Glee: "Never All That Hard To Find" by overthetiber
Title: Never All That Hard To Find
Author: overthetiber
Fandom: Glee
Pairing/characters: Santana Lopez/Tina Cohen-Chang
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Ryan Murphy owns Glee. I am not Ryan Murphy. I do not own Glee.
Prompt: 177. Any fandom, any character, A newly out person (can be any gender or sexual identity) still finding the edges of themselves attends (or tries to attend) a Pride celebration, and what that does for their sense of self and belonging.
Word Count: 3022
Summary: "People are coming, but she’s not anxious; she knows she doesn’t have to hide this, doesn’t have to hide herself. "
Warning: References to underage sex
Author’s Notes: Spoilers through Laryngitis. I’ve never been to Toronto Pride Week, but I did research the heck out of it. Corrections are appreciated!
Never All That Hard To Find
They tried as hard as they could. They really did. It’s not that they don’t like her, but they just don’t want to spend the whole week with her. But Rachel Berry found out; and even after they made Finn borrow her car, she walked to Kurt’s house; and now nobody can stop her from accompanying him, Mercedes, and Tina on a five-day trip to Pride Week. Tina is anticipating spending the seven-hour drive vacillating between pity and dislike for the brunette diva when Santana Lopez shows up, sans cheerleading uniform and Brittany.
Even Rachel and Mercedes stop arguing about who gets shotgun (Rachel cites her superior ability to read maps, Mercedes her superior ability not to annoy the driver) to stare.
Santana mutters, “I’m just here to support my fellow Cheerios.” Pause. “Cheerio.” Mercedes bristles.
There’s a pregnant moment, induced to miscarriage when Santana climbs into the car. Her backpack hits the bags in the trunk with a dull thump. “I get the back seat,” she announces.
Oddly enough, nobody argues.
-
Mercedes wins shotgun. (This is Kurt’s car, so there’s really no chance she wouldn’t have.) Tina and Rachel have the middle row window seats. Santana takes up the whole back seat, crossed ankles resting on the window ledge.
In the lull while Mercedes chooses the next CD, Rachel seizes her chance. “I still don’t see why we couldn’t have gone to the pride festival in Columbus. My dads go every year, and it’s only two hours away.”
Mercedes shrugs. “So we’re shaking it up. A change of pace.”
“The club is named New Directions, after all,” says Kurt.
Rachel makes a noise like she’s going to argue, and Santana slaps the back of her seat.
“Hey!”
Still, she can’t resist asking, “But why are we going to Toronto?”
Tina answers. She chose their destination. “Toronto Pride Week is the third biggest pride festival in the world. New York is farther away, and we’d all be too distracted there anyway.” Kurt and Rachel sigh in unison, then frown.
“Also, there’s a really big dance party at the end,” Tina adds. Rachel “mmm”s, and Santana snorts.
In the meantime, Mercedes has selected The Fame. Soon, even Santana is singing along to “Just Dance,” and the miles ahead don’t seem so daunting.
-
Going to a party seemed like fun. But once Tina’s there, all she wants to do is leave. She wanders from room to smelly, smoky room. Nobody greets her or even smiles.
They’re playing beer pong in the basement. She hides in the corner and watches. A pretty blond girl named Brittany, who she recognizes from Cheerios performances, wins four games in a row. She’s clearly having fun, but not in an obnoxious way. She seems nice. Free, not guarded. Sweet.
After the last game, she comes up to Tina-her smile, Tina thinks, is like a lightbulb shining through a white lampshade-and asks if she wants to get drunk.
-
Rachel hums in her sleep. She brought a pillow. It leans against the window, supporting her head.
“Where’s that guy with the wheelchair, from Glee?” Santana taps Tina’s headrest. “You were dating, right?”
Everyone tenses, till Tina says, “Not anymore.”
(She loves Artie, but if he can’t accept that this is her-not a phase, not an in to threesomes, not something he can use to impress people with how badass he is-she can’t be with him.)
Mercedes changes the subject. “Where’s Brittany?”
“None of your business.”
“Bad breakup?” says Kurt, eyes on the road. Santana gives the back of his head the evil eye.
Rachel stirs. “Could you please keep it down?”
“If you insist,” Kurt says. When Rachel’s eyes close again, he grimaces in the rearview mirror.
Tina wonders.
-
Brittany can’t stop giggling. Not loud or sustained giggling, but in spurts, intermittent, the sound as pale and quiet as the glint of sunlight on her white-blond hair. Brittany is a pink, faded kind of person, Tina thinks; like a stereo with the sound turned down, like instant lemonade mixed with twice as much water as the package called for. Tina gets poetic when she’s drunk. And Tina is drunk.
“I am so drunk,” she whispers. Brittany giggles.
Tina pokes her. “Rum is good. May I have some more rum?”
“I told you,” Brittany says.
Tina punches her in the knee. “Where’s the rum?”
Brittany doesn’t answer, but grabs Tina’s punching hand in two of her hands. Brittany’s hands are warm and steady, strong but not scary. Her thumb strokes Tina’s pulse point. It’s nice. It’s kind of tingly.
Tina doesn’t remember what happens for the next half hour, but she does remember Brittany’s lips on hers: soft, artful, confusing. And the hangover next morning, but that’s not worth going into.
She can't call Mercedes. Mercedes is her girl, her main squeeze, who she can spend a whole night singing and dancing in pajamas with. But Mercedes wouldn’t understand this, because she’s...straight.
And that's when Tina knows she isn't.
-
The motel room was booked before they knew Rachel or Santana was coming, so there are only two beds. Neither Kurt nor Mercedes will share with Rachel, but Tina doesn’t mind. They make the front desk bring Santana a rollaway.
“Like I’m sleeping with any of you.” “Losers” lingers at the end, unspoken.
They order room service and watch Moulin Rouge on Mercedes’ fancy laptop. It’s difficult, though, because Rachel keeps pausing it to observe which notes someone missed or hit, and Santana keeps shutting her down with snide comments. Then Kurt pauses it to make remarks about the costuming and set design, and it’s like no one’s actually watching the movie.
Looking out the window while she waits to brush her teeth, Tina spots two women kissing under a streetlight.
She falls asleep with a smile on her face.
-
The first day passes smoothly. They attend panels and film screenings, a private party with mocktails. Everywhere Tina hears terms she’s only seen in books and online-“poly,” “genderqueer,” “kyriarchy”. Somebody compliments her on the streaks of color in her hair: magenta, purple, and royal blue, the colors of the bisexual pride flag.
Guys (and a couple girls) hit on Kurt left and right. The constant flattery turns his face an apparently permanent shade of pink.
Mercedes is happy because her friends are happy. She’ll have a chance to shine when they go clubbing.
Rachel finds some adults she knows from the Columbus pride festival, and they take her out to dinner.
Even Santana doesn’t seem that bored. It’s a good start.
-
By breakfast’s end, it’s gone to pieces.
Tina didn’t witness the initial argument. Even if she had, she’s not sure she’d know what’s going on.
“What is wrong with you?” Kurt yells. People are looking. They’re making a scene.
Rachel protests, “I don’t understand.”
“Fuck you,” Kurt’s practically hissing. There are tears in his eyes.
“But I was just-” Rachel starts. Mercedes already has her arm around Kurt, steering him away.
-
Kurt and Mercedes quickly leave for some kind of lunch workshop. Tina was looking forward to a quiet afternoon with Sandman; but when Santana bangs open the door and says, “Change, you’re coming with me,” she knows it’s not going to happen.
They pass Rachel in the lobby, reading a tattered biography of Gwen Verdon. Tina tenses, preparing to flee, but Santana walks right up to her.
Rachel’s eyes flick upward briefly, but she doesn’t otherwise acknowledge them.
“Quit sulking and go apologize to Kurt,” Santana orders.
Rachel mutters something indistinct.
“Tina knows kung fu,” says Santana. “She’ll kick your ass if you don’t get off it and take responsibility for your fuck-up. Right, Tina?”
Tina splutters. Santana nudges her with her elbow.
“Santana’s a black magic woman,” Tina whispers.
Santana gives her a look and continues addressing Rachel. “Seriously, just tell him you’re sorry. I’m not gonna be stuck listening to your catfights for the rest of the trip.” And she turns on her heel, Tina dragging behind her.
“What are we doing now?” Tina asks.
“We’re going out.”
-
When they return, bearing a rainbow of nail polish colors and a beaten-up leather jacket that Santana convinced Tina to buy at a thrift store, the room door is locked and Mercedes is waiting in the lobby.
“They’re talking,” she announces. “Kurt and Rachel.” Santana groans.
Tina jumps on the couch next to Mercedes and lays her head in her lap. She’s sleepy. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Santana watching her. But she blinks, and Santana’s just staring into space.
-
Kurt and Rachel emerge in time for dinner, and afterwards insist that they go out for karaoke. It’s strange. The two of them don’t really talk more often, or even look at each other; but a new understanding exists between them, a simple bond that restrains both of their egos.
At the dark little karaoke bar, whose walls are hung with rainbow banners and whose menu advertises several queer-themed drinks, Kurt and Rachel tear up the stage.
“What was that?” Santana asks Rachel, while Kurt is ordering five Shirley Temples.
Rachel looks self-important. “That was the classic pop standard “You Don’t Own Me.” It was notably covered in 1978 by the revolutionary gay New Wave artist Klaus Nomi.”
Taking in their stares, she continues. “As pillars of the local gay community, my dads have amassed an impressive collection of books, articles, and recordings relating to LGBT history. Sadly, Nomi died of AIDS in 1983, back when it was still known as “GRIDS,” or Gay-Related Immunodeficiency Syndrome.”
“Yeah, uh-huh,” Santana says, but she’s kind of smiling anyway.
It’s hard to imagine a follow-up to Kurt and Rachel, but Mercedes’ rendition of “Swing, Brother, Swing” has the whole bar clamoring for an encore. After she successfully pulls off a version of “Dancing Queen” that Tina knows she’s worked on for ages, Santana drags Tina onstage and the three of them sing “My Girl.”
Tina’s having fun, but the combination of adrenaline, dinner, and Shirley Temples is making her feel a little sick. Just as Rachel and Mercedes are about to start “What Is This Feeling?” she nods goodbye to Kurt and ducks outside. Santana follows her.
-
“I’m tired,” Santana explains. She shivers and crosses her arms, although it isn’t that cold.
Tina hums “Black Magic Woman,” and she glares.
Tina turns away, smiling, and catches the glare of a passing man. Shaking his head, he grumbles something under his breath. Tina can’t catch all of it, but the end is definitely, “…all the fags who want to fuck boys and eat pussy…”
His words are clumsy with alcohol, but they still send a shock down Tina’s spine. She feels too warm, suddenly, and she doesn’t want to talk anymore.
Santana notices. “Did that bother you?” There’s surprise in her tone, and maybe amusement, but concern as well.
Slowly, Tina nods. The man’s eyes held all his hate. Too much. It’s still burning in her stomach, making her sick. Vulnerable.
“Hey. There’s one of him, and there’s, what? A million of us?" (Us?) "He doesn’t stand a chance.”
“I guess.”
Santana huffs; Tina must not appear sufficiently convinced. Then she’s linking arms with Tina, pulling her along into a brisk walk. “Let’s go back. You’re painting my nails.”
-
“You’re good at this,” remarks Santana, like she didn’t think Tina would be.
Tina stops painting Santana's left big toe orange and makes a face. “I wear new makeup every day, how don’t you notice?”
“Your fingernail polish is gross right now. And It’s not like I look at you,” Santana snaps. Then, softer, “Want me to paint yours after this?”
“Okay.”
Tina has finished Santana’s left big toe and is moving on to paint her right big toe red when Santana says, casually, “Are you a virgin?”
Deer-in-headlights, Tina nods.
“Huh.” Santana’s gaze falls to the side. Tina can’t really look at her chest in that black tank top, but does anyway.
“Have you at least kissed anyone?”
“A couple people.”
“Who?”
“Artie. And, um, someone else.“
“Don’t say Puck.”
“No, actually…” Hating herself, Tina blushes. “A, a girl.”
“Do I know this girl?”
Why do you care? Tina’s insides are screaming, but she says blankly, “Maybe.”
“Is it Brittany?” There’s laughter in Santana’s voice. “She gets around.”
Tina ducks her head and reaches for the purple.
“It is!” Santana crows, almost making Tina spill the nail polish. “Are you embarrassed? Don’t be. Brittany makes out with everyone.”
“With you?” Tina dabs the excess polish on the bottle rim.
Santana shrugs. “People do crazy things when they’re drunk.”
Tina isn’t drunk. She wants to do something brave. She finishes painting, screws the purple brush back on its bottle, and meets Santana’s eyes.
“What?”
-
Since, and in spite of, the April Rhodes incident, Kurt has developed a taste for vodka. There’s a bottle stashed in his suitcase. Tina’s sure he won’t mind if they dilute it a little.
Armed with vending machine snacks as chasers, they pour two paper cups. Around refill time, Tina says, “I really liked Brittany.”
“So did I.” Santana downs the dregs of her cup. “She’s easy to like.”
“Are you guys fighting?”
“Kind of.” Santana pours a couple inches into Tina’s drink, then hers. “I mean, we fucked.” The word sounds crude and ugly, and it seems like Santana realizes it. “Can we talk about something else?”
Tina shifts uncomfortably. “So…”
-
A little while later, they have migrated onto the bed, and Tina has migrated onto Santana’s lap. Santana is playing with her hair. Her fingers are cool and strong, and Tina’s scalp buzzes pleasurably.
She notices, inside the alcoholic haze, that Santana’s breath is more rapid than usual. Then it strikes her, almost soberingly. She lets herself become fully aware of the weird tension she feels around Santana-how her eyes stray to Santana’s mouth and the nape of her neck, how they track the roll of Santana’s hips. Does Santana feel that way around her, too?
Experimentally, she settles a hand on the dip of her waist.
Santana does not push the hand away.
Tina snuggles into her, daring to rub her cheek against her breasts. She feels lightheaded, closes her eyes.
“Tina?” Santana’s voice vibrates through her chest, but it sounds far away. Like it’s in a shell, put to her ear. Like-
“Mmm,” Tina replies.
“Tina.”
Tina lifts her head, and Santana kisses her.
They disentangle, briefly make eye contact, then wrestle for a better position. Santana attacks Tina’s mouth with the intensity of a wave attacking a shoreline. Tina tries to match it. Terms and phrases tumble through her head, are swept away.
Santana flips her onto her back. They hang there, breathing heavily. Leaning in close to Tina’s neck, she says, “I’m better than Brittany, right?”
Tina squirms. Santana kisses her temple, ear, throat.
“Better than that cripple?” and Tina slaps her. It happens so fast.
“Shut the fuck up. You don’t know anything, don’t you fucking talk about him like that.” Tina’s getting up. Getting mad, getting mean. But no one can talk about Artie like that. No one.
Santana’s face crumples for a moment before it goes blank and angry. And she storms out, slamming the door behind her.
Tina won’t hear her come back in.
-
For the next week, Tina is alone. She goes to workshops and events, eats meals with Mercedes or Kurt or Rachel, is silent. She and Santana don’t speak unless it’s necessary. Her toenails don’t get painted.
She’s learning so much; she just wishes it felt better.
-
It’s the day before they go back to Lima.
Tina comes back to the room-it’s unlocked. She had assumed it would be empty. But Santana’s in the chair by the window, reading a magazine.
Tina moves quickly, lightly. She’s about to leave when Santana says, “Where are you going?”
Taken aback, Tina answers, “The Dyke March. It’s, um…you can guess what it is.”
Santana sets down her magazine, stretches, and stands. “When’s it start?”
“In fifteen minutes. We’re meeting downtown.”
“Great, let me get my shoes.” Santana walks abruptly over to the closet. Tina’s not sure what surprises her more; that she’s not dreaming, or that Santana returns with a pair of three-inch black stiletto heels.
At Tina’s askance look, she says, “What? I have standards.”
-
All of downtown is blocked off for the march. It feels deserted, but every here and there they’ll encounter a group of brightly dressed people with banners or picket signs or children. “I’m sorry,” says Santana suddenly, when they reach a less populated street.
Tina pretends to be mesmerized by her chipping nail polish.
“It’s just. It’s hard.” Santana’s looking down, like she doesn’t want Tina to see her face.
Tina thinks of Artie, of the girls who won’t change in front of her in the locker room, of the lie she told her parents to come here and the confrontation they will inevitably have.
“I know. But it’s worth it.”
Reaching over, at first timidly, she squeezes Santana’s hand. It stays limp for a second before Santana squeezes back.
Her lips quirk. “Jeez, Ellen.”
Tina lets go and smacks her, thrilled when she grabs her hand again. And they’re walking, holding hands. Santana’s heels click, Tina’s boots thud. It’s a different kind of handholding, not just for comfort or solidarity or something. Thinking of what that handholding could turn into, Tina cannot stop the big, stupid grin that spreads across her face.
Santana catches her gaze and rolls her eyes. Then she grins back, in an affectionate, “you dork” way that makes Tina blush.
People are coming, but she’s not anxious; she knows she doesn’t have to hide this, doesn’t have to hide herself. Feeling swells sweetly in her chest, like a wave rolling and crashing endlessly, endlessly.
Toronto Grace Hospital is ahead, a great dull red brick box. The people, their people, are lining up to march down Yonge Street.