Firsts
Title: Firsts
Author: Santana Lopez/Brittany
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Pre-Glee
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Life is full of firsts
A/N: I appear to be really fascinated with Santana as a character and with Gleeks in general as children. Unadulterated fluff tends to follow. I promise I will write things that do not involve timelines like this one…someday. When this gets old.
1
The first time Santana tells a lie, she does so for Brittany.
They are five years old. They haven’t known each other all that long-just long enough, really, for Santana to realize there is something genuinely cool about the girl. Not that she understands what “cool” even means; her mental capacity extends about as far as her Sesame Street video tapes. Emotionally, however, she already grasps what she will later comprehend in far greater detail:
Brittany is awesome.
The girl is about as tall as Santana, with hair much shinier and eyes much bluer. Her skin glistens, even while sticky with paste and juice and whatever other concoctions Brittany manages to spill upon herself on a given day. This happens a lot; at five, she isn’t what one would call coordinated. But she smiles whenever she sees Santana, even though Santana is kind of scrawny, and has knotted hair and kneecaps that always seem to be bleeding (at five, Santana isn’t what one would call graceful either), and it’s always the biggest smile Santana has ever seen pointed her way-except, maybe, the one her Mami offers each day at pick-up.
Brittany is nice-much nicer than the other kids in their class, even Santana herself-and always gets an A for the day when it comes to sharing. She may not be very smart (Santana is; already, she can recite her entire alphabet in English and Spanish, and she can count to thirty almost every other time she’s asked), but she likes yellow (because it’s bright) and ducks (because they’re sometimes yellow), and when they watch Sesame Street together on play dates, Brittany always cuddles into Santana’s shoulder comfortably. And she likes Snuffy best of all, even including Grover, which tells Santana everything she needs to know.
They haven’t known each other very long, but somehow, when Brittany trips at the paint station and splatters the plates of red and blue all over Kurt Hummel’s brand new white tennis shoes, Santana can’t help stepping in. Brittany just looks so sad, and Kurt is crying his big blue eyes out (Santana’s lip curls; she doesn’t mind Kurt all that much most of the time, but he always seems to be crying about something, and Santana doesn’t have the patience for that sort of thing), and their teacher is stomping over, wearing her “someone’s getting a time-out” face. It all happens very fast, and all Santana knows is, Brittany hates time-outs. She almost never gets them (Santana does; Santana gets them all the time. After Noah Puckerman, in fact, her tally sheet happens to have the most sad faces scrawled on it), and when she does, she usually spends the rest of the day being very quiet.
Santana doesn’t like it when Brittany goes all quiet. Everything’s a lot less fun when the blonde girl isn’t playing with her, romping around with blocks and trucks, playing house and laughing her wild, carefree laugh. The whole day will go sour if Brittany gets a time-out, Santana knows, and that knowledge strengthens resolve she hasn’t yet realized she possesses.
She stands up straight and looks their teacher right in the eye, and before she fully decides what to do about the situation, her mouth opens up. She hears herself boldly claiming responsibility for Kurt’s ruined sneakers, and although the frail little boy continues to sniffle miserably, he does not correct her. To her left, standing just a step back, she sees Brittany’s eyes go wide.
Their teacher, a harried-looking young woman with frazzled nerves and worse hair, pinches the bridge of her nose when Santana, finished with her enthusiastic explanation, holds both hands out in front of her the way she’s seen bad men do on her daddy’s cop shows. She’s a little disappointed when no shiny silver handcuffs are produced to snap around her wrists (the teacher simply takes her hand and leads her tiredly towards the time-out corner, like every other day), but this doesn’t deter her from turning and beaming at Brittany.
Clearly baffled, Brittany hooks both hands together under her own chin and watches Santana go, beaming back.
It is worth it.
2
The first time Santana steals something, she does so for Brittany.
They are eight years old. It is July, hotter than a typical Ohio summer, and muggy to boot. They’ve been friends for years now, off and on (mostly on, although there was that long handful of months two years ago when Brittany’s parents whisked her off to visit family in Florida for the summer, when Santana found out just how hard letter writing was and immediately resolved to do everything in her power to keep Brittany within walking distance of her house at all times), and Santana still thinks Brittany is just plain cool. She understands a little better, now, what that entails; it means Brittany always brings an extra cookie when they hang out, and never makes fun of the trouble Santana has pronouncing her Rs, and always, always cuddles close when they watch episodes of Goosebumps in Santana’s dimly lit basement.
Brittany is cool, and hanging out with her makes Santana feel like she might be cool too.
The afternoon is a broiling one; there are no clouds in the vibrant sky, allowing the sun to blister down with free reign. The top of Santana’s head feels like it might burst into flames at any moment, making her vastly uneasy in her own skin. Brittany, with her lighter hair, mentions nothing of the sort, but she can’t seem to stop sweating. Santana takes this to mean the other girl is equally uncomfortable, laying sprawled out on Santana’s front lawn in pink shorts and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off.
Santana wishes her mother would cut the sleeves off her shirts, but all her Mami ever says on the subject is, “Who in their right mind takes scissors to such perfectly good clothing? Honestly, Santana, I don’t know where your head goes sometimes.”
Santana, unwilling to pick a fight lest she find herself grounded for a week, doesn’t push the issue.
“Ug,” Brittany says dumbly, as if the heat has sucked all will to form sentences from her body.
“Ug,” Santana agrees, ripping up a fistful of browning grass and flinging it half-heartedly into the air. Brittany turns her head and tries to smile.
“I feel sticky.”
The way she says it is entirely blasé, like she couldn’t care less about the slow roast that is their afternoon, but Santana feels herself prickle all the same. She’s beginning to slowly learn about her own protective instincts, and has found that, where Brittany is concerned, Santana is primed to mimic Superman if the need arises. A little heat isn’t exactly on par with, say, Lex Luthor’s dastardly plans for world domination, but it’s close enough.
“You know what?” Santana says, sitting up straight and setting her mouth in a determined line. Brittany rolls her neck against the ground to look up at her. “I’m gonna fix it.”
“Fix what?” Brittany asks curiously, but Santana’s already on her feet, dashing as fast as her sluggish body can carry her into the house.
She hopes Brittany understands well enough to stay put; being a superhero works better when the rescued party doesn’t try to help save the day.
Santana pauses at the mouth of her kitchen, back flat against the wall, and listens. Her mother is somewhere in this house, puttering around with laundry and rules. It’s best if Santana moves quickly and silently; if she’s caught, Brittany will continue to live an over-hot, sticky existence, and Santana’s mission will be categorized as a failure of the worst degree.
Tilting her head, the small girl waits until her mother’s footsteps fade, marking her location somewhere around the back bathroom. She darts for the kitchen, sneakers slipping on the freshly-washed linoleum, and very nearly body-slams the refrigerator in her haste.
The fridge proves to be pretty useless-her Mami hasn’t gone shopping in a couple of weeks, so there’s nothing more interesting than a bag of carrots and a few cling-wrapped leftovers-but she hits the jackpot when she pries open the freezer. The blast of cold air smacks her in the face, brutal and liberating, and Santana greedily leans closer. There are all sorts of things in here: ice tray after carefully stacked ice tray, frozen buffalo wings, countless ice packs for the sake of Santana’s uncanny ability to injure herself in just about any setting. And there, all the way in the back, Santana sees it.
Some tiny voice at the back of mind-a voice that sounds unsettlingly like Quinn Fabray, the girl down the street with whom Santana’s parents seem inexplicably enamored-pipes up, muttering about how this is a bad idea, how her Mami is probably saving this for a special occasion. Santana scowls and reminds herself that this is a special occasion; it is stifling outside, and Brittany is on her lawn right now, sweating to death. Her Mami probably won’t be happy about this when she finds out (and she always finds out; Santana swears her mother has superpowers too, and wonders why she always must use hers for evil), but this is important.
Scooping her prize up in slender arms, Santana pauses at the dishwasher to collect the tools she’ll need to cap it all off, and bolts for the yard again.
Brittany sits up when she sees her coming, arms coming to wrap instinctively around colt-long legs. Triumphant, Santana throws herself down and brandishes one silver instrument, grinning with all the force of the sun raging above.
“To summer!”
The confusion on Brittany’s pretty face melts away instantly as she digs into the pint of strawberry ice cream. Santana watches proudly, arms crossed over her chest, and fails to notice her mother creeping up with her “someone’s in a load of trouble” expression rooted in place. When a hand falls on her shoulder, she resigns herself to fate: sometimes, even superheroes get caught.
But as her mother steers her back towards the house, scolding softly so as not to embarrass her daughter in front of her friend, and Santana looks back to find Brittany sucking on her spoon with wide, adoring eyes, she can’t help but grin broadly.
Totally worth it.
3
The first time Santana hits someone, so does so for Brittany.
They are ten years old. It is January, the kind of month Santana has always despised for its irregular snowstorms, and they have been inseparable for longer than Santana cares to remember. For all she cares, they have been Santana-and-Brittany their whole lives; they fit in a way Santana doesn’t need to question. And sometimes, they let other kids join them-Quinn Fabray, usually, or Finn Hudson, or Tina Cohen-Chang (out of these, Santana only likes Quinn, but Brittany likes everybody, so she deals with the others grudgingly)-but at the end of the day, Santana-and-Brittany always prevails. They play rock-paper-scissors like it’s their job, help each other with homework, and when Santana inevitably ends up sleeping at Brittany’s house every Friday night, they watch movies until Brittany falls asleep with her head on Santana’s knee.
Theirs is the perfect friendship, and Santana defies anyone to tell her otherwise. Brittany is by far the coolest person she will ever know, and when she reaches for Santana’s hand under the table during particularly difficult long division lessons, Santana knows the blonde girl thinks the same of her.
School is going by at an agonizing snail’s pace today, and Santana feels like curling up on her desk and going to sleep. She isn’t bad at school; she even kind of likes parts of it, when she can find it in herself to care. But it’s Thursday-a useless day, in Santana’s opinion, because it is not Hump Day (and therefore she can make no inappropriate jokes with Noah Puckerman) or Friday (so there is no sleepover at Brittany’s to look forward to after the final bell)-and they’re going over Spanish verbs, and Santana knows Spanish the way Quinn Fabray knows the rosary, so there’s really no point in listening. Instead, she lets Brittany pull her hand into her lap under the table, long pale fingers running races along caramel-colored skin, and dozes with her cheek propped up on her free hand.
She just has to hold on for two more hours, and then she and Brittany can bolt for the swings and wait for her Papi to pick them up. They’ll have to contend with Rachel Berry and her big mouth, of course, because Quinn will want to swing too, and where Quinn goes, Rachel tends to follow, but Santana doesn’t care. Anything is better than listening to their teacher butcher pronunciations this way.
A glance in Brittany’s direction lets her know the blonde girl is trying to pay attention. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, and her right hand grips a pencil with white-knuckled intensity. Her left hand, however, is writing messages on Santana’s skin-the days of the week, a list of what she had for lunch-and Santana knows Brittany isn’t hearing a word about conjugating “to fly.” She’s a little proud of herself for being able to distract her friend without even trying, especially because it will mean teaching Brittany how to do the homework later on-and Santana knows she’s a much better teacher than Mr. Green will ever be.
Santana has found she likes teaching Brittany how to do things. It makes her feel smart, even on days dominated by Rachel’s irritating need to spell every five-syllable word in her vocabulary as she speaks.
Across the table, Noah Puckerman keeps poking his pencil into Kurt Hummel’s ear, snickering when the smaller boy flaps his hands in annoyance. Santana rolls her eyes. She kind of likes Noah sometimes, but most of the time the kid is just plain obnoxious. He hates school, and most of the people in it (except, inexplicably, Finn Hudson and Santana herself), but gets stuck spending more time in latchkey than at his own house. Santana knows this has something to do with his dad never being home, and almost feels sorry for Noah; she loves her Papi like crazy, to the point where she can’t imagine him going away for even a weekend at a time.
Although Santana makes a point not to mention his “situation” (as her Mami would say) to him, this all tends to makes Noah a little angry. Usually, he translates that anger into mischief, overturning tables at lunch, hiding the tambourines during music time, or even throwing dodge balls with impressive force in gym class. Usually, she finds him funny.
But sometimes, the anger bubbles up inside of him until he can’t release it by playing pranks or hitting kids like Kurt with yellow foam balls. Sometimes, he gets mean. And on those days, Santana watches closely.
The thing about mean kids is, Santana’s pretty good at handling them. No one bullies her, of course; no one dares, because even though Santana is one of the smallest kids in the class, she’s got a talent for getting into trouble that goes nearly unparalleled, and as a result, her classmates respect her.
Brittany is not the same.
Brittany is the nicest person in their grade-this isn’t Santana being biased; it’s just a fact-unable to tease even Rachel Berry lest she hurt her feelings. (Santana does not have this problem; teasing Rachel is often the high point of her days, even though it makes Quinn look like she might smack Santana in the face if she keeps it up.) Brittany is so nice that everyone should like her-and everyone does.
Unless they happen to be having a bad day.
Bad days mean someone’s going to pay a price. Normally, that someone is Rachel; with her loud voice and tiny stature and two gay dads, she practically screams “target.” Sometimes, that someone is Kurt; with his penchant for floral arrangements and name-dropping designer brands he isn’t even big enough to wear yet, he manages to clamber under the skin of boys like Noah and Dave Karofsky. Santana doesn’t particularly care when either of them are the ones being picked on.
She cares a lot when it’s Brittany.
It usually doesn’t happen when they’re in class, but when Noah stops poking Kurt in the face, she sees his eyes narrow across the table at her friend. Santana’s skin goes cold all over; her fingers clamp down on Brittany’s knee. The blonde girl frowns.
“What?” she whispers. Noah’s lip twists unpleasantly.
Santana’s fingers go almost as white as Brittany’s.
Noah swings his legs under his body and leans forward so they can hear him. Very deliberately, he looks Brittany over, and smirks.
“How come you didn’t fill in any of the answers, Britt?”
Santana’s teeth grit together. Noah hasn’t filled in his answers either; he has no room to talk.
Brittany’s gentle features spell out confusion. “I just don’t get this,” she answers honestly, the only way she’s ever known how. Noah’s smirk stretches, ghastly and cruel, until it takes up his whole face.
“How come you don’t get it?” he asks, stretching forward to poke at her worksheet with the tip of his pencil. “Is it because you’re stupid?”
Brittany frowns, head tilted. “What?”
Santana growls.
“I think it is,” Noah announces, slightly louder than is prudent. “I think it’s because you’re stupid.”
Brittany’s chin trembles. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” he insists. “You’re stupid. This stuff is easy. It’s easier than anything. Easier than coloring.”
Even if he were speaking to someone else, Santana would think he’s gone too far. Nothing is easier than coloring, and anyway, Spanish can be pretty complicated stuff when you don’t grow up with it. Even Santana can admit that.
“It’s not easier than coloring!” Brittany exclaims quietly, eyes wide. Santana squeezes her hand, glaring with all her might at Noah’s sneering face.
“It is,” he persists, grinning wickedly. “It’s easy, and you don’t get it, so you must be like, a retard or something.”
Santana can’t explain it, but it feels like something in her snaps. She’s up and out of her seat before she can take another breath, pushing back so hard that the chair actually slams into the kid behind her (Mercedes Jones, who whips around looking ready to squawk indignantly until she sees Santana’s ramrod-stiff posture). Brittany, silent tears streaming down both cheeks, reaches up to catch her arm, but Santana yanks free and balls up her fists against her hips.
“Take it back,” she growls, because if there’s one thing she hates, it’s that word. It’s awful, and harsh, and Santana has called a lot of people a lot of bad names over the years, but she has never used that one.
On the other side of the table, Noah leaps to his feet and bares his teeth. “It’s not my fault she’s retarded!”
Mr. Green is inching closer, his “we can talk this out” mouth ready to form placating phrases, but Santana has gone temporarily deaf with rage. Roaring, she launches herself across the table, feet scrabbling against the wood for purchase, and catches Noah around the neck with outstretched arms. He lets out an angry “oof!” sound when his back hits the wall; unsatisfied, Santana winds the collar of his t-shirt in one fist and rocks forward with the other.
The sound of knuckle matching with cartilage is completely vile, and when Noah screams and jerks his head forward into hers, Santana is dazzled. She staggers back as the room comes back into focus, and all she knows is that Noah is crying, hands cupped around his nose, and her whole face aches, and Mr. Green is wrapping one meaty arm around her waist and one around Noah’s, holding them away from each other.
Behind them, the class is in uproar, but Santana can’t pick a single face out of the crowd except for Brittany. Her friend is gaping up at her, expression lost somewhere between horror and awe, tear tracks drying on her beet-red face, and Santana feels strong. It doesn’t matter that her eye is slowly blackening, or that Noah’s blood paints the back of her throbbing hand, or that Mr. Green is angrily shouting words like “detention” and “suspension” and “call your parents” into her ringing ears. She has just stood up for Brittany in such a way that no one will risk repeating Noah’s unwise performance for years to come.
Brittany’s whole face is shining with emotion, and Santana can’t stop herself from throwing a cocky wink over her shoulder as Mr. Green drags her out of the classroom.
Stupid, maybe, but beyond worth it.
4
The first time Santana cheats, she does so for Brittany.
They are thirteen years old. It’s April, most days consisting of weeping open skies and the new vestiges of shimmering plant life, and something is weird: against all comprehension, Santana finds herself beginning to see Brittany in a strange new light. It has something to do, she thinks, with the way the other girl has sprouted over the last year; her legs are long and shapely now, her butt considerably firmer than Santana’s own, and she wears a bra outside of the training section. Even her coloring is brighter than Santana remembers it being before, and even though they have seen each other every single day, she can’t deny the differences.
They’re in eighth grade, their last year of childhood before being launched into high school’s blistering embrace, and Santana still thinks Brittany is the coolest person in the world. She doesn’t even really think about it being so anymore; it just feels like an absolute, one of the high-most universal Truths. They still share lunches and do homework together, but now, when their weekly sleepovers devolve into cuddling sessions, Santana’s stomach feels funny. She’s not entirely comfortable with it, but it’s Brittany, so it doesn’t even cross her mind to put a stop to it all.
The two of them are seated side by side in Biology, and Santana isn’t paying attention to the slides they’re being shown. She’s too busy worrying-freaking the fuck out, really, though she can’t say so out loud because Brittany twitches a little each time she swears-to care about frog spawn or mosquito larvae, or whatever. There are more important things to fixate on.
Specifically, how Quinn Fabray has convinced her to try out for the high school cheer squad come Monday.
Santana doesn’t want to. Like every other soon-to-be-freshman, she has heard the horror stories about the Cheerio coach, a woman named Sue Sylvester whose reign is rumored to be as ironclad as her heart. She knows that what Sue wants is what Sue gets, even if what Sue wants happens to involve dragging her entire team into a graveyard in the dead of night and forcing them to run laps between freshly-laid stones (Santana thinks this routine is likely a severely-mutated version of that one Remember the Titans scene, but without the heart-warming moral at the end).
The short version is, Sue Sylvester is absolutely the scariest thing Santana has ever heard of, even counting that story with the hook-handed man and the creepy bird creatures in The Dark Crystal, and Santana wants nothing to do with her. However, Quinn is obsessed-there is no gentler term for it-with the idea of making Head Cheerio by her second year, thereby sizing up to her older sister and finally pleasing the mindless Stepfordian-drones she calls parents, and no matter how Santana tries, she cannot talk the girl out of it.
None of this would affect Santana at all, since she’s actually damn good at turning down Quinn Fabray’s cajoling puppy eyes, but there is the small matter of Brittany to consider. The blonde girl loves dancing-really, truly, heart-and-soul loves it, and the only way she’ll fully appreciate her high school career is if she makes Cheerio right off the bat. Santana knows Brittany like the back of her hand; for all her talents and personality, the girl just does not excel in academics. She never has before, and whatever it is keeping her mind from focusing on numbers and patterns and proper punctuation just doesn’t seem to be going away. Santana doesn’t mind, personally; she likes being the one to instruct Brittany on every subject, guiding her carefully through intellectual obstacles. It makes her feel special, like she can read a language no one else on earth understands: the dialect of Brittany.
Sometimes, even Brittany’s own parents don’t seem fluent in that one.
But Santana isn’t stupid; she knows high school is ten times more difficult than middle school, and if Brittany is getting this frustrated now, God only knows how awful it will be down the line. Santana can brighten Brittany’s mood more or less effortlessly, but if there is nothing for the girl to look forward to at school except Santana’s hugs and smiles, she’s bound to burn out pretty fast. Being a Cheerio would give her something to do, something to strive for, and Santana honestly thinks it would do her friend some good.
Therefore, Santana’s own fate is sealed. While she would rather play rugby or something, she knows Brittany won’t try out for Sylvester’s squad from Hell without her, and she certainly can’t rely on Quinn to keep an eye on things. The Christian girl has her hands full with juggling the repression of her vastly unsettling crush on Rachel Berry (‘unsettling’ mostly being Santana’s word of choice because it’s Rachel, and the idea of anyone crushing on that loud-ass pipsqueak makes the Latina’s skin feel like it’s on too tight) and her parents’ gross over-estimation of how a thirteen-year-old should behave. There is no room left for watching over the likes of Brittany, who, though she means well, often has more energy than a puppy on Red Bull.
There is one more reason to try out for the squad, apart from all of this, and it may well be the most important reason of all. Right now, Santana is exceptionally good at keeping Brittany safe; most kids still remember the cracking sound of Noah Puckerman’s nose the day he attempted to upset the balance, and they steer clear. But high school is bigger-much bigger-and things will not be as simple. Santana knows what teenagers are like, and she knows Brittany is far too sweet to handle teasing with any modicum of violence. Santana herself could stand up and do damage for her, but Brittany gets upset at the sight of blood, and anyway, Santana’s still not very big. It’s hard to play bodyguard when your body feels miniscule and fragile in comparison to the apes tromping dangerously around you.
But she’s seen the way kids look at the Cheerios; she’s seen the unrestrained hope, awe, and fear in their eyes at the mere sight of those three-toned uniforms. It gives Santana a concrete reason for why they must try out: Quinn wants the prestige, Brittany wants to dance, and Santana needs the power. It will be the ideal weapon when it comes to protecting her best friend.
She can’t tell Brittany any of this, so when the blonde girl mentions Monday’s tryouts, Santana shrugs like she couldn’t care less. She wants to say something casual to make Brittany think she’s not scared out of her mind, but just when her mouth is opening, a paper slaps down on her desk. Santana jumps a mile and looks up to find Quinn glaring at them both.
“Pop quiz,” the blonde girl hisses through her teeth. “Pass it.”
Santana scowls. “No shit, Sherlock.”
“No, cretin,” Quinn growls (this is her new thing, growling out insulting nicknames as if she spends her nights sitting up, planning them out). “Make sure she passes. Eligibility.”
Santana’s mouth snaps shut, comprehending. Brittany is staring down at her quiz with hooded eyes, chewing emphatically on her lip and shaking her head subtly from side to side. Quinn gives a determined nod and flounces off to unload the rest of the pages, and Santana slumps a little in her seat.
Of course. Brittany isn’t doing what one would call well in Biology-or, as a matter of fact, in most classes. And that’s always been okay in the past, because she does just well enough to scrape by and move up a grade level. But now…now there’s the whole academic eligibility thing to consider, and Santana feels like she’s watching her entire plan for high school go up in shiny flames, because she forgot this part.
If Brittany fails this quiz, odds are she will drop well below eligibility, and Sylvester won’t even let her try out in the first place.
Alarm wells in her chest, hot and acrid, and Santana wonders for a second if this is what a panic attack feels like. She can’t handle the idea of making the squad without Brittany, especially if that leaves Quinn as her only safeguard, because Quinn has been going frickin’ crazy lately. It’s all too much, and her lungs feel like they’re going to burst, and before Santana realizes it, she’s leaning sideways and pressing her lips almost flush against Brittany’s ear.
“Follow my lead.”
Big blue eyes stare back across bare inches, and Santana’s stomach does that flippy thing again. Brittany smells like oranges and anxiety, and her mouth looks entirely too soft, and this is just not the time for Santana to lose her mind. She grips the blonde girl’s wrist and nods like she knows what she’s doing, looking back and forth from her paper to Brittany’s until her friend’s head bobs in assent. Then she gets to work.
Ten minutes later, she flips the page over and nervously traces a starburst pattern into the smooth white surface. Flushing bright red, Brittany mimics the motion. Santana feels as though she might explode because, while she’s done plenty of “bad things” in her life, this pretty much takes the cake. This is dangerous-if she gets caught, if Brittany gets caught, everything goes out the window.
She waits for their teacher to stomp over, wearing a fully-detailed “someone is going to Hell” scowl, but it doesn’t happen. She waits for Quinn’s hand to shoot into the air, all ready to rat them out (because Quinn Fabray is one of her best friends, but the girl has been acting so weird lately that Santana doesn’t think she trusts her), but the shrill accusation never comes. She waits for her test to simply shrivel, inexplicably lit aflame by her own guilt, but the page remains pristine.
Finally, another student comes around to collect the product of her illegality. Santana glares into his eyes, daring him to find her out. Brittany stares into her lap, fingers curling nervously around her skirt. The boy walks on.
Slowly, Santana’s mouth pulls into an uneasy smile. Her eyes meet Brittany’s.
If they make Cheerios, more or less worth it.
5
The first time Santana prays, she does so for Brittany.
They are fifteen years old. The air is frigid, the ground blanketed in a thick white veneer, and Santana is bundled up to her eyeballs in winter wear. Beside her, Brittany skips along in her bright red Cheerio jacket and earmuffs, pink tongue poking out now and again to lap up the flakes sinking down from a gray sky. Santana watches her move, hands buried in her jacket pockets, and smiles lazily. Very little has changed since fifth grade: she still hates winter-hates the cold, hates the slush, hates how red her ears flame under bitter Jack Frostian winds-but she still thinks the world of Brittany. Weirdly, the two mindsets seem to collide on the air, sparks flickering off in all directions, and Santana is left wearing this dumbass expression of delight.
Anywhere else, with anyone else, she would mind. Here, under cover of darkness, watching her best friend twirl in circles, it feels perfect.
They are on top of the world: two of the most promising freshmen on the Cheerios, skating through school (for Santana, this is so because she is genuinely good at learning-tell anyone, and die; for Brittany, this is so partially because of Santana’s coaching and partially because Sue Sylvester has menaced the entire McKinley staff into passing her girls, under penalty of bodily harm, regardless of individual academic prowess), and looking hot as hell doing it. Santana’s got the whole student body wrapped around her finger (even the likes of Noah Puckerman-now simply Puck-who seems to have forgotten about their little nose-breaking incident five years ago and is instead crawling after her illegally-short skirt). Brittany’s one up on that; she’s even got Santana wrapped.
Of course, this has been the case since they were five years old. It’s common knowledge by now that Brittany is the one person who can corral Santana-and Santana accepts this without question.
Now, walking back from a particularly heinous Cheerio practice, Santana watches Brittany spin under lamplight. Part of her knows life will be ten times easier next year, once they’ve got licenses and cars to take from point A to destination B without all the biting chill to deal with. A larger part is inclined to appreciate the now, because as nice as it would be to bask in the heaven that is a heated driver’s seat, nothing can compare to the way Brittany throws back her head and laughs with snowflakes dotting her thick blonde hair.
“Come dance with me!” the girl cries, darting close and pulling Santana’s hands into her own. The Latina rolls her eyes fondly.
“Britt, it’s like…ten degrees out.”
“But it’s pretty,” the blonde disagrees, using Santana’s grudging arm to spin herself like a ballerina.
Santana has to admit this much is true-although she thinks it has much less to do with the snow and more to do with the girl wearing it in her hair. She allows Brittany to curl in close, tucking her head beneath Santana’s chin even though her height likely renders the action less than comfortable.
They stand together for long minutes, swaying to the melody in Brittany’s head, until Santana begins to feel on edge. Flakes are collecting in rapid succession upon her head, soaking through her bright red cap, and Brittany’s body is starting to feel strangely hot against her own. The scarf around Santana’s throat pulls tight; she sucks in a breath and tilts her head back, wincing when snow finds its way into her eyes.
This is the part she absolutely cannot handle. The part where Brittany leans in close, radiating warmth and security, the part where Santana can feel herself edging closer and closer to a precipice she’s not prepared to topple over. The part where she can taste on the air the basic building blocks of their friendship, the desire and the hope, the metallic zing of her own protective nature and the saccharine beauty of Brittany’s innocence. This is the part where it all comes to a head, and though it’s been coming for a long time, Santana can’t help but push it back each time it nears.
She’s just not ready.
She has done so much over the years for Brittany’s sake-bad things. She has lied, and pushed other people away, and drawn her own reputation to the brink of goodness, and she does not regret a single one of those things. Everything she has ever done for Brittany has been worth it-she has earned the girl’s respect, and her admiration, and-though they do not say it out loud, Santana sees it as clearly as she sees the color of her own skin-her love. Nothing that culminates in such splendor can be regretted.
But there’s something else there, something bigger and better and terrifying, and for all her brute force and stubbornness, Santana just isn’t up for it yet.
She looks down now, sees Brittany’s big blue eyes shining up at her, and tightens her grip on the other girl. She can see something there-a future, maybe, if they’re to be grandiose about it-and it is so real and so pure that Santana is sure she will tear it to shreds the second it enters her anxiously cupped hands. Santana is great at a few things and good enough at many others, but something like this-something so complete, so abstract, so unrestrained…it’s the sort of thing that can wind up in tatters in the blink of an eye. She doesn’t know how to handle it. It’s not the sort of thing that can be taught, but it doesn’t stop her from wishing someone could show her the way.
Santana isn’t a religious person. That’s Quinn Fabray’s field of vision, and Santana has never felt the need to peer through those goggles. God doesn’t do much for her-that image of some thing in the sky, staring down like Sue Sylvester on an omnipotent scale, horrifies her in a child’s nightmare sort of way. She hates the idea of something so absolute, something literally incapable of making mistakes, when she personally makes so many. She loathes the concept of someone looking down and filing each of these errors in a drawer somewhere, saving it all up for that day when it will mean something. She can’t imagine that day could ever be a good one.
It’s easier-less emotionally taxing-not to believe in anything so all-encompassing as a God. Santana is happy this way; nobody to answer to, nothing to lose. It’s a comfortable way of living, even with people like Quinn or her own mother looking down on her for it.
Despite all of this, as she stands in the middle of an icy street with her best friend nestled in her arms, Santana can’t help what she does next.
Closing her eyes, pressing her cheek to sweet-smelling hair, Santana prays. It isn’t to God, or any blindly-fabricated spiritual power (she sees no point in praying to something if you can’t make yourself believe) but it’s a prayer nonetheless. She prays that, someday, she will be ready for this thing-whatever it may be, whatever it may mean-with Brittany. Eyes clenched shut, breath coming in staggering gasps, she prays as hard as she can that, someday, this will all make sense.
When that day comes, she will look at Brittany and she will promise her the world. She will spread open, lay her life out, and take Brittany in until no space between them is left unfilled. She will give up everything.
For now, Santana can only look into Brittany’s eyes, touch two fingers to Brittany’s wind-burnt cheek, and smile.
Brittany, looking wiser than she ever has before, grins brightly back.
Someday, Santana prays with a fervent desperation, everything will be worth it.
Author: Santana Lopez/Brittany
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Pre-Glee
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Summary: Life is full of firsts
A/N: I appear to be really fascinated with Santana as a character and with Gleeks in general as children. Unadulterated fluff tends to follow. I promise I will write things that do not involve timelines like this one…someday. When this gets old.
1
The first time Santana tells a lie, she does so for Brittany.
They are five years old. They haven’t known each other all that long-just long enough, really, for Santana to realize there is something genuinely cool about the girl. Not that she understands what “cool” even means; her mental capacity extends about as far as her Sesame Street video tapes. Emotionally, however, she already grasps what she will later comprehend in far greater detail:
Brittany is awesome.
The girl is about as tall as Santana, with hair much shinier and eyes much bluer. Her skin glistens, even while sticky with paste and juice and whatever other concoctions Brittany manages to spill upon herself on a given day. This happens a lot; at five, she isn’t what one would call coordinated. But she smiles whenever she sees Santana, even though Santana is kind of scrawny, and has knotted hair and kneecaps that always seem to be bleeding (at five, Santana isn’t what one would call graceful either), and it’s always the biggest smile Santana has ever seen pointed her way-except, maybe, the one her Mami offers each day at pick-up.
Brittany is nice-much nicer than the other kids in their class, even Santana herself-and always gets an A for the day when it comes to sharing. She may not be very smart (Santana is; already, she can recite her entire alphabet in English and Spanish, and she can count to thirty almost every other time she’s asked), but she likes yellow (because it’s bright) and ducks (because they’re sometimes yellow), and when they watch Sesame Street together on play dates, Brittany always cuddles into Santana’s shoulder comfortably. And she likes Snuffy best of all, even including Grover, which tells Santana everything she needs to know.
They haven’t known each other very long, but somehow, when Brittany trips at the paint station and splatters the plates of red and blue all over Kurt Hummel’s brand new white tennis shoes, Santana can’t help stepping in. Brittany just looks so sad, and Kurt is crying his big blue eyes out (Santana’s lip curls; she doesn’t mind Kurt all that much most of the time, but he always seems to be crying about something, and Santana doesn’t have the patience for that sort of thing), and their teacher is stomping over, wearing her “someone’s getting a time-out” face. It all happens very fast, and all Santana knows is, Brittany hates time-outs. She almost never gets them (Santana does; Santana gets them all the time. After Noah Puckerman, in fact, her tally sheet happens to have the most sad faces scrawled on it), and when she does, she usually spends the rest of the day being very quiet.
Santana doesn’t like it when Brittany goes all quiet. Everything’s a lot less fun when the blonde girl isn’t playing with her, romping around with blocks and trucks, playing house and laughing her wild, carefree laugh. The whole day will go sour if Brittany gets a time-out, Santana knows, and that knowledge strengthens resolve she hasn’t yet realized she possesses.
She stands up straight and looks their teacher right in the eye, and before she fully decides what to do about the situation, her mouth opens up. She hears herself boldly claiming responsibility for Kurt’s ruined sneakers, and although the frail little boy continues to sniffle miserably, he does not correct her. To her left, standing just a step back, she sees Brittany’s eyes go wide.
Their teacher, a harried-looking young woman with frazzled nerves and worse hair, pinches the bridge of her nose when Santana, finished with her enthusiastic explanation, holds both hands out in front of her the way she’s seen bad men do on her daddy’s cop shows. She’s a little disappointed when no shiny silver handcuffs are produced to snap around her wrists (the teacher simply takes her hand and leads her tiredly towards the time-out corner, like every other day), but this doesn’t deter her from turning and beaming at Brittany.
Clearly baffled, Brittany hooks both hands together under her own chin and watches Santana go, beaming back.
It is worth it.
2
The first time Santana steals something, she does so for Brittany.
They are eight years old. It is July, hotter than a typical Ohio summer, and muggy to boot. They’ve been friends for years now, off and on (mostly on, although there was that long handful of months two years ago when Brittany’s parents whisked her off to visit family in Florida for the summer, when Santana found out just how hard letter writing was and immediately resolved to do everything in her power to keep Brittany within walking distance of her house at all times), and Santana still thinks Brittany is just plain cool. She understands a little better, now, what that entails; it means Brittany always brings an extra cookie when they hang out, and never makes fun of the trouble Santana has pronouncing her Rs, and always, always cuddles close when they watch episodes of Goosebumps in Santana’s dimly lit basement.
Brittany is cool, and hanging out with her makes Santana feel like she might be cool too.
The afternoon is a broiling one; there are no clouds in the vibrant sky, allowing the sun to blister down with free reign. The top of Santana’s head feels like it might burst into flames at any moment, making her vastly uneasy in her own skin. Brittany, with her lighter hair, mentions nothing of the sort, but she can’t seem to stop sweating. Santana takes this to mean the other girl is equally uncomfortable, laying sprawled out on Santana’s front lawn in pink shorts and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off.
Santana wishes her mother would cut the sleeves off her shirts, but all her Mami ever says on the subject is, “Who in their right mind takes scissors to such perfectly good clothing? Honestly, Santana, I don’t know where your head goes sometimes.”
Santana, unwilling to pick a fight lest she find herself grounded for a week, doesn’t push the issue.
“Ug,” Brittany says dumbly, as if the heat has sucked all will to form sentences from her body.
“Ug,” Santana agrees, ripping up a fistful of browning grass and flinging it half-heartedly into the air. Brittany turns her head and tries to smile.
“I feel sticky.”
The way she says it is entirely blasé, like she couldn’t care less about the slow roast that is their afternoon, but Santana feels herself prickle all the same. She’s beginning to slowly learn about her own protective instincts, and has found that, where Brittany is concerned, Santana is primed to mimic Superman if the need arises. A little heat isn’t exactly on par with, say, Lex Luthor’s dastardly plans for world domination, but it’s close enough.
“You know what?” Santana says, sitting up straight and setting her mouth in a determined line. Brittany rolls her neck against the ground to look up at her. “I’m gonna fix it.”
“Fix what?” Brittany asks curiously, but Santana’s already on her feet, dashing as fast as her sluggish body can carry her into the house.
She hopes Brittany understands well enough to stay put; being a superhero works better when the rescued party doesn’t try to help save the day.
Santana pauses at the mouth of her kitchen, back flat against the wall, and listens. Her mother is somewhere in this house, puttering around with laundry and rules. It’s best if Santana moves quickly and silently; if she’s caught, Brittany will continue to live an over-hot, sticky existence, and Santana’s mission will be categorized as a failure of the worst degree.
Tilting her head, the small girl waits until her mother’s footsteps fade, marking her location somewhere around the back bathroom. She darts for the kitchen, sneakers slipping on the freshly-washed linoleum, and very nearly body-slams the refrigerator in her haste.
The fridge proves to be pretty useless-her Mami hasn’t gone shopping in a couple of weeks, so there’s nothing more interesting than a bag of carrots and a few cling-wrapped leftovers-but she hits the jackpot when she pries open the freezer. The blast of cold air smacks her in the face, brutal and liberating, and Santana greedily leans closer. There are all sorts of things in here: ice tray after carefully stacked ice tray, frozen buffalo wings, countless ice packs for the sake of Santana’s uncanny ability to injure herself in just about any setting. And there, all the way in the back, Santana sees it.
Some tiny voice at the back of mind-a voice that sounds unsettlingly like Quinn Fabray, the girl down the street with whom Santana’s parents seem inexplicably enamored-pipes up, muttering about how this is a bad idea, how her Mami is probably saving this for a special occasion. Santana scowls and reminds herself that this is a special occasion; it is stifling outside, and Brittany is on her lawn right now, sweating to death. Her Mami probably won’t be happy about this when she finds out (and she always finds out; Santana swears her mother has superpowers too, and wonders why she always must use hers for evil), but this is important.
Scooping her prize up in slender arms, Santana pauses at the dishwasher to collect the tools she’ll need to cap it all off, and bolts for the yard again.
Brittany sits up when she sees her coming, arms coming to wrap instinctively around colt-long legs. Triumphant, Santana throws herself down and brandishes one silver instrument, grinning with all the force of the sun raging above.
“To summer!”
The confusion on Brittany’s pretty face melts away instantly as she digs into the pint of strawberry ice cream. Santana watches proudly, arms crossed over her chest, and fails to notice her mother creeping up with her “someone’s in a load of trouble” expression rooted in place. When a hand falls on her shoulder, she resigns herself to fate: sometimes, even superheroes get caught.
But as her mother steers her back towards the house, scolding softly so as not to embarrass her daughter in front of her friend, and Santana looks back to find Brittany sucking on her spoon with wide, adoring eyes, she can’t help but grin broadly.
Totally worth it.
3
The first time Santana hits someone, so does so for Brittany.
They are ten years old. It is January, the kind of month Santana has always despised for its irregular snowstorms, and they have been inseparable for longer than Santana cares to remember. For all she cares, they have been Santana-and-Brittany their whole lives; they fit in a way Santana doesn’t need to question. And sometimes, they let other kids join them-Quinn Fabray, usually, or Finn Hudson, or Tina Cohen-Chang (out of these, Santana only likes Quinn, but Brittany likes everybody, so she deals with the others grudgingly)-but at the end of the day, Santana-and-Brittany always prevails. They play rock-paper-scissors like it’s their job, help each other with homework, and when Santana inevitably ends up sleeping at Brittany’s house every Friday night, they watch movies until Brittany falls asleep with her head on Santana’s knee.
Theirs is the perfect friendship, and Santana defies anyone to tell her otherwise. Brittany is by far the coolest person she will ever know, and when she reaches for Santana’s hand under the table during particularly difficult long division lessons, Santana knows the blonde girl thinks the same of her.
School is going by at an agonizing snail’s pace today, and Santana feels like curling up on her desk and going to sleep. She isn’t bad at school; she even kind of likes parts of it, when she can find it in herself to care. But it’s Thursday-a useless day, in Santana’s opinion, because it is not Hump Day (and therefore she can make no inappropriate jokes with Noah Puckerman) or Friday (so there is no sleepover at Brittany’s to look forward to after the final bell)-and they’re going over Spanish verbs, and Santana knows Spanish the way Quinn Fabray knows the rosary, so there’s really no point in listening. Instead, she lets Brittany pull her hand into her lap under the table, long pale fingers running races along caramel-colored skin, and dozes with her cheek propped up on her free hand.
She just has to hold on for two more hours, and then she and Brittany can bolt for the swings and wait for her Papi to pick them up. They’ll have to contend with Rachel Berry and her big mouth, of course, because Quinn will want to swing too, and where Quinn goes, Rachel tends to follow, but Santana doesn’t care. Anything is better than listening to their teacher butcher pronunciations this way.
A glance in Brittany’s direction lets her know the blonde girl is trying to pay attention. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, and her right hand grips a pencil with white-knuckled intensity. Her left hand, however, is writing messages on Santana’s skin-the days of the week, a list of what she had for lunch-and Santana knows Brittany isn’t hearing a word about conjugating “to fly.” She’s a little proud of herself for being able to distract her friend without even trying, especially because it will mean teaching Brittany how to do the homework later on-and Santana knows she’s a much better teacher than Mr. Green will ever be.
Santana has found she likes teaching Brittany how to do things. It makes her feel smart, even on days dominated by Rachel’s irritating need to spell every five-syllable word in her vocabulary as she speaks.
Across the table, Noah Puckerman keeps poking his pencil into Kurt Hummel’s ear, snickering when the smaller boy flaps his hands in annoyance. Santana rolls her eyes. She kind of likes Noah sometimes, but most of the time the kid is just plain obnoxious. He hates school, and most of the people in it (except, inexplicably, Finn Hudson and Santana herself), but gets stuck spending more time in latchkey than at his own house. Santana knows this has something to do with his dad never being home, and almost feels sorry for Noah; she loves her Papi like crazy, to the point where she can’t imagine him going away for even a weekend at a time.
Although Santana makes a point not to mention his “situation” (as her Mami would say) to him, this all tends to makes Noah a little angry. Usually, he translates that anger into mischief, overturning tables at lunch, hiding the tambourines during music time, or even throwing dodge balls with impressive force in gym class. Usually, she finds him funny.
But sometimes, the anger bubbles up inside of him until he can’t release it by playing pranks or hitting kids like Kurt with yellow foam balls. Sometimes, he gets mean. And on those days, Santana watches closely.
The thing about mean kids is, Santana’s pretty good at handling them. No one bullies her, of course; no one dares, because even though Santana is one of the smallest kids in the class, she’s got a talent for getting into trouble that goes nearly unparalleled, and as a result, her classmates respect her.
Brittany is not the same.
Brittany is the nicest person in their grade-this isn’t Santana being biased; it’s just a fact-unable to tease even Rachel Berry lest she hurt her feelings. (Santana does not have this problem; teasing Rachel is often the high point of her days, even though it makes Quinn look like she might smack Santana in the face if she keeps it up.) Brittany is so nice that everyone should like her-and everyone does.
Unless they happen to be having a bad day.
Bad days mean someone’s going to pay a price. Normally, that someone is Rachel; with her loud voice and tiny stature and two gay dads, she practically screams “target.” Sometimes, that someone is Kurt; with his penchant for floral arrangements and name-dropping designer brands he isn’t even big enough to wear yet, he manages to clamber under the skin of boys like Noah and Dave Karofsky. Santana doesn’t particularly care when either of them are the ones being picked on.
She cares a lot when it’s Brittany.
It usually doesn’t happen when they’re in class, but when Noah stops poking Kurt in the face, she sees his eyes narrow across the table at her friend. Santana’s skin goes cold all over; her fingers clamp down on Brittany’s knee. The blonde girl frowns.
“What?” she whispers. Noah’s lip twists unpleasantly.
Santana’s fingers go almost as white as Brittany’s.
Noah swings his legs under his body and leans forward so they can hear him. Very deliberately, he looks Brittany over, and smirks.
“How come you didn’t fill in any of the answers, Britt?”
Santana’s teeth grit together. Noah hasn’t filled in his answers either; he has no room to talk.
Brittany’s gentle features spell out confusion. “I just don’t get this,” she answers honestly, the only way she’s ever known how. Noah’s smirk stretches, ghastly and cruel, until it takes up his whole face.
“How come you don’t get it?” he asks, stretching forward to poke at her worksheet with the tip of his pencil. “Is it because you’re stupid?”
Brittany frowns, head tilted. “What?”
Santana growls.
“I think it is,” Noah announces, slightly louder than is prudent. “I think it’s because you’re stupid.”
Brittany’s chin trembles. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” he insists. “You’re stupid. This stuff is easy. It’s easier than anything. Easier than coloring.”
Even if he were speaking to someone else, Santana would think he’s gone too far. Nothing is easier than coloring, and anyway, Spanish can be pretty complicated stuff when you don’t grow up with it. Even Santana can admit that.
“It’s not easier than coloring!” Brittany exclaims quietly, eyes wide. Santana squeezes her hand, glaring with all her might at Noah’s sneering face.
“It is,” he persists, grinning wickedly. “It’s easy, and you don’t get it, so you must be like, a retard or something.”
Santana can’t explain it, but it feels like something in her snaps. She’s up and out of her seat before she can take another breath, pushing back so hard that the chair actually slams into the kid behind her (Mercedes Jones, who whips around looking ready to squawk indignantly until she sees Santana’s ramrod-stiff posture). Brittany, silent tears streaming down both cheeks, reaches up to catch her arm, but Santana yanks free and balls up her fists against her hips.
“Take it back,” she growls, because if there’s one thing she hates, it’s that word. It’s awful, and harsh, and Santana has called a lot of people a lot of bad names over the years, but she has never used that one.
On the other side of the table, Noah leaps to his feet and bares his teeth. “It’s not my fault she’s retarded!”
Mr. Green is inching closer, his “we can talk this out” mouth ready to form placating phrases, but Santana has gone temporarily deaf with rage. Roaring, she launches herself across the table, feet scrabbling against the wood for purchase, and catches Noah around the neck with outstretched arms. He lets out an angry “oof!” sound when his back hits the wall; unsatisfied, Santana winds the collar of his t-shirt in one fist and rocks forward with the other.
The sound of knuckle matching with cartilage is completely vile, and when Noah screams and jerks his head forward into hers, Santana is dazzled. She staggers back as the room comes back into focus, and all she knows is that Noah is crying, hands cupped around his nose, and her whole face aches, and Mr. Green is wrapping one meaty arm around her waist and one around Noah’s, holding them away from each other.
Behind them, the class is in uproar, but Santana can’t pick a single face out of the crowd except for Brittany. Her friend is gaping up at her, expression lost somewhere between horror and awe, tear tracks drying on her beet-red face, and Santana feels strong. It doesn’t matter that her eye is slowly blackening, or that Noah’s blood paints the back of her throbbing hand, or that Mr. Green is angrily shouting words like “detention” and “suspension” and “call your parents” into her ringing ears. She has just stood up for Brittany in such a way that no one will risk repeating Noah’s unwise performance for years to come.
Brittany’s whole face is shining with emotion, and Santana can’t stop herself from throwing a cocky wink over her shoulder as Mr. Green drags her out of the classroom.
Stupid, maybe, but beyond worth it.
4
The first time Santana cheats, she does so for Brittany.
They are thirteen years old. It’s April, most days consisting of weeping open skies and the new vestiges of shimmering plant life, and something is weird: against all comprehension, Santana finds herself beginning to see Brittany in a strange new light. It has something to do, she thinks, with the way the other girl has sprouted over the last year; her legs are long and shapely now, her butt considerably firmer than Santana’s own, and she wears a bra outside of the training section. Even her coloring is brighter than Santana remembers it being before, and even though they have seen each other every single day, she can’t deny the differences.
They’re in eighth grade, their last year of childhood before being launched into high school’s blistering embrace, and Santana still thinks Brittany is the coolest person in the world. She doesn’t even really think about it being so anymore; it just feels like an absolute, one of the high-most universal Truths. They still share lunches and do homework together, but now, when their weekly sleepovers devolve into cuddling sessions, Santana’s stomach feels funny. She’s not entirely comfortable with it, but it’s Brittany, so it doesn’t even cross her mind to put a stop to it all.
The two of them are seated side by side in Biology, and Santana isn’t paying attention to the slides they’re being shown. She’s too busy worrying-freaking the fuck out, really, though she can’t say so out loud because Brittany twitches a little each time she swears-to care about frog spawn or mosquito larvae, or whatever. There are more important things to fixate on.
Specifically, how Quinn Fabray has convinced her to try out for the high school cheer squad come Monday.
Santana doesn’t want to. Like every other soon-to-be-freshman, she has heard the horror stories about the Cheerio coach, a woman named Sue Sylvester whose reign is rumored to be as ironclad as her heart. She knows that what Sue wants is what Sue gets, even if what Sue wants happens to involve dragging her entire team into a graveyard in the dead of night and forcing them to run laps between freshly-laid stones (Santana thinks this routine is likely a severely-mutated version of that one Remember the Titans scene, but without the heart-warming moral at the end).
The short version is, Sue Sylvester is absolutely the scariest thing Santana has ever heard of, even counting that story with the hook-handed man and the creepy bird creatures in The Dark Crystal, and Santana wants nothing to do with her. However, Quinn is obsessed-there is no gentler term for it-with the idea of making Head Cheerio by her second year, thereby sizing up to her older sister and finally pleasing the mindless Stepfordian-drones she calls parents, and no matter how Santana tries, she cannot talk the girl out of it.
None of this would affect Santana at all, since she’s actually damn good at turning down Quinn Fabray’s cajoling puppy eyes, but there is the small matter of Brittany to consider. The blonde girl loves dancing-really, truly, heart-and-soul loves it, and the only way she’ll fully appreciate her high school career is if she makes Cheerio right off the bat. Santana knows Brittany like the back of her hand; for all her talents and personality, the girl just does not excel in academics. She never has before, and whatever it is keeping her mind from focusing on numbers and patterns and proper punctuation just doesn’t seem to be going away. Santana doesn’t mind, personally; she likes being the one to instruct Brittany on every subject, guiding her carefully through intellectual obstacles. It makes her feel special, like she can read a language no one else on earth understands: the dialect of Brittany.
Sometimes, even Brittany’s own parents don’t seem fluent in that one.
But Santana isn’t stupid; she knows high school is ten times more difficult than middle school, and if Brittany is getting this frustrated now, God only knows how awful it will be down the line. Santana can brighten Brittany’s mood more or less effortlessly, but if there is nothing for the girl to look forward to at school except Santana’s hugs and smiles, she’s bound to burn out pretty fast. Being a Cheerio would give her something to do, something to strive for, and Santana honestly thinks it would do her friend some good.
Therefore, Santana’s own fate is sealed. While she would rather play rugby or something, she knows Brittany won’t try out for Sylvester’s squad from Hell without her, and she certainly can’t rely on Quinn to keep an eye on things. The Christian girl has her hands full with juggling the repression of her vastly unsettling crush on Rachel Berry (‘unsettling’ mostly being Santana’s word of choice because it’s Rachel, and the idea of anyone crushing on that loud-ass pipsqueak makes the Latina’s skin feel like it’s on too tight) and her parents’ gross over-estimation of how a thirteen-year-old should behave. There is no room left for watching over the likes of Brittany, who, though she means well, often has more energy than a puppy on Red Bull.
There is one more reason to try out for the squad, apart from all of this, and it may well be the most important reason of all. Right now, Santana is exceptionally good at keeping Brittany safe; most kids still remember the cracking sound of Noah Puckerman’s nose the day he attempted to upset the balance, and they steer clear. But high school is bigger-much bigger-and things will not be as simple. Santana knows what teenagers are like, and she knows Brittany is far too sweet to handle teasing with any modicum of violence. Santana herself could stand up and do damage for her, but Brittany gets upset at the sight of blood, and anyway, Santana’s still not very big. It’s hard to play bodyguard when your body feels miniscule and fragile in comparison to the apes tromping dangerously around you.
But she’s seen the way kids look at the Cheerios; she’s seen the unrestrained hope, awe, and fear in their eyes at the mere sight of those three-toned uniforms. It gives Santana a concrete reason for why they must try out: Quinn wants the prestige, Brittany wants to dance, and Santana needs the power. It will be the ideal weapon when it comes to protecting her best friend.
She can’t tell Brittany any of this, so when the blonde girl mentions Monday’s tryouts, Santana shrugs like she couldn’t care less. She wants to say something casual to make Brittany think she’s not scared out of her mind, but just when her mouth is opening, a paper slaps down on her desk. Santana jumps a mile and looks up to find Quinn glaring at them both.
“Pop quiz,” the blonde girl hisses through her teeth. “Pass it.”
Santana scowls. “No shit, Sherlock.”
“No, cretin,” Quinn growls (this is her new thing, growling out insulting nicknames as if she spends her nights sitting up, planning them out). “Make sure she passes. Eligibility.”
Santana’s mouth snaps shut, comprehending. Brittany is staring down at her quiz with hooded eyes, chewing emphatically on her lip and shaking her head subtly from side to side. Quinn gives a determined nod and flounces off to unload the rest of the pages, and Santana slumps a little in her seat.
Of course. Brittany isn’t doing what one would call well in Biology-or, as a matter of fact, in most classes. And that’s always been okay in the past, because she does just well enough to scrape by and move up a grade level. But now…now there’s the whole academic eligibility thing to consider, and Santana feels like she’s watching her entire plan for high school go up in shiny flames, because she forgot this part.
If Brittany fails this quiz, odds are she will drop well below eligibility, and Sylvester won’t even let her try out in the first place.
Alarm wells in her chest, hot and acrid, and Santana wonders for a second if this is what a panic attack feels like. She can’t handle the idea of making the squad without Brittany, especially if that leaves Quinn as her only safeguard, because Quinn has been going frickin’ crazy lately. It’s all too much, and her lungs feel like they’re going to burst, and before Santana realizes it, she’s leaning sideways and pressing her lips almost flush against Brittany’s ear.
“Follow my lead.”
Big blue eyes stare back across bare inches, and Santana’s stomach does that flippy thing again. Brittany smells like oranges and anxiety, and her mouth looks entirely too soft, and this is just not the time for Santana to lose her mind. She grips the blonde girl’s wrist and nods like she knows what she’s doing, looking back and forth from her paper to Brittany’s until her friend’s head bobs in assent. Then she gets to work.
Ten minutes later, she flips the page over and nervously traces a starburst pattern into the smooth white surface. Flushing bright red, Brittany mimics the motion. Santana feels as though she might explode because, while she’s done plenty of “bad things” in her life, this pretty much takes the cake. This is dangerous-if she gets caught, if Brittany gets caught, everything goes out the window.
She waits for their teacher to stomp over, wearing a fully-detailed “someone is going to Hell” scowl, but it doesn’t happen. She waits for Quinn’s hand to shoot into the air, all ready to rat them out (because Quinn Fabray is one of her best friends, but the girl has been acting so weird lately that Santana doesn’t think she trusts her), but the shrill accusation never comes. She waits for her test to simply shrivel, inexplicably lit aflame by her own guilt, but the page remains pristine.
Finally, another student comes around to collect the product of her illegality. Santana glares into his eyes, daring him to find her out. Brittany stares into her lap, fingers curling nervously around her skirt. The boy walks on.
Slowly, Santana’s mouth pulls into an uneasy smile. Her eyes meet Brittany’s.
If they make Cheerios, more or less worth it.
5
The first time Santana prays, she does so for Brittany.
They are fifteen years old. The air is frigid, the ground blanketed in a thick white veneer, and Santana is bundled up to her eyeballs in winter wear. Beside her, Brittany skips along in her bright red Cheerio jacket and earmuffs, pink tongue poking out now and again to lap up the flakes sinking down from a gray sky. Santana watches her move, hands buried in her jacket pockets, and smiles lazily. Very little has changed since fifth grade: she still hates winter-hates the cold, hates the slush, hates how red her ears flame under bitter Jack Frostian winds-but she still thinks the world of Brittany. Weirdly, the two mindsets seem to collide on the air, sparks flickering off in all directions, and Santana is left wearing this dumbass expression of delight.
Anywhere else, with anyone else, she would mind. Here, under cover of darkness, watching her best friend twirl in circles, it feels perfect.
They are on top of the world: two of the most promising freshmen on the Cheerios, skating through school (for Santana, this is so because she is genuinely good at learning-tell anyone, and die; for Brittany, this is so partially because of Santana’s coaching and partially because Sue Sylvester has menaced the entire McKinley staff into passing her girls, under penalty of bodily harm, regardless of individual academic prowess), and looking hot as hell doing it. Santana’s got the whole student body wrapped around her finger (even the likes of Noah Puckerman-now simply Puck-who seems to have forgotten about their little nose-breaking incident five years ago and is instead crawling after her illegally-short skirt). Brittany’s one up on that; she’s even got Santana wrapped.
Of course, this has been the case since they were five years old. It’s common knowledge by now that Brittany is the one person who can corral Santana-and Santana accepts this without question.
Now, walking back from a particularly heinous Cheerio practice, Santana watches Brittany spin under lamplight. Part of her knows life will be ten times easier next year, once they’ve got licenses and cars to take from point A to destination B without all the biting chill to deal with. A larger part is inclined to appreciate the now, because as nice as it would be to bask in the heaven that is a heated driver’s seat, nothing can compare to the way Brittany throws back her head and laughs with snowflakes dotting her thick blonde hair.
“Come dance with me!” the girl cries, darting close and pulling Santana’s hands into her own. The Latina rolls her eyes fondly.
“Britt, it’s like…ten degrees out.”
“But it’s pretty,” the blonde disagrees, using Santana’s grudging arm to spin herself like a ballerina.
Santana has to admit this much is true-although she thinks it has much less to do with the snow and more to do with the girl wearing it in her hair. She allows Brittany to curl in close, tucking her head beneath Santana’s chin even though her height likely renders the action less than comfortable.
They stand together for long minutes, swaying to the melody in Brittany’s head, until Santana begins to feel on edge. Flakes are collecting in rapid succession upon her head, soaking through her bright red cap, and Brittany’s body is starting to feel strangely hot against her own. The scarf around Santana’s throat pulls tight; she sucks in a breath and tilts her head back, wincing when snow finds its way into her eyes.
This is the part she absolutely cannot handle. The part where Brittany leans in close, radiating warmth and security, the part where Santana can feel herself edging closer and closer to a precipice she’s not prepared to topple over. The part where she can taste on the air the basic building blocks of their friendship, the desire and the hope, the metallic zing of her own protective nature and the saccharine beauty of Brittany’s innocence. This is the part where it all comes to a head, and though it’s been coming for a long time, Santana can’t help but push it back each time it nears.
She’s just not ready.
She has done so much over the years for Brittany’s sake-bad things. She has lied, and pushed other people away, and drawn her own reputation to the brink of goodness, and she does not regret a single one of those things. Everything she has ever done for Brittany has been worth it-she has earned the girl’s respect, and her admiration, and-though they do not say it out loud, Santana sees it as clearly as she sees the color of her own skin-her love. Nothing that culminates in such splendor can be regretted.
But there’s something else there, something bigger and better and terrifying, and for all her brute force and stubbornness, Santana just isn’t up for it yet.
She looks down now, sees Brittany’s big blue eyes shining up at her, and tightens her grip on the other girl. She can see something there-a future, maybe, if they’re to be grandiose about it-and it is so real and so pure that Santana is sure she will tear it to shreds the second it enters her anxiously cupped hands. Santana is great at a few things and good enough at many others, but something like this-something so complete, so abstract, so unrestrained…it’s the sort of thing that can wind up in tatters in the blink of an eye. She doesn’t know how to handle it. It’s not the sort of thing that can be taught, but it doesn’t stop her from wishing someone could show her the way.
Santana isn’t a religious person. That’s Quinn Fabray’s field of vision, and Santana has never felt the need to peer through those goggles. God doesn’t do much for her-that image of some thing in the sky, staring down like Sue Sylvester on an omnipotent scale, horrifies her in a child’s nightmare sort of way. She hates the idea of something so absolute, something literally incapable of making mistakes, when she personally makes so many. She loathes the concept of someone looking down and filing each of these errors in a drawer somewhere, saving it all up for that day when it will mean something. She can’t imagine that day could ever be a good one.
It’s easier-less emotionally taxing-not to believe in anything so all-encompassing as a God. Santana is happy this way; nobody to answer to, nothing to lose. It’s a comfortable way of living, even with people like Quinn or her own mother looking down on her for it.
Despite all of this, as she stands in the middle of an icy street with her best friend nestled in her arms, Santana can’t help what she does next.
Closing her eyes, pressing her cheek to sweet-smelling hair, Santana prays. It isn’t to God, or any blindly-fabricated spiritual power (she sees no point in praying to something if you can’t make yourself believe) but it’s a prayer nonetheless. She prays that, someday, she will be ready for this thing-whatever it may be, whatever it may mean-with Brittany. Eyes clenched shut, breath coming in staggering gasps, she prays as hard as she can that, someday, this will all make sense.
When that day comes, she will look at Brittany and she will promise her the world. She will spread open, lay her life out, and take Brittany in until no space between them is left unfilled. She will give up everything.
For now, Santana can only look into Brittany’s eyes, touch two fingers to Brittany’s wind-burnt cheek, and smile.
Brittany, looking wiser than she ever has before, grins brightly back.
Someday, Santana prays with a fervent desperation, everything will be worth it.