love is stupid, and ridiculous, and who falls in love at fifteen anyway? More importantly, who falls in love with someone when they know without a doubt that it’s just never going to work? Like Quinn would ever give Puck the time of day. Like she could ever tear herself away from Finn Hudson’s galumphing ass long enough to even look at Puck-really look at him. Like that’s ever going to happen.
It’s a colossal waste of time and energy, and yet, she sees him slipping away. She sees the way his eyes dart, his hands twitching almost nervously against the legs of his three-days-past-washing jeans. This isn’t like Puck-the Puck she knows, the one who plays video games, and swears, and spits, and fucks like an animal. It’s a Puck-drone, a pod-person, placed here strictly to induce her goddamn gag reflex. It’s revolting.
And yet, here they are.
Love is stupid, she reminds herself, turning away from him now. It’s stupid, and it’s weak, and any top dog worth her salt should know it. God knows, she’ll never have to worry about that weepy-ass emotion getting the best of her. Love is for the whipped.
“Whatcha doing?” a voice chirps in her ear. Santana jumps, her knee thumping the underside of the lunch table. Brittany laughs, draping both arms around her shoulders from behind and leaning into her back.
“Where’ve you been?” It’s a little harsher than she meant it, but fuck; she’s so tired of all of this, it’s a wonder she hasn’t actually stabbed somebody today. Yet.
Anyway, Brittany knows to take her in stride. It didn’t take long at all to learn that trick. Brittany’s a hell of a lot quicker than people give her credit for.
“Retake,” she says cheerily, which Santana takes to mean, I didn’t show up for the test the first time around, and this time, I drew a lot of penguins. That’s Brittany, and, God help her, Santana loves it. No one else in this school could get away with drawing penguins on a test with so little backlash.
“You’re not eating,” Brittany adds when she says nothing. Santana can’t find the words to admit how not hungry all this crap has made her. Puckerman, staring off into space like the lunkhead he is. Quinn, twirling for her royal court not two tables away. And all the while, Santana sits: super-hot, super-angry furniture.
She fucking hates being furniture.
“C’mon,” she hisses, pushing off from the table and grasping Brittany’s hand. She doesn’t need to pull hard; Brittany will follow, no matter where she goes. It’s one of the best things about her. Sometimes, Santana thinks Brittany the only person in this school who really sees how great Santana is.
Which is sad, because Santana is fucking awesome. Santana can dance-maybe not the way Brittany can, but pretty damn well-and run circles around the idiots in her classes even on the most difficult material. Santana can bite harder, and yell louder, and kiss hotter. Fuck it; Santana can sing.
Not that she tells anybody about that, except for Brittany, because Brittany’s the only person who wouldn’t immediately try to elbow her into the goddamn Glee Club.
Fact is, everyone else in this school wants something: to be popular, to be famous, to be remembered. And do any of them deserve it?
Does Hudson, for throwing a football passably well once every four games?
Does Puckerman, for sleeping his way through the PTA?
Does Quinn, for being pretty?
Fuck, no. And she’s sick and tired of hearing about it, too. All these empty-headed idiots, going on and on about how everybody is going to be so great, and so rich, and so amazing, just as soon as they get out of this school. Fuck that shit. None of them have done a damn thing to earn it.
Nobody sees her for what she is.
Brittany doesn’t ask where they’re going, or why, and when they reach the abandoned classroom at the end of the hall-the one where they used to teach art, back before art classes were cut to make room for weight-lifting-it’s all Santana can do not to lose it. She sucks in a breath, steadying herself, and latches the door.
Brittany, leaning against the dusty teacher’s desk, waits.
“I hate them,” Santana mutters, and she can tell from the expression on her best friend’s face that Brittany doesn’t quite hear her. Can’t quite make out the words. Can’t quite understand.
That’s okay. Nobody really can. Nobody gets it, but at least Brittany is here. Not mooning around after their cheer captain, not flouncing through a field of admirers. Here. With Santana, looking like there’s nowhere else in the world she’d rather be.
Santana surges into her arms before she knows what she’s doing, her mouth finding Brittany’s with an intensity they usually reserve for safer places. Dumb to do it here-look how well it went last time-but Brittany shrugs it off. That's another great thing about Brittany, the knowledge that she will never just push Santana away. She will never ask why they’re doing this, or demand that they stop to talk. Brittany knows her better than that.
She’s so sick of everything, so absolutely done with the bullshit, and it feels-like days of this idiotic caliber always do-like Brittany can make it better. Like the sensation of Brittany’s hands sliding down her back, Brittany pulling her to rest between long, toned legs, Brittany’s lips parting to allow Santana just as much control as she needs-like this is everything the rest of the world is missing. It feels, pushing forward against Brittany’s chest, angling her chin up and claiming a fistful of the red-and-white material at her hip, like this is what she spends her days waiting for. Like this is the one thing that makes coming to school and listening to all the stupid shit, being overlooked again and again, worth it.
Brittany never overlooks her. Brittany never forgets she’s here. Brittany never demands answers, or tells her she isn’t working hard enough, or that she just doesn’t want it enough. Brittany, for all the crazy things she does and says, never sounds stupid, or selfish, the way everyone else seems to. Brittany just leans back against this desk, palm braced against Santana’s arched spine, and lets go.
Santana wishes she knew how to do the same.
Brittany always seems so happy, so ready for anything, and sometimes, Santana thinks that would be better. To be that beautiful, and that talented, and not claw her way to the top. To just…be. To not feel like proving something to the people they won’t give two shits about a couple of years from now.
She doesn’t know what it feels like, not to care what other people think.
That's sort of what got them here in the first place.
What she does know is how this feels: skating away on Brittany’s kiss, letting it carry her far above the rest of the bullshit the day will bring. The taste of Brittany’s laughter on her tongue, the echo of Brittany’s fingers tracing the shell of her ear, pushing strands of hair back. She knows, in these stolen moments, how it feels to be the center of someone’s attention in a way this school never seems able to give.
Brittany doesn’t think twice about it. That’s just how Brittany is.
Santana sometimes thinks Brittany is the greatest human being on earth.
They break for air when the bell chimes and pause, Brittany’s hands warm and strong, Santana’s buried in thick blonde hair. It doesn’t make everything better, she knows. She’ll just have to walk right back out that door, right back into the role and the game and the stupid that’s waiting for her. She knows that.
“I’m not getting anywhere,” she mumbles, close enough to Brittany that the words wind up muffled against flushed pink lips. “It’s all so stupid.”
“Yeah,” Brittany agrees, leaning back and giving Santana’s chin a gentle bop. “But you’re awesome.”
“The most awesome,” Santana all but laughs, her chest swelling with the knowledge that Brittany, at least, actually believes it. Because Brittany is amazing, and perfect, and-
Well. Her best friend in the world.
And if anybody’s going to be able to see the truth-who she really is, how hard she really works, how badly her awesome kicks Quinn Fabray in the proverbial balls-it’s going to be Brittany. Because Brittany is there when no one else is. And Santana really, really lo-
Brittany is grinning at her, that grin that tells Santana she’s moving too slow, spending too much time in her head. She can’t resist grinning back.
These people are idiots. This school is stupid. The expectations, the fact that she is forever following Quinn Fabray, or dishing out exactly what Puckerman wants, or nodding her head mindlessly along to Coach Sylvester’s commands-she hates it sometimes. She’s better than all of them. She and Brittany, hand in hand, could bring this whole mountain down.
But it’s too early for that. There’s still time. She’s still so new to this whole high school drama piece.
In time, she is going to wipe the floor with each and every one of them. Until then, she’ll do what needs to be done. And when things get too heavy, there’s always Brittany to fall back on, Brittany for release.
Brittany makes the whole process shockingly tolerable. Santana likes to think that’s what best friends are for. And fuck everything else-the boys, the other cheerleaders, the dickhead teachers-because, when it comes to best friends, she easily has the best one out there.
Everything else will fall into place-someday.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: None in particular.
Summary: Every once in a while, she stops just long enough to ask herself: Why the fuck am I doing this?
A/N: [Picture Show 2/14]-"Teenage Sounds"
I’m tired of girls, I’m tired of boys, I’m tired of nonsense
I’m t-t-t-t-t-tired of the process
I’m sick and tired of always feeling second best
I’m tired of never ever making any progress
It gets old. The whole thing, the dancing around in the snow, making sure to only step in ready-made boot tracks. It gets so fucking old, and she’s only been at it for two years. The same song, the same dance, the same prancing idiotic game everyone else is playing, and every once in a while, she stops just long enough to ask herself:
Why the fuck am I doing this?
The answer comes easy enough, as it always has: she has to. The things she wants, the things she needs out of life? They don’t come to those who wait. Or those who stand still. Or those who play nice. Recognition, respect, fame, even out-and-out adoration-these belong to the rich and the powerful for a reason. And, in high school, the rich and powerful just happen to wear uniforms.
And do air splits.
Hey, it’s not a thirty-thou-a-week day job, but it’s a start.
She wouldn’t get what she wants by sitting around in jeans and a t-shirt, scribbling down notes in class and dutifully pushing senior citizens around after school. Maybe it would be easier, but it wouldn’t get her anywhere near where she needs to be. She can’t excuse letting it all go just for easy.
But it gets old. It gets fucking exhausting. Strutting around campus, pushing everybody’s buttons, laying hard truths on the table. They hate her for it. Hate her, or want to fuck her senseless, and sometimes, it’s hard to tell which part is worse. The thing is, she wouldn’t mind if it was for some honest reason, some true interest in her personality, but-
But hardy-har, that sort of shit doesn’t fly in a high school arena. Personality means jack-all when you’re up against fucking Quinn Fabray.
Quinn, who is so pretty, and so smart, and so disgustingly well-loved by the people around them. If love is synonymous with fear, Quinn’s got it in spades, and it's the only reason Santana is half as successful as she is. Which, naturally, leads to bowing, scraping gratitude to Quinn’s girl-next-door charm bottled in a Daddy-buys-the-best body. To Quinn’s uncomfortably strong devotion to the things she wants. To Quinn, and every little thing she embodies about the Midwestern high school experience.
Quinn is supposedly her best friend.
She fucking hates Quinn.
It’s agonizing, how she’s expected to dart from footprint to footprint in Quinn’s wake, never pausing long enough to cut a tread of her very own. It’s unimaginably boring, tracing over Quinn’s shadow again and again as she does the same old shit each and every week. Pick on Rachel Berry. Fake a smile at the football team. Nuzzle Finn Hudson’s dopey cheek. Glare at Noah Puckerman. Hand in the homework on time, ace the tests, stand tall at the tippy-top of that fucking pyramid. Rinse, repeat.
Santana does at least as much of the same work Quinn is regularly ass-kissed for, and for what? So she can watch her boyfriend moon around after Quinn’s idiot good-girl routine?
To be fair, she doesn’t particularly give a shit what Puckerman sinks his dick into, but something about the way he stares at Quinn gets under her skin. Not because she cares, because-seriously-she’s so much better than that shit. Not even because it’s Quinn, no matter how sick to death she is of coming in second to that whiny little Jesus freak. No, there’s something else about the way Puck’s eyes linger a little too long-not on Quinn’s ass, but on her eyes-that makes her want to puke her guts all over the goddamn football field.
She can’t quite place it, can’t quite put a name to it, but if she had to-gun to her head, no other option-she thinks she might call it…
Fuck, is Puckerman actually in love with Quinn fucking Fabray?
The sheer pathetic vibe aside, there is something so wrong about that idea that she can’t shake it off. Puckerman? Her Puckerman, the caveman she puts up with day in and day out? The idiot who spotted her one day in the parking lot and left her no choice, the one she complains about getting saddled with after Quinn got first pick of the football litter-although, be honest: as much of a dipshit as Puckerman has always been, he is worlds better than that idiot Hudson.
Lightyears.
And now Quinn’s going to snag him, too.
Not that, again, she cares. Caring about losing Puck would mean caring about having him in the first place, and good Christ, no. Nothing is more laughable than that, except maybe the fact that Quinn still manages to convince everyone on this campus that she’s a good girl, after all the shit she’s pulled. No, she doesn’t give a flying rat’s ass about Puckerman walking out the door, or even walking after Quinn, but-
Walking out for love?
Man, fuck love.
Love is stupid, and ridiculous, and who falls in love at fifteen anyway? More importantly, who falls in love with someone when they know without a doubt that it’s just never going to work? Like Quinn would ever give Puck the time of day. Like she could ever tear herself away from Finn Hudson’s galumphing ass long enough to even look at Puck-really look at him. Like that’s ever going to happen.
It’s a colossal waste of time and energy, and yet, she sees him slipping away. She sees the way his eyes dart, his hands twitching almost nervously against the legs of his three-days-past-washing jeans. This isn’t like Puck-the Puck she knows, the one who plays video games, and swears, and spits, and fucks like an animal. It’s a Puck-drone, a pod-person, placed here strictly to induce her goddamn gag reflex. It’s revolting.
And yet, here they are.
Love is stupid, she reminds herself, turning away from him now. It’s stupid, and it’s weak, and any top dog worth her salt should know it. God knows, she’ll never have to worry about that weepy-ass emotion getting the best of her. Love is for the whipped.
“Whatcha doing?” a voice chirps in her ear. Santana jumps, her knee thumping the underside of the lunch table. Brittany laughs, draping both arms around her shoulders from behind and leaning into her back.
“Where’ve you been?” It’s a little harsher than she meant it, but fuck; she’s so tired of all of this, it’s a wonder she hasn’t actually stabbed somebody today. Yet.
Anyway, Brittany knows to take her in stride. It didn’t take long at all to learn that trick. Brittany’s a hell of a lot quicker than people give her credit for.
“Retake,” she says cheerily, which Santana takes to mean, I didn’t show up for the test the first time around, and this time, I drew a lot of penguins. That’s Brittany, and, God help her, Santana loves it. No one else in this school could get away with drawing penguins on a test with so little backlash.
“You’re not eating,” Brittany adds when she says nothing. Santana can’t find the words to admit how not hungry all this crap has made her. Puckerman, staring off into space like the lunkhead he is. Quinn, twirling for her royal court not two tables away. And all the while, Santana sits: super-hot, super-angry furniture.
She fucking hates being furniture.
“C’mon,” she hisses, pushing off from the table and grasping Brittany’s hand. She doesn’t need to pull hard; Brittany will follow, no matter where she goes. It’s one of the best things about her. Sometimes, Santana thinks Brittany the only person in this school who really sees how great Santana is.
Which is sad, because Santana is fucking awesome. Santana can dance-maybe not the way Brittany can, but pretty damn well-and run circles around the idiots in her classes even on the most difficult material. Santana can bite harder, and yell louder, and kiss hotter. Fuck it; Santana can sing.
Not that she tells anybody about that, except for Brittany, because Brittany’s the only person who wouldn’t immediately try to elbow her into the goddamn Glee Club.
Fact is, everyone else in this school wants something: to be popular, to be famous, to be remembered. And do any of them deserve it?
Does Hudson, for throwing a football passably well once every four games?
Does Puckerman, for sleeping his way through the PTA?
Does Quinn, for being pretty?
Fuck, no. And she’s sick and tired of hearing about it, too. All these empty-headed idiots, going on and on about how everybody is going to be so great, and so rich, and so amazing, just as soon as they get out of this school. Fuck that shit. None of them have done a damn thing to earn it.
Nobody sees her for what she is.
Brittany doesn’t ask where they’re going, or why, and when they reach the abandoned classroom at the end of the hall-the one where they used to teach art, back before art classes were cut to make room for weight-lifting-it’s all Santana can do not to lose it. She sucks in a breath, steadying herself, and latches the door.
Brittany, leaning against the dusty teacher’s desk, waits.
“I hate them,” Santana mutters, and she can tell from the expression on her best friend’s face that Brittany doesn’t quite hear her. Can’t quite make out the words. Can’t quite understand.
That’s okay. Nobody really can. Nobody gets it, but at least Brittany is here. Not mooning around after their cheer captain, not flouncing through a field of admirers. Here. With Santana, looking like there’s nowhere else in the world she’d rather be.
Santana surges into her arms before she knows what she’s doing, her mouth finding Brittany’s with an intensity they usually reserve for safer places. Dumb to do it here-look how well it went last time-but Brittany shrugs it off. That's another great thing about Brittany, the knowledge that she will never just push Santana away. She will never ask why they’re doing this, or demand that they stop to talk. Brittany knows her better than that.
She’s so sick of everything, so absolutely done with the bullshit, and it feels-like days of this idiotic caliber always do-like Brittany can make it better. Like the sensation of Brittany’s hands sliding down her back, Brittany pulling her to rest between long, toned legs, Brittany’s lips parting to allow Santana just as much control as she needs-like this is everything the rest of the world is missing. It feels, pushing forward against Brittany’s chest, angling her chin up and claiming a fistful of the red-and-white material at her hip, like this is what she spends her days waiting for. Like this is the one thing that makes coming to school and listening to all the stupid shit, being overlooked again and again, worth it.
Brittany never overlooks her. Brittany never forgets she’s here. Brittany never demands answers, or tells her she isn’t working hard enough, or that she just doesn’t want it enough. Brittany, for all the crazy things she does and says, never sounds stupid, or selfish, the way everyone else seems to. Brittany just leans back against this desk, palm braced against Santana’s arched spine, and lets go.
Santana wishes she knew how to do the same.
Brittany always seems so happy, so ready for anything, and sometimes, Santana thinks that would be better. To be that beautiful, and that talented, and not claw her way to the top. To just…be. To not feel like proving something to the people they won’t give two shits about a couple of years from now.
She doesn’t know what it feels like, not to care what other people think.
That's sort of what got them here in the first place.
What she does know is how this feels: skating away on Brittany’s kiss, letting it carry her far above the rest of the bullshit the day will bring. The taste of Brittany’s laughter on her tongue, the echo of Brittany’s fingers tracing the shell of her ear, pushing strands of hair back. She knows, in these stolen moments, how it feels to be the center of someone’s attention in a way this school never seems able to give.
Brittany doesn’t think twice about it. That’s just how Brittany is.
Santana sometimes thinks Brittany is the greatest human being on earth.
They break for air when the bell chimes and pause, Brittany’s hands warm and strong, Santana’s buried in thick blonde hair. It doesn’t make everything better, she knows. She’ll just have to walk right back out that door, right back into the role and the game and the stupid that’s waiting for her. She knows that.
“I’m not getting anywhere,” she mumbles, close enough to Brittany that the words wind up muffled against flushed pink lips. “It’s all so stupid.”
“Yeah,” Brittany agrees, leaning back and giving Santana’s chin a gentle bop. “But you’re awesome.”
“The most awesome,” Santana all but laughs, her chest swelling with the knowledge that Brittany, at least, actually believes it. Because Brittany is amazing, and perfect, and-
Well. Her best friend in the world.
And if anybody’s going to be able to see the truth-who she really is, how hard she really works, how badly her awesome kicks Quinn Fabray in the proverbial balls-it’s going to be Brittany. Because Brittany is there when no one else is. And Santana really, really lo-
Brittany is grinning at her, that grin that tells Santana she’s moving too slow, spending too much time in her head. She can’t resist grinning back.
These people are idiots. This school is stupid. The expectations, the fact that she is forever following Quinn Fabray, or dishing out exactly what Puckerman wants, or nodding her head mindlessly along to Coach Sylvester’s commands-she hates it sometimes. She’s better than all of them. She and Brittany, hand in hand, could bring this whole mountain down.
But it’s too early for that. There’s still time. She’s still so new to this whole high school drama piece.
In time, she is going to wipe the floor with each and every one of them. Until then, she’ll do what needs to be done. And when things get too heavy, there’s always Brittany to fall back on, Brittany for release.
Brittany makes the whole process shockingly tolerable. Santana likes to think that’s what best friends are for. And fuck everything else-the boys, the other cheerleaders, the dickhead teachers-because, when it comes to best friends, she easily has the best one out there.
Everything else will fall into place-someday.