The End in the Endgame: Prologue
A/N: Because I honestly believe that love is insane, and so damn destructive. And hey, Love Me If You Dare (Jeux d'Enfants) is the most recent movie I watched (I highly recommend it. French. Marion Cotillard. Guillaume Canet. Need I say more?). Also inspired by the movie Fight Club (Edward Norton. ‘Nuff said.), and the music of Oh Land and Tokio Hotel.
This one goes out to my best friend, Michi. We’ve hurt each other so many times I’ve lost count. But our friendship (to loosely quote the Joker) is like gravity. It’s just so damn irresistible. All we need is a little push, and we’re back in the game.
Warning: VERY AU. And these versions of the characters barely have any similarities with their TV counterparts. Plus the entire thing is so angsty, it’s kind of sick. But if can you can take it, I encourage you to read it.
The End in the Endgame or Ten Things You Took Away
Prologue
You never thought it would end like this.
You look slowly around you. Out of all the endings you’ve imagined in your mind, none of them involved standing on the tenth floor of an empty building, the walls around you covered with drilled holes, each one filled with C4 explosives. You certainly never pictured all the detonating cord: wrapped snugly around the holes and coiling around your feet like snakes, waiting quietly for the perfect moment to strike.
But now that you think about it, this is a pretty fitting way to end everything. After all, building demolitions represent tearing down, the deliberate destruction of something that used to exist and has fulfilled its purpose - just like you both are right now, taking your lives in your hands and breaking it apart.
Your eyes shift to look into hers, the blue twinkling demurely against the dim light. They start trailing over your face boldly, as though she’s taking in every single detail: the eyebrows she used to pencil, the eyelashes she used to brush her fingertips against, the eyes she used to stare into, the plump cheeks she used to cup in her palms, the dimples that would surface for her alone, the nose she used nuzzle with hers, the lips she always used to kiss. You can tell she can remember them too, all those moments when things seemed to be fine, perfect, even normal.
But they never were.
You lose your train of thought when she presses your foreheads together. Watching her sends a jolt through your body, and you realize that she owns every single bit of you. You always belonged to her more than you belonged to yourself. And it’s so unfair, and so fucking sad, because you know that she can never belong to you. You don’t deserve her.
“Are you scared?” You ask her, your voice disguising your concern with an almost taunting tone. She opens her eyes looks at you, bright blue shining with amusement.
“No.” She says calmly, smiling gently at you. She lays her chin on your shoulder and whispers into your ear, “But you are.”
She just knows you so well, it’s frightening. She was the only one who could tell that every single stupid thing you’ve ever done was your twisted way of crying out, “Save Me.” But there was nothing she could really do; you just naturally seemed to come with a built-in, Self-Destruct button. And since she couldn’t really save you, no matter how hard she tried, she came along for the downward spiral instead; she let herself be dragged into the depths of your personal hell.
You never did understand why someone as angelic as her bothered to stick around. You were always more of a demonic beast than anything else, and it was only through her that you ever managed to feel the human. Some part of you refused to believe that she would stay. You were so sure that one day, she’d grow weary of all your games, and she’d leave.
Except she never really did. No matter what you did, no matter what cruel test you’d put her through - directly or indirectly - she never left. So it just kept going on, and on, and on, intensifying every single time, until it wasn’t something either of you participated in consciously anymore. Until you’d stripped her bare of nine precious things.
You feel a pang of self-disgust when you think of those nine things you took away from her. Each moment left lingering scars on you both: on your flesh and on your souls. The physical blemishes on your skin feel like the remnants of a branding, like markers signifying territory: See the scars? Fuck off. I’m Brittany’s. And she’s mine.
But the mutilation on your souls no one ever saw, and sometimes it was easy to forget they were there. Until the next round of the game came on, and you inflicted new wounds on each other.
Remembering everything now makes you feel sick.
“Brittany.” You say, in a hushed, hoarse voice. Why didn’t you ever run from me? You almost ask. Why didn’t you save yourself?
“Brittany.” You repeat slowly, breathily, your voice filled with an almost child-like wonder, as though it’s the first time her name has ever formed in your mouth. Your tongue relishing the feeling of every single syllable: bri/tah/nee. You say it like it’s the first word you’ve ever learned to say out loud. Like it’s the only word you were ever meant to say. Except, maybe, for the words I’m sorry.
Her fingers ghost over your cheeks, reassuring. She knows your mind has wandered into dangerous grounds. “I’m right here, Santana.” She whispers gently against your lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Your shattered spirit breaks even more, because she’s just so pure and kind and loving, and you can’t believe you’ve ruined her. And the tears, the ones you’ve suppressed your entire life, finally begin to fall.