Everybody Talks, Everybody Talks (Too Much)
Title: Everybody Talks, Everybody Talks (Too Much)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: If you can keep a secret, it makes you into something they can't quite touch.
A/N: [Picture Show 3/14]-"Everybody Talks"
Never thought I’d live to see the day
When everybody’s words got in the way
It started in secret, the way so many of the best things do, and for a while, that was kind of awesome. Secrets have this amazing power, the ability to make you feel stronger than you are, smarter than the rest of the world believes. If you can keep a secret, it makes you into something they can’t quite touch, because even if they beat at you, make you feel like a real loser, they can never get at that thing that you-and only you-know. The thing that makes you special, because it belongs to you and to nobody else.
To you, and to Santana.
You and Santana have kept a lot of secrets over the years-usually from parents, and snooping little sisters, and sometimes-when he’s been bad-Lord T. You and Santana are good at keeping secrets, the way nobody quite expects, because you talk all the time. And not in a made-up language or anything, like the way Tina and Artie sometimes whisper in backwards syllables on the bus ride to school, because Santana says you’re cooler than them. You’ve always been cooler than them. You take that to heart, snuggle it close at bedtime. It makes you feel warm, the idea that Santana thinks you’re cool.
So, okay, it was a secret, and it belonged to you, and to Santana, and to the trust built up between you, and that was cool. That was comfortable, like a pair of old pajamas, the kind your mom is always trying to slip out of your bottom drawer and sneak into a trash bag. But you always catch her, because those are your favorites, and how are you supposed to get to sleep at night if your pajamas aren’t keeping you toasty and safe?
Santana’s kind of like that, a pair of toasty-safe pajamas-the pair your mom is always sneakily trying to get rid of. Because, even though your mom assures you she likes Santana, sure, of course, you’re pretty sure she wishes you would spend more time with your little sister. Or with Lucy Fabray, a few blocks away. Or with Lord T.
But Lord T always wants to play the same games over and over, and Santana is fast, and smart, and funny. Plus, Santana is much, much prettier than T ever could hope to be-sorry, Mom says the truth hurts-and you like to think hanging out with someone that pretty can only do great things for your own reflection. It’s working already; you can see your limbs lengthening, feel the itch of a brand-new bravery building up in your stomach. It’s the kind of bravery you never knew, before Santana.
Bravery leads to trying new things, you found out, and new things are fun. But, sometimes, it’s the kind of fun you’re not supposed to talk about. According to Santana, that can be the best kind of fun out there-as long as you don’t break the rules.
“The rules,” as far as you can tell, are very simple. No one can know. Not now, not next week-not ever. Doesn’t matter who, doesn’t matter how bad you want to tell, or how your lungs seem to be struggling under the new weight of something so exciting-you just can’t.
“Why?” you ask only once, the first time it happens, and Santana gives you that look she reserves for people who make her head hurt.
“Because,” she says simply, “they’ll make us stop.”
You don’t see how that could be possible, how anybody out there-not even God, or Superman, or Harry Potter-could be enough to make you stop the secret. Because what you’re doing doesn’t feel like something that’s bad, or wrong, or scary. (Okay, maybe the scary part, a little, but in a rushing-down-a-roller-coaster-screaming kind of way.) What you’re doing doesn’t feel like something anybody should even care about, so why would they ever try to make you stop?
You want to argue the point for a while, but Santana’s picking at the carpet fuzzies faster and faster, like her limbs are all wound up and ready to run if you say another word she doesn’t like. Santana gets like that sometimes, even though you’re both too old to play the take my ball and go home game.
(Finn Hudson still plays that game sometimes, but nobody wants to put up with it, so he usually ends playing keep-away in his own yard with his shadow.)
Santana doesn’t usually try that old routine, especially with you, but she has this look on her face, this weird green shade around her eyebrows that makes you kind of nervous. You smile, and lay a hand on her knee, and squeeze once.
“Okay,” you tell her calmly. “Secret’s safe with me.”
It’s the right answer-it must be-and Santana’s green-terror face turns to something bright and shimmery, like a brand new silver earring held up to the sun. She looks like she wants to throw her arms around you, and you wish so badly that she just would, but maybe that’s a part of The Secret, too. Maybe you’re supposed to be sneaky about everything now. It’s not really clear.
It’s fun, for a while, this comfortable little ball in the middle of your chest that burns brighter when Santana smiles at you. It’s fun, to feel her little hand take yours under the table in English, and to know that you’re going to keep The Secret up after school. It makes the school day feel so much longer, having to wait for something even more exciting than raspberry popsicles and old Scooby Doo cartoons, but you know Santana’s fighting through right beside you, and that somehow feels better. Like you’re waging a private war, just the two of you, and you’re going to win.
(You just have to beat the dreaded Math Monster first.)
It’s fun for a while, and then, slowly, you begin to think maybe it’s not. This thing you’re doing never stops making you happy, the way things with Santana always do, but the fact that you can’t talk about it…the fact that you can’t say a word, even after all this time…it stops feeling so much like a warm little ball, and more like a rock. A thick, gray boulder with jagged edges, and it’s growing larger all the time. You start to wonder if you even have that much space in you-and how much space does something like a secret really take up, anyway? And, most importantly, does Santana have a rock, too?
“We still can’t talk about it?” you ask one afternoon, a couple of years after that first time, even though you know the answer. Santana pulls back a little ways, her eyes hooded in a way you don’t like.
“No.”
“Why not?” You shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t push-Santana has been getting weird lately, with the entrance into high school, and the cheerleading, and people like Lucy (Quinn) Fabray suddenly getting much bossier than they used to be-but you can’t help it. You feel like this is too important to choke back, to pretend not to care about. This is the biggest thing you’ve ever felt, taking up all the room in the very middle of you, and it just seems crazy not to tell somebody.
“We can’t,” Santana tells you seriously, her hand-not so little anymore, though the fingers aren’t nearly as long as yours-pressed solidly against the beat of your heart. “People will talk, Britt.”
And that’s that, no more room for discussion: people will talk. You wonder if that’s really so bad, really as scary as Santana clearly thinks. People talk all the time. It’s never stopped you before.
And besides, this isn’t seventh grade anymore. Kids actually do this stuff now: holding hands, and hugging between classes, and even The Secret itself. It’s not gross, or weird, or bad-not that it ever was, but even less so, now that other people are joining in. You don’t understand what Santana is so afraid of.
But Santana’s eyes are darker than usual, and her mouth keeps twitching uncomfortably, and even the hand against your heart feels anxious. You bend down, twisting into an awkward position, until your lips brush the top of one finger. She smiles.
You can’t talk about it, and that sucks, but at least you’re still doing it. At least Santana hasn’t decided you’re too old for The Secret yet, or that she’d rather have A Secret with somebody else. You’re not sure what you’ll do if that day ever comes. You don’t like to think about it. It makes the rock in your chest sink too low, crushing the air out of your lungs.
You keep going, even though the pajamas don’t feel quite so comfortable anymore, even though the sleeves fall whole inches short of your wrists and the pant legs bunch up around your knees. You keep going, and you keep telling yourself that Santana knows best. Santana gets this sort of thing the way you never have. If Santana’s afraid of people talking, she must have a right to be. She must be protecting you-both of you-because that’s what Santana does, and you ought to just trust her. That’s what friends do.
Friends, and secret keepers, too.
You keep going, at night, on weekends, carefully shut away behind Santana’s locked door, or in the old treehouse you’ve both outgrown but are still unwilling to give up on. You keep going, and the rock grows larger, and the pajamas keep shrinking, and all the while, you can’t stop thinking that The Secret doesn’t make you feel so special anymore. It doesn’t make you feel like the world belongs to only you and Santana, like it’s a war you’ll win as long as you keep fighting on together. It makes you feel kind of sad instead, kind of lonely and confused.
You watch the other kids at school-Quinn Fabray walking arm-in-arm with Finn Hudson, Artie’s head bent close to Tina’s at lunch-and you wonder why Santana doesn’t want that with you. Why Santana is actually going out of her way to keep that from being your reality. Santana tells you you’re her best friend, and that she’s never so happy as when it’s just the two of you, but she always walks a few steps away in the hallways, and she only takes your hand under the table if you’re sitting in the very back row. Sometimes, she might slip an arm around your shoulders in the movie theater darkness, but as soon as the lights blaze back, she’s gone.
Finn doesn’t do that to Quinn. Artie doesn’t duck away from Tina. What makes you so different?
It stays this way for weeks, months, maybe-it’s getting hard to keep track of how long the weight in your chest has been bearing down-and then, one day, something happens. Something neither of you are prepared for, and maybe you should know to be more careful by now, but you just get so excited. You’ve passed a math test-and not just passed, but aced, and it’s all thanks to Santana spending a sleepless weekend cramming with you-and you feel like you could leap from the tallest building in Lima and soar straight into the sun. It’s the happiest you’ve been in a long time, outside of The Secret activities in Santana’s room, and your arms fling around her shoulders before you can stop yourself.
You’re surprised when she doesn’t seize up, doesn’t panic and shove you away. Her arms-thin and strong and beautiful-hug you back hard, and she’s laughing right in your ear, and suddenly, she’s kissing you. Or you’re kissing her. You really can’t tell which it is, and you really don’t think it matters, because it doesn’t even last that long. Of all the kisses you’ve stolen since you were twelve, each tiny building block that makes up The Secret, this must be the shortest-and then she’s wheeling backward, two fingers rubbing across her bottom lip like she can’t decide if she wants to take it back, or not.
She’s looking over your shoulder with wide eyes, and you both see him there: Noah Puckerman, with his big-kid (you’re all big kids now, and you’re supposed to stop thinking of yourself that way) haircut and his newly broadened shoulders. Noah Puckerman, who likes to be called Puck now, and whose mouth is hanging open like a total jerk.
Santana’s eyes are wide open, her face going a little green around the edges again, and suddenly, you get it. You see why she never wanted to talk about it, why she never wanted anybody else to know. You understand why you had to keep that rule, because rules are always made to keep you safe. You and Santana.
Noah is still staring, but he seems to be getting the feeling back in his face now, and any minute now, he’s going to start shouting at the top of his lungs. Any minute now, everybody is going to know exactly what he just saw-exactly what Santana never wanted anyone to see-and then…and then…
You feel cold all over, the tips of your fingers and your toes tingling unpleasantly, but Santana is already charging into action. She pushes you aside-not hard, but maybe not as gently as you’d like-and storms over to Puck, catching him by the sleeve of his jacket. They’re too far away for you to hear the words, but Santana’s face is angry, and pleading, and desperate, the way she gets when she’s working her hardest to talk herself out of trouble. He stares down at her for a minute, mouth slowly winding shut, and then grins. Nods. You don’t like the way his eyebrows are positioned, like those guys on TV who smack waitresses’ butts.
She walks back to you, dragging her feet, and you find you don’t much like the look on her face, either. She looks sad, and determined, and before she even says the first word to you, you know things have changed. It isn’t about The Secret anymore. It’s about keeping Noah Puckerman’s big mouth shut.
She doesn’t explain to you what people would do if they found out two girls have been making out behind closed doors for two years. She doesn’t tell you how this town feels about queers. She doesn’t have to say it; you figure it out all on your own. You’re not as stupid as they think.
What she does tell you is that she’s going out with Puck tonight, for pizza and a movie. You want to protest, because it’s Friday, and Friday nights are sleepover nights. You want to tell her that you already have a movie picked out at Blockbuster, and that you left your pillow on her bed for tonight, and that she really shouldn’t go anywhere with Puck, because Puck’s a big jerk who doesn’t know how to be nice to anybody.
You want to tell her that she deserves to be around somebody nice, someone who will treat her like she matters, who won’t grab her butt and try to talk her into giving him a blowjob after their movie. You want to tell her, hands cradling that beautiful, sad face, that you could be that somebody nice. That you don’t care what other people think, or say, or do. That she is your best friend in the world, and that you would do absolutely anything to make her feel safe again. You want to pull her by the hand, all the way to your house, and to stop on every single block corner on the way to kiss her. You want it to be in full view of the world, Noah Puckerman, Finn Hudson, everyone. You want to show them you’re better than them. You and Santana.
But she’s already shaking her head, already running tired fingers through her hair, and you know this isn’t the time or the place. She told you before, the number one rule: no one can know. And now, someone does. Now, The Secret isn’t a secret anymore, and yet, somehow, the rock in your chest feels like it’s still getting bigger.
You want to say all of this out loud, but she looks so miserable. You find yourself linking your pinky with hers-the barest of touches, careful not to get too close-and smiling as best you know how. You’ll see her tomorrow, you say carefully. She can tell you all about her date.
You wish, when she says she’d like that, it sounded like the truth.
But this is what happens, when secrets get out. You understand now, the real point of a good secret. It isn’t to make you feel happy, or special, or comfortable. Secrets keep you safe. Secrets are the only way, sometimes, anything good can happen. But secrets can’t last forever.
Sooner or later, somebody’s going to talk.
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: If you can keep a secret, it makes you into something they can't quite touch.
A/N: [Picture Show 3/14]-"Everybody Talks"
Never thought I’d live to see the day
When everybody’s words got in the way
It started in secret, the way so many of the best things do, and for a while, that was kind of awesome. Secrets have this amazing power, the ability to make you feel stronger than you are, smarter than the rest of the world believes. If you can keep a secret, it makes you into something they can’t quite touch, because even if they beat at you, make you feel like a real loser, they can never get at that thing that you-and only you-know. The thing that makes you special, because it belongs to you and to nobody else.
To you, and to Santana.
You and Santana have kept a lot of secrets over the years-usually from parents, and snooping little sisters, and sometimes-when he’s been bad-Lord T. You and Santana are good at keeping secrets, the way nobody quite expects, because you talk all the time. And not in a made-up language or anything, like the way Tina and Artie sometimes whisper in backwards syllables on the bus ride to school, because Santana says you’re cooler than them. You’ve always been cooler than them. You take that to heart, snuggle it close at bedtime. It makes you feel warm, the idea that Santana thinks you’re cool.
So, okay, it was a secret, and it belonged to you, and to Santana, and to the trust built up between you, and that was cool. That was comfortable, like a pair of old pajamas, the kind your mom is always trying to slip out of your bottom drawer and sneak into a trash bag. But you always catch her, because those are your favorites, and how are you supposed to get to sleep at night if your pajamas aren’t keeping you toasty and safe?
Santana’s kind of like that, a pair of toasty-safe pajamas-the pair your mom is always sneakily trying to get rid of. Because, even though your mom assures you she likes Santana, sure, of course, you’re pretty sure she wishes you would spend more time with your little sister. Or with Lucy Fabray, a few blocks away. Or with Lord T.
But Lord T always wants to play the same games over and over, and Santana is fast, and smart, and funny. Plus, Santana is much, much prettier than T ever could hope to be-sorry, Mom says the truth hurts-and you like to think hanging out with someone that pretty can only do great things for your own reflection. It’s working already; you can see your limbs lengthening, feel the itch of a brand-new bravery building up in your stomach. It’s the kind of bravery you never knew, before Santana.
Bravery leads to trying new things, you found out, and new things are fun. But, sometimes, it’s the kind of fun you’re not supposed to talk about. According to Santana, that can be the best kind of fun out there-as long as you don’t break the rules.
“The rules,” as far as you can tell, are very simple. No one can know. Not now, not next week-not ever. Doesn’t matter who, doesn’t matter how bad you want to tell, or how your lungs seem to be struggling under the new weight of something so exciting-you just can’t.
“Why?” you ask only once, the first time it happens, and Santana gives you that look she reserves for people who make her head hurt.
“Because,” she says simply, “they’ll make us stop.”
You don’t see how that could be possible, how anybody out there-not even God, or Superman, or Harry Potter-could be enough to make you stop the secret. Because what you’re doing doesn’t feel like something that’s bad, or wrong, or scary. (Okay, maybe the scary part, a little, but in a rushing-down-a-roller-coaster-screaming kind of way.) What you’re doing doesn’t feel like something anybody should even care about, so why would they ever try to make you stop?
You want to argue the point for a while, but Santana’s picking at the carpet fuzzies faster and faster, like her limbs are all wound up and ready to run if you say another word she doesn’t like. Santana gets like that sometimes, even though you’re both too old to play the take my ball and go home game.
(Finn Hudson still plays that game sometimes, but nobody wants to put up with it, so he usually ends playing keep-away in his own yard with his shadow.)
Santana doesn’t usually try that old routine, especially with you, but she has this look on her face, this weird green shade around her eyebrows that makes you kind of nervous. You smile, and lay a hand on her knee, and squeeze once.
“Okay,” you tell her calmly. “Secret’s safe with me.”
It’s the right answer-it must be-and Santana’s green-terror face turns to something bright and shimmery, like a brand new silver earring held up to the sun. She looks like she wants to throw her arms around you, and you wish so badly that she just would, but maybe that’s a part of The Secret, too. Maybe you’re supposed to be sneaky about everything now. It’s not really clear.
It’s fun, for a while, this comfortable little ball in the middle of your chest that burns brighter when Santana smiles at you. It’s fun, to feel her little hand take yours under the table in English, and to know that you’re going to keep The Secret up after school. It makes the school day feel so much longer, having to wait for something even more exciting than raspberry popsicles and old Scooby Doo cartoons, but you know Santana’s fighting through right beside you, and that somehow feels better. Like you’re waging a private war, just the two of you, and you’re going to win.
(You just have to beat the dreaded Math Monster first.)
It’s fun for a while, and then, slowly, you begin to think maybe it’s not. This thing you’re doing never stops making you happy, the way things with Santana always do, but the fact that you can’t talk about it…the fact that you can’t say a word, even after all this time…it stops feeling so much like a warm little ball, and more like a rock. A thick, gray boulder with jagged edges, and it’s growing larger all the time. You start to wonder if you even have that much space in you-and how much space does something like a secret really take up, anyway? And, most importantly, does Santana have a rock, too?
“We still can’t talk about it?” you ask one afternoon, a couple of years after that first time, even though you know the answer. Santana pulls back a little ways, her eyes hooded in a way you don’t like.
“No.”
“Why not?” You shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t push-Santana has been getting weird lately, with the entrance into high school, and the cheerleading, and people like Lucy (Quinn) Fabray suddenly getting much bossier than they used to be-but you can’t help it. You feel like this is too important to choke back, to pretend not to care about. This is the biggest thing you’ve ever felt, taking up all the room in the very middle of you, and it just seems crazy not to tell somebody.
“We can’t,” Santana tells you seriously, her hand-not so little anymore, though the fingers aren’t nearly as long as yours-pressed solidly against the beat of your heart. “People will talk, Britt.”
And that’s that, no more room for discussion: people will talk. You wonder if that’s really so bad, really as scary as Santana clearly thinks. People talk all the time. It’s never stopped you before.
And besides, this isn’t seventh grade anymore. Kids actually do this stuff now: holding hands, and hugging between classes, and even The Secret itself. It’s not gross, or weird, or bad-not that it ever was, but even less so, now that other people are joining in. You don’t understand what Santana is so afraid of.
But Santana’s eyes are darker than usual, and her mouth keeps twitching uncomfortably, and even the hand against your heart feels anxious. You bend down, twisting into an awkward position, until your lips brush the top of one finger. She smiles.
You can’t talk about it, and that sucks, but at least you’re still doing it. At least Santana hasn’t decided you’re too old for The Secret yet, or that she’d rather have A Secret with somebody else. You’re not sure what you’ll do if that day ever comes. You don’t like to think about it. It makes the rock in your chest sink too low, crushing the air out of your lungs.
You keep going, even though the pajamas don’t feel quite so comfortable anymore, even though the sleeves fall whole inches short of your wrists and the pant legs bunch up around your knees. You keep going, and you keep telling yourself that Santana knows best. Santana gets this sort of thing the way you never have. If Santana’s afraid of people talking, she must have a right to be. She must be protecting you-both of you-because that’s what Santana does, and you ought to just trust her. That’s what friends do.
Friends, and secret keepers, too.
You keep going, at night, on weekends, carefully shut away behind Santana’s locked door, or in the old treehouse you’ve both outgrown but are still unwilling to give up on. You keep going, and the rock grows larger, and the pajamas keep shrinking, and all the while, you can’t stop thinking that The Secret doesn’t make you feel so special anymore. It doesn’t make you feel like the world belongs to only you and Santana, like it’s a war you’ll win as long as you keep fighting on together. It makes you feel kind of sad instead, kind of lonely and confused.
You watch the other kids at school-Quinn Fabray walking arm-in-arm with Finn Hudson, Artie’s head bent close to Tina’s at lunch-and you wonder why Santana doesn’t want that with you. Why Santana is actually going out of her way to keep that from being your reality. Santana tells you you’re her best friend, and that she’s never so happy as when it’s just the two of you, but she always walks a few steps away in the hallways, and she only takes your hand under the table if you’re sitting in the very back row. Sometimes, she might slip an arm around your shoulders in the movie theater darkness, but as soon as the lights blaze back, she’s gone.
Finn doesn’t do that to Quinn. Artie doesn’t duck away from Tina. What makes you so different?
It stays this way for weeks, months, maybe-it’s getting hard to keep track of how long the weight in your chest has been bearing down-and then, one day, something happens. Something neither of you are prepared for, and maybe you should know to be more careful by now, but you just get so excited. You’ve passed a math test-and not just passed, but aced, and it’s all thanks to Santana spending a sleepless weekend cramming with you-and you feel like you could leap from the tallest building in Lima and soar straight into the sun. It’s the happiest you’ve been in a long time, outside of The Secret activities in Santana’s room, and your arms fling around her shoulders before you can stop yourself.
You’re surprised when she doesn’t seize up, doesn’t panic and shove you away. Her arms-thin and strong and beautiful-hug you back hard, and she’s laughing right in your ear, and suddenly, she’s kissing you. Or you’re kissing her. You really can’t tell which it is, and you really don’t think it matters, because it doesn’t even last that long. Of all the kisses you’ve stolen since you were twelve, each tiny building block that makes up The Secret, this must be the shortest-and then she’s wheeling backward, two fingers rubbing across her bottom lip like she can’t decide if she wants to take it back, or not.
She’s looking over your shoulder with wide eyes, and you both see him there: Noah Puckerman, with his big-kid (you’re all big kids now, and you’re supposed to stop thinking of yourself that way) haircut and his newly broadened shoulders. Noah Puckerman, who likes to be called Puck now, and whose mouth is hanging open like a total jerk.
Santana’s eyes are wide open, her face going a little green around the edges again, and suddenly, you get it. You see why she never wanted to talk about it, why she never wanted anybody else to know. You understand why you had to keep that rule, because rules are always made to keep you safe. You and Santana.
Noah is still staring, but he seems to be getting the feeling back in his face now, and any minute now, he’s going to start shouting at the top of his lungs. Any minute now, everybody is going to know exactly what he just saw-exactly what Santana never wanted anyone to see-and then…and then…
You feel cold all over, the tips of your fingers and your toes tingling unpleasantly, but Santana is already charging into action. She pushes you aside-not hard, but maybe not as gently as you’d like-and storms over to Puck, catching him by the sleeve of his jacket. They’re too far away for you to hear the words, but Santana’s face is angry, and pleading, and desperate, the way she gets when she’s working her hardest to talk herself out of trouble. He stares down at her for a minute, mouth slowly winding shut, and then grins. Nods. You don’t like the way his eyebrows are positioned, like those guys on TV who smack waitresses’ butts.
She walks back to you, dragging her feet, and you find you don’t much like the look on her face, either. She looks sad, and determined, and before she even says the first word to you, you know things have changed. It isn’t about The Secret anymore. It’s about keeping Noah Puckerman’s big mouth shut.
She doesn’t explain to you what people would do if they found out two girls have been making out behind closed doors for two years. She doesn’t tell you how this town feels about queers. She doesn’t have to say it; you figure it out all on your own. You’re not as stupid as they think.
What she does tell you is that she’s going out with Puck tonight, for pizza and a movie. You want to protest, because it’s Friday, and Friday nights are sleepover nights. You want to tell her that you already have a movie picked out at Blockbuster, and that you left your pillow on her bed for tonight, and that she really shouldn’t go anywhere with Puck, because Puck’s a big jerk who doesn’t know how to be nice to anybody.
You want to tell her that she deserves to be around somebody nice, someone who will treat her like she matters, who won’t grab her butt and try to talk her into giving him a blowjob after their movie. You want to tell her, hands cradling that beautiful, sad face, that you could be that somebody nice. That you don’t care what other people think, or say, or do. That she is your best friend in the world, and that you would do absolutely anything to make her feel safe again. You want to pull her by the hand, all the way to your house, and to stop on every single block corner on the way to kiss her. You want it to be in full view of the world, Noah Puckerman, Finn Hudson, everyone. You want to show them you’re better than them. You and Santana.
But she’s already shaking her head, already running tired fingers through her hair, and you know this isn’t the time or the place. She told you before, the number one rule: no one can know. And now, someone does. Now, The Secret isn’t a secret anymore, and yet, somehow, the rock in your chest feels like it’s still getting bigger.
You want to say all of this out loud, but she looks so miserable. You find yourself linking your pinky with hers-the barest of touches, careful not to get too close-and smiling as best you know how. You’ll see her tomorrow, you say carefully. She can tell you all about her date.
You wish, when she says she’d like that, it sounded like the truth.
But this is what happens, when secrets get out. You understand now, the real point of a good secret. It isn’t to make you feel happy, or special, or comfortable. Secrets keep you safe. Secrets are the only way, sometimes, anything good can happen. But secrets can’t last forever.
Sooner or later, somebody’s going to talk.