if you come softly. // ficlets.
// one.
---» solemates // santana lopez / brittany s. pierce [for lynnearlington]
you’re like my reflection, better half to my whole
like lyrics to the beat, you’re the mate to my soul
- talib kweli, beautiful
-------
Honestly? She didn’t even know you could run out of toilet paper. And, yeah, that’s a problem in itself and she should probably figure out what other things you can run out of before she and Britt end up miserable (Santana) and confused (Brittany) all freshman year. But right now her biggest concern is that she really has to pee and she was looking forward to curling back up in Britt’s bed, sort of watching whatever movie is queued up on her Macbook and getting her mack on for the first time in two weeks.
Biology 101? Not easy. She’s smart -- brilliant if you ask her -- but it’s not a cakewalk in the least and she’s spent more time in the library than in the dorm room they share. Maybe if she had been around she would’ve realized that toilet paper isn’t endless and that Brittany used the last of it two hours ago to make snow in the window sill. (Do not ask.)
She tugs a pair of Victoria Secret sweats over her bare legs while Brittany looks at her with this look that says she’s sorry and Santana doesn’t even know why.
“S’wrong?” She asks, digging around the bottom of her closet for a pair of shoes so she can run down to the student store before it closes.
“I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That you could run out of toilet paper,” she says, shoulders lifting and dropping with defeat. Santana wants to laugh because it’s cute and totally unnecessary for her to be sad over this but instead she just lets out a teasing uh huh. “I know you’re like a spoiled brat and--”
“I’m not a brat.”
“You are,” Brittany says easily, “But it’s kind of cute. Anyway, it’s not like you can help it. I mean, people just replace things for you. You probably didn’t know that there’s a limit on your credit card.”
“I knew that,” she states firmly, toeing her way into a pair of worn red Chucks. They’re covered in dirt, an array of Sharpie marker and who knows what else Britt assaulted them with in eighth grade. She never wore them in high school but she couldn’t throw them away either. They seem to fit in here, in California, where she’s more relaxed. “I’ll be back, B,” she says scooping her keys off her dresser just in case before heading down to the student store in the lobby of the dorm.
She makes it to the door just in time to slip in before the clerk closes up. She grabs a few packs of toilet paper and a bag of Red Vines and pays (way more than she wanted to) and then she’s back in their room, tossing the candy at Brittany and running to the restroom.
When she walks back in the room rubbing her hands on her sweats (they need paper towel too), Brittany’s tugging a stick of licorice away from her teeth and grinning at her. She fits herself into the space next to her and presses a kiss to her cheek.
“Hey.”
“Hi,” Brittany says in response, holding the candy in front of her mouth. She laughs lightly but takes a bite anyway then rests her ankle on her knee to pull off her shoes. Her eyebrows furrow and she tugs the shoe off all the way and holds it close to her face. It’s covered in a million little Brittany doodles that she’s never really paid attention to. She’s always know they were there -- it’s kind of hard to miss dozens of rainbows, stars and hearts but it’s the row of tiny words on the back of the shoe that catches her eye.
Scrawled in tiny uppercase letters is the message: I’M GONNA MARRY YOU.
“Hey,” Britt says bumping her shoulder. “You have that lost face on.”
“Did you write this?” She asks.
“Write what?” Santana holds out the shoe.
“Oh,” Britt says with a laugh, “Duh, silly.”
“When?”
“In eighth grade.”
“But we hadn’t even kissed yet.”
“So?”
“You wrote that you were going to marry me,” Santana says again like that’s supposed to explain everything. Brittany just looks at her like she’s amused and shrugs her shoulder.
“I am. Now be quiet and kiss me.”
// two.
---» this isn’t what it looks like // santana lopez / quinn fabray.
“This isn’t like a date or anything,” she says because, well, it isn’t even though it looks like it. They’re sitting on the blanket she keeps in her trunk eating sandwiches they made in her kitchen and drinking the Sonic cream slushes they picked up on the way.
They’ve just been doing this thing where they hang out, like, a lot. That’s new for them in a way even though they spent nearly every day shoulder to shoulder for the better part of a year and a half until things got ugly. (Quinn got pregnant, Santana got promoted and shit happened.) She can honestly say she hated her after boobgate (like seriously, who rats out someone’s boob job?), but they’ve been been through hell at McKinley and they sort of need each other.
She’d go as far as to say they’re friends now, which definitely wasn’t the case before. At least not really. They were more like acquaintances who knew each other’s secrets.
It’s also kind of beyond friendship because there’s a hickey peeking out from under Quinn’s collar that came from her mouth and there’s another on her inner thigh, too.
She actually doesn’t know what they are but she’s not about to call this shit a date even if she knows they’re probably going to hook up on top of this blanket when the sandwiches are gone and she’s convinced her that a couple jack and cokes won’t send her straight to hell.
Yeah, they’re something.
Seeing Brittany (which hasn’t happened in two weeks) doesn’t make her heart hurt anymore. She doesn’t think they can just slide back into being pinkie-linking best friends but she’s not knee-deep in love anymore either.
And yeah, maybe she sort of is dating Quinn because she paid for their tickets to Crazy Stupid Love last week. They shared a large drink with two straws and actually laughed at reaching for the popcorn at the same time.
Yeah, she’s dating her but they haven’t put a label on it and she’s not entirely sure how this shit happened but it did and Quinn’s just sort of smirking at her and holding a chip in front of her mouth.
“I know it’s not,” Quinn says after a moment, lowering her hand. There’s a slight scowl creeping up that makes Santana both annoyed and frustrated at the same time.
“Unless like … you want it to be?” Santana says or asks, she’s not really sure about that either. She feels like the biggest loser in the world. When is she going to stop playing all her cards?
“What are we doing?” Quinn asks, sighing.
“Well, lately I’ve been doing you.”
She can’t not smirk when Quinn blushes like that because it reminds her of how flushed she gets when---
“Santana,” Quinn says. Her cheeks are still rosy but her eyebrows are raised and pointed in the way that makes Santana uncomfortable and even the breeze that’s sweeping through the evening isn’t calming the warmth in her skin. She doesn’t do this shit.
“I just … I don’t know. I’m not really trying to like mail my heart in song lyrics again anytime soon but I like you … or something. We’re just two friends hanging out and occasionally sharing orgasms -- which we should do more often -- and watching bad TV or going to the freaking library, which-- ugh.”
“So … we’re dating?”
"Yeah, I guess so."
// three.
---» blood from a heart of stone // santana lopez & kurt hummel.
Her dream starts in the same place every time. She reaches for a crayon and bumps a soft hand. Her eyes meet bright warm ones that make her think of Bambi and her eyebrows furrow. It’s the first time brown meets blue and subconsciously she knows she’ll be a sucker for them forever.
Her eyes bounce between Bambi, whose eyes are smiling even though hers are clouded in confusion, and the Purple Pizazz crayon beneath her small fingers. It’s her favorite color and she really thinks her dolphin needs a pretty tail, but she glances at Bambi’s picture -- of a doll that is colored so, so neatly -- and then back at hers (she’s still learning the concept of borders). She sighs and moves her hand back. The eyes search hers for confirmation and she nods softly and hopes he gets it, because she doesn’t really share and she really wants to color her dolphin.
He wraps a dainty hand around the crayon and goes to work on the doll’s dress. She can’t help but watch how focused he is and she jerks when the crayon bumps the border and nearly skirts past black. It doesn’t, his hand is steady, but she worries anyway. He finishes his shading and tilts an open palm toward her. She accepts it and wraps her fingers around the crayon and then looks at her picture with a frown. It’s not very pretty and she’s sort of intimidated.
“It’s like Van Gogh or something,” Bambi says.
“Who?”
“Van Gogh. He’s a painter. My mom likes him.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. I’m Kurt.”
“Santana,” she says slowly, “Santana Lopez.”
“Kurt,” he reiterates, “Kurt Elizabeth Hummel.”
“Elizabeth?”
“Yeah. What’s your middle name?”
“I don’t tell people it. I don’t like it.”
“Okay.” He lets it go and watches as she sets the crayon to the page. She hates being left handed in that moment because she doesn’t think she can get control of the crayon like he has, but she tries anyway.
*
It would be fine if the dream stopped there. If it was just a warm memory of her first best friend and her adventures in coloring between the lines, but it doesn’t stop there. It fast-forwards two years and she’s on the playground crumbling leaves as Rachel Berry yaps about wanting to kiss Noah Puckerman. All Santana can muster is an “eww.”
She’s not interested in kissing anyone, let alone Noah Puckerman. She’s beat him up so many times it’s ridiculous. Who would want to kiss a wimp with a Mohawk? Who would want to kiss a stupid boy?
Apparently Kurt does. Except he hints that it’s Finn Hudson, who is way too big to be in the second grade and reminds Santana of that big thing on The Munster’s she sees when she watches Nick At Nite with her big brother Julian.
“I think Finn would have softer lips,” Kurt says. He goes pink and his lips purse like he didn’t mean to say that out loud. He runs off.
The dream stops there but she knows what comes next. She knows that Mercedes Jones says something to Puck who says something to Finn and then everyone is talking about Kurt. She doesn’t know what to do really, but her thoughts keep zoning in on everyone's reaction to Kurt’s slip. It makes her think of the daydream she had in class two days ago. She’s been enthralled with the way Katie Moore’s blond hair makes her eyes shine even prettier.
Somewhere it clicks that she might think a little like Kurt. Like she might be different too.
She ends her friendship with Kurt by shoving him into amber autumn leaves after he catches her in a game of Tag. He drops with a thud and several crunches and she hisses “Wimp,” for good measure.
“I’m not it,” she groans, “It doesn’t count when a sissy catches you.” She uses the word she’s heard Julian, Puck and Finn use to describe boys like Kurt. She feels bad immediately, but everyone is looking at her and she can’t turn back. Bambi eyes catch hers and the moisture that swims into them is a catalyst for tears of her own.
She blinks them back and slaps five with the hand Puck extends to her. The step she takes away shapes her insecurities for the next nine years and the only way she forgets the sadness of blue eyes comes from meeting Brittany’s ever-excited ones six months later.
// four.
---» always // brittany s. pierce.
Brittany’s had no problem saying “I love you.” She said it when they were ten and Santana bought her ice cream, when they were eleven and Santana slugged Joey Barnes for reaching up her skirt, when they were thirteen into the darkness just because, and she said it with intentional strokes and skin warming kisses at fifteen when she couldn’t ignore the fire in her belly and the ache between her legs.
She’s never been afraid of loving Santana. Mostly because she always has. She’s loved her since the second grade when she moved from Michigan to Ohio and found herself in class with kids who knew each other well and already had best friends.
Back then Santana belonged to Puck and Finn, or rather, they belonged to her. They spent recess playing cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians or any other game that gave them an excuse to abuse each other.
She’d mostly been curious about the green panda on Santana’s shirt. She wanted to touch it as she sat alone on the playground, hidden in the shield of the jungle gym. She hadn’t intended to nurse a wounded Santana after Puck and Finn shoved her from behind at the same time but she did.
It was the first time Brittany heard a curse word and the first time she heard Spanish and all she could think was, awesome.
When Brittany thinks back on it she’s sure that that’s when she fell in love with Santana because she’d always been able to look past the scowl and the vicious words and see the heart that was inside.
// five.
---» she loves everybody // mike chang / tina cohen-chang / brittany s. pierce.
It’s just, you know, Brittany’s free with everything: the last spoonful of her banana split, the extra hair tie on her wrist, body-warming hugs and, well, her lips. So, it’s really not either of their faults. Loving Brittany is an inevitably. It’s a truth you accept when you let her into your personal space; accept the friendship she’s always willing to give. But apparently, so is falling in love with her.
See, he’s sure he’s in love with Tina and she’s sure she’s in love with Mike but they’re both in love with Brittany and neither of them has a clue what to do about it. Neither of them talks very much so it’s not like they’ve told anyone but the feeling is there, swelling in the chest like the balloons they bought her at the state fair.