Questions -- Glee: Quinn/Santana, Oneshot
Title: Questions
Chapters: Oneshot [possibly more later?]
Rating: PG-13 (language, angst)
Pairing: Quinn/Santana
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee… sad face.
Spoilers: If you haven't seen "Born This Way" this will either give a lot away or confuse the hell out of you. Because of this, the summary is under the cut. Click at your own risk.
Summary: Santana had a list of that which she desperately wished to change, but despite the demand from seemingly everyone else, she wanted Lucy Fabray to stay exactly the way she was. (Past-tense fic)
Warnings: This story deals, in part, with the issue of self-harm. I did my best to write it as tastefully as possible with a strong underlying message opposing hurting oneself as an attempt to cope. As a former peer counselor at my college, I underwent intensive grief and crisis training and very well acknowledge the seriousness of this epidemic, so even though this in no way condones self-harm, I do know that reading material of this nature can be difficult, especially to those who formerly and currently struggle with it. If you are hurting yourself, I strongly urge you to get help, or even just talk to someone. If you don't have anyone or don't know who to confide in or where to begin, please send me a message and I will gladly offer some guidance.
Despite her genetically slight build, thirteen-year-old Santana Lopez was almost certain that the anger behind her tightly-balled fist could demolish even the strongest of steel walls. Instead, she momentarily relaxed her hand and put it to better use as she gripped the back of Lucy Fabray's shirt and pulled the crying girl into a crushing hug.
Absentmindedly, the pad of Santana's thumb brushed against the soft cotton on the inside neckline of the other girl's t-shirt only to immediately bristle at the grainier texture of the size tag that she knew all too well to read ‘extra large’. She allowed herself to briefly stray from reality by silently wishing that if she could just rip that stupid label off and cast it away, maybe Lucy’s crying would stop once for all. That maybe this dreaded ritual (that had no real pattern other than ‘often’) of her best friend appearing, tearful and defeated on her doorstep after school, would become a thing of the past. That even on the off-occasions when Lucy would arrive with dry cheeks and the sliver of dignity her tormentors had let her keep that day, that the deep sadness etched so clearly into olive green eyes would cease to exist, rather than only begin to fade after they had been safely in the confines of Santana’s bedroom for at least a half hour.
What Santana really wished was that Mr. and Mrs. Fabray would at last find feeling in their heart facsimiles and let Lucy transfer to McKinley Middle School, her own stomping grounds. The Latina knew very well that no one would dare breathe at Lucy the wrong way as long as she remained under her wing, a task she would take on with militant devotion. But Lucy’s socially snobbish parents (who behind closed doors were far less ‘greeting card perfect’ than they were to the world at large) wouldn’t have it. Their feeble reasoning mainly claimed that they were worried about Lucy adjusting to a different curriculum and her grades subsequently suffering, but Santana had her own theory that had more to do with them not wanting to face hard facts and actually have to admit that - gasp! - a member of the Fabray family was far from revered and admired. Santana felt a mixture of pity and disgust when considering the likelihood that Russell and Judy only procreated a second time in hopes to create a carbon copy of their first child, Jennifer, who was pacified with a silver spoon since the moment she arrived in the world. A bright blonde picture of perfection, Jennie was almost a specimen of an individual. Her graceful, beautiful, and waif-like presence set the bar even higher for Lucy, who had the weight of a world she had not yet entered on her formless, fetal shoulders; a weight she would buckle and be crushed under. Whether it was simply the unpredictability of the gene pool or Judy's unabashed heavy drinking during her pregnancy, Lucy Fabray was born a defective, damaged duckling into a family who had upheld their swan status with white-knuckled pride. And while Russell and Judy never bluntly said anything, it boiled Santana's already hot-tempered blood when she sensed passive resentment against Lucy for destroying their Norman Rockwell family portrait of deception.
Her personal insight into the truth behind the Fabrays’ white picket fence had been fostered by the murmured gossip between her own parents, Santos and Eva Lopez, who had been attending church with Russell and Judy since long before she, Lucy, or even Jennie were born. Whispers of alcoholism, infidelity, and even suspected spousal abuse lingered like silent smog that painfully clouded Santana's lungs and armed her with a pessimism that soured her once innocent view of the world. She came to realize the cruel falsehood of her childhood cartoons, with their repeated tales of how the bad guys, identifiably cloaked in darkness, would always be trumped by the valor of the good, who would likewise earn what they deserved. Having to watch Lucy, of all people, volley between brutal peers and artificially affectionate parents, debunked all fairy tale myths with the harsh reality that life claims its victims at random, instilling Santana with a hard-pressed determination to live her life as anything but that; a victim.
On that train of thought, she wished more than anything that Lucy would finally relent and give up the names and addresses of her most frequent harassers, knowing that between her, her college-aged brother, and their combined 8 years of martial arts training, she could rightfully scare the piss out of even the biggest adolescent pricks. But while appreciative of the offer, Lucy repeatedly refused, both confusing and slightly angering the Latina. She knew she could never turn the other cheek the way her friend did, and while she partly longed for the day where Lucy would give in, another part was grateful for the reliability in Lucy's values remaining the same.
In fact, the one thing Santana never had or ever would wish was for anything about Lucy to change, emotionally or physically. It seemed effortless for the world at large to find fault in the way Lucy looked: her underactive thyroid kept her figure constantly rotund, which of course was unknown to those who instead cruelly insisted that ‘Lucy Caboosey’ should lay off the McDonald’s. Dark blonde hair that behaved unpredictably depending on the weather framed a face often spotted with acne, both of which were attributed by outsiders as poor personal hygiene when in reality Lucy was vigilant about washing and showering daily. And her near-legal blindness contributed to an overall lack of coordination, even despite her thick-framed glasses, which hurt her socially more than they helped. Still, it baffled Santana how no one else stopped to admire how Lucy's curves gave way to a striking pear-shape,( and made her the best hugger ever). Or that people could fail to appreciate the gleam of her emerald eyes and how they could only be rivaled by an endearingly crooked, yet undeniably striking smile.
"Come on," Santana urged gently, tucking Lucy's arm protectively under her own, "let's go upstairs."
As always, the shorter girl ushered her friend through the kitchen, where they would both cast split-second glances at Eva, who despite knowing exactly what was going on, smiled and pretended to be none the wiser per Santana's request. She knew that letting on that her mother knew would only further humiliate Lucy, and that was the last thing either of their adolescent hearts could bear.
They detoured from their usual path and stopped in the upstairs bathroom, Santana retrieving soap and a washcloth before turning on the faucet to a hot, yet comfortable temperature. As she patted the Formica slab beside the sink, prompting Lucy to hoist herself up, she glanced to observe whether or not the deep purple residue covering the palms of the other girl’s hands - and her shirt, neck, and bottom of her chin - had transferred to the counter. It didn’t, which was good for the countertop, but bad for the top layer of Lucy’s skin that was likely about to be grated off in an attempt to get her hands and neck clean. She sighed, quietly grateful that this was at least better than the time they attempted to chip off super glue from the seat of Lucy's pants.
“What happened?” Santana asked flatly.
Lucy's downcast eyes relinquished a few more slow tears before she finally spoke. “Today was field day. We always do it on the second to last day of school, and I always try and participate just enough to not be too much of an outcast, but not enough to make myself a target,” she exhaled, grimacing slightly at the coarseness of the washcloth as it abraded her hands. “And I thought everything was going fine until this guy yelled ‘heads up!’ and tossed me what I thought was a water balloon. I reached out to catch it, and this liquid exploded all over me, and then him, his buddies, and their girlfriends ran away screaming, ‘die, Caboosey, die!’ It was clear that the vicious nickname burned on Lucy’s tongue and she swallowed hard before continuing. “I don’t know if they were telling me to die or letting me know that it was dye in the balloon, but…” her voice trailed off.
“Jesus,” Santana respired angrily, “and no one did anything? Not even a teacher?”
She shook her head dejectedly. "Yeah, like the teachers even care. They consider anything outside of textbooks and homework to not be their problem."
The Latina had no reply. She knew that her school was no better at putting a stop to bullying and name-calling, and a pang of guilt jabbed at her stomach when realizing that she was apart of that very problem at McKinley. In an attempt to soothe herself, Santana began to rationalize that she only put on a sometimes-intimidating front to keep afloat in the social shark tank that was Middle School; and that she would never just randomly target and torture an innocent like Lucy.
Following the purple path ingrained in the grafted skin on the underside of Lucy's left hand, Santana pushed up the sage-colored sleeve of the shirt that she had assured her friend time and time again brought out the splendor of her eyes. Before she could tell her once more, her jaw diminished involuntarily when she saw deep, discolored slashes marring the soft skin on Lucy's wrist.
"What the - oh my God! What the hell happened?" Santana couldn't help but stammer and gape. Her eyes were so fixated on the cuts that she was only able to look up when Lucy hurriedly yanked her sleeve back over her arm, a look of unmistakable panic flashing through her eyes.
When she finally spoke, it was barely a murmur. "It's not important."
"Like hell it's not!" Santana countered. "Who did this to you? They won't ever know that you told me, but you need to let me know."
She tried to shift her arm behind her back, a laugh so blatantly fake coating her voice. "Seriously, don't worry about it -"
"Who did this to you, Lucy?!" Santana shouted, her tone dogged and laced with what might be tears. She was frustrated, desperate even. When their cares and woes were locked securely outside of the imaginary castle walls of the Lopez residence, things between them felt perfect and effortless like they always had. But it was times like these, when worldly evils managed to slip through the tiniest cracks in an otherwise stone fortress that Santana felt like their entire friendship was just a series of unanswered questions. Whether she liked it or not, today was the day that Lucy would at last give her some answers.
Lucy firmly sank her teeth into her bottom lip the way she always did to attempt to mask its trembling, and Santana knew that meant a major breakthrough was on its way. After moments of labored breathing and impossibly heavy silence, Lucy finally spoke up. "It wasn't -" she began, another exhale reluctantly releasing the last of her hesitance, "I did it. To myself."
What seconds ago was the mere threat of tears manifested themselves into two real, dew-like droplets that draped over the slight curves of Santana's face before she could even realize that they'd fallen. She remembered hearing all about this in Health class three years in a row, and suddenly the words "cutting" and "self-harm" and "self-mutilation" were clanging in her ears like a church bell, demanding to be heard. She actually recalled wondering at the time how common self-harm could really be and why they had to learn about something so awfully uncomfortable so frequently. After all, the drinking and drugs and sex she could understand, at least in theory, since contrary to the rumors flooding the school that bizarrely worked in her favor, she had never dabbled in any of the three. But hypothetically she could see the allure and easily understand how people could develop addictions to even fleeting feelings of euphoria. The thought of purposely inflicting pain in addition to the garden variety Middle School kind simply seemed ludicrous to her -- not to mention the last thing she would ever expect from Lucy Fabray, or Lucy Q as she called her affectionately.
Against her better judgment, Santana once again took Lucy's left hand in hers, bunching up the green fabric to examine the same wrist that had brushed against her own so many times when they were young, when their fingers would entwine and nothing could touch them. She could feel herself tensing reflexively, and as much as she loathed the damn tears that had silently come and gone on her reddened cheeks, she knew that her dangerously brewing anger would only worsen things.
She breathed a shuddered breath in an attempt to calm herself. "Why the..." her voice began to drift before she composed herself, "how could you do something like this to yourself?" She silently prayed that her rare vulnerability would inspire the same in Lucy, receiving the slight consolation only seconds later when she could detect that it was so just by studying the other girl's face.
"I know it sounds crazy but for me, it helps. It takes my mind off of the hurt that I feel every single day," Lucy lamented, eyes aimed directly at the floor.
Santana was quiet for a moment, but this time when she spoke, her voice was louder; stronger. "I'm sorry, but I can't buy that. Nope," she began bluntly, causing green eyes to trail up and meet hers. "All that does is bury the pain you're truly feeling by causing more unneeded pain that's only going to remind you of what it is you're trying to hide. And just because you push it aside doesn't mean it goes away. It's still there."
Another thick quiet filled the small space between them, and as soon as she stopped talking, she noticed that once again Lucy couldn't bear to look her in the eye. Her own heart was sounding a steady bass beat against the wall of her chest, knowing that this moment carried so much emotional weight -- feelings of shame, loss, grief, and confusion were nearly tangible, and Santana couldn't stop the same question from running tired circles around her mind.
"Why," she swallowed, refusing to let any more tears slip by, "didn't you just come to me? We're supposed to always have each others backs and I thought I was... doing a good job at showing you that." It didn't occur to her until after the words left her lips that they sounded almost accusatory, which isn't what she wanted, but decided to let the sentiment stand as it was.
Instead of defensiveness, Lucy closed her eyes, seemingly contemplating her next answer. When she opened them again, she remained transfixed on the trademark patch of floor, slightly rocking as if almost to propel the words out of her troubled heart and into the open once and for all. "I guess I just... felt like I didn't deserve to find a solution. To feel better. To even have a friend like you to come to. I mean, you don't need to be dealing with any of this. You're one of the lucky ones. One of the people who God or whoever is up there pulling all of our puppet strings wants to be happy." Her eyes once again met Santana's. "Look at me, look at my life. Do I really seem like someone who deserves happiness?"
A warm, formerly anonymous pulse began throbbing profusely in both of Santana's ears, flooding her skin with an uneasy heat and drawing a few more objectionable tears down her cheeks. Her mind raced by and through combinations of words that sounded perfect and comforting and somewhat like the big turning-point speeches made by some guy in almost every chick flick who has fucked things up with the girl he loves in just about every way imaginable, but somehow finds the wherewithal to carefully craft his thoughts just enough to win her back. It scares her for only a second that her innermost thoughts make that parallel to her relationship with Lucy before submitting to the fact that her real, non-scripted feelings were simply above and beyond anything words could capture.
As if time and her judgment met up and agreed to lapse simultaneously, the next thing she remembered was hearing Lucy suddenly gasp at the feeling of Santana's lips on the underside of her wrist. She froze for an instant, wondering how she got here but knowing now that this was honestly the best she could do. Her silken lips filled in the hardened cracks of once-flawless skin, pointlessly determined to kiss the pain away yet encouraged by what she knew were happy tears just by the mere sound and the gentle quake in Lucy's body.
Her kisses slowly ascending the arch of Lucy's arm, Santana was overcome by a relief that only the disclosure of a suppressed secret could achieve. Before giving herself time to weigh the consequences, she pulled her mouth away from Lucy's wrist only to press it immediately against the other girl's lips, the long-ignored passion adding a rough urgency to the tender innocence of their first kiss.
Seconds later, they pulled away, only to have their focus pulled by Eva's voice calling from downstairs to tell them that it was snack and study time.
Although they filed out of the bathroom without so much as a syllable about what had just happened, their knowing glances confirmed that it wouldn't be the last time they would kiss. And while Santana had thought not long ago that what she needed most was answers, she soon realized that sometimes the most important things in life were never really questions at all.
So, funny thing about this story is that I was planning on making it a 4-chapter fic, story and chapter titles already in mind, and develop things from this point. However, when I finished writing this chapter, it felt... strangely complete? I'm always unsure whether to elaborate on fics that seem to wrap up nicely/leaving room for interpretation for the readers as to what happens next, but seeing as I'm posting this for the benefit of others, what do you guys think? Should I leave it here or continue? Neither answer will offend me, because I can see either as an option, but I would rather accommodate what you guys want/feel is best. Regardless, I do hope to hear your general thoughts via review, as they inspire me and plainly make me happy! ^_^
Chapters: Oneshot [possibly more later?]
Rating: PG-13 (language, angst)
Pairing: Quinn/Santana
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee… sad face.
Spoilers: If you haven't seen "Born This Way" this will either give a lot away or confuse the hell out of you. Because of this, the summary is under the cut. Click at your own risk.
Summary: Santana had a list of that which she desperately wished to change, but despite the demand from seemingly everyone else, she wanted Lucy Fabray to stay exactly the way she was. (Past-tense fic)
Warnings: This story deals, in part, with the issue of self-harm. I did my best to write it as tastefully as possible with a strong underlying message opposing hurting oneself as an attempt to cope. As a former peer counselor at my college, I underwent intensive grief and crisis training and very well acknowledge the seriousness of this epidemic, so even though this in no way condones self-harm, I do know that reading material of this nature can be difficult, especially to those who formerly and currently struggle with it. If you are hurting yourself, I strongly urge you to get help, or even just talk to someone. If you don't have anyone or don't know who to confide in or where to begin, please send me a message and I will gladly offer some guidance.
Despite her genetically slight build, thirteen-year-old Santana Lopez was almost certain that the anger behind her tightly-balled fist could demolish even the strongest of steel walls. Instead, she momentarily relaxed her hand and put it to better use as she gripped the back of Lucy Fabray's shirt and pulled the crying girl into a crushing hug.
Absentmindedly, the pad of Santana's thumb brushed against the soft cotton on the inside neckline of the other girl's t-shirt only to immediately bristle at the grainier texture of the size tag that she knew all too well to read ‘extra large’. She allowed herself to briefly stray from reality by silently wishing that if she could just rip that stupid label off and cast it away, maybe Lucy’s crying would stop once for all. That maybe this dreaded ritual (that had no real pattern other than ‘often’) of her best friend appearing, tearful and defeated on her doorstep after school, would become a thing of the past. That even on the off-occasions when Lucy would arrive with dry cheeks and the sliver of dignity her tormentors had let her keep that day, that the deep sadness etched so clearly into olive green eyes would cease to exist, rather than only begin to fade after they had been safely in the confines of Santana’s bedroom for at least a half hour.
What Santana really wished was that Mr. and Mrs. Fabray would at last find feeling in their heart facsimiles and let Lucy transfer to McKinley Middle School, her own stomping grounds. The Latina knew very well that no one would dare breathe at Lucy the wrong way as long as she remained under her wing, a task she would take on with militant devotion. But Lucy’s socially snobbish parents (who behind closed doors were far less ‘greeting card perfect’ than they were to the world at large) wouldn’t have it. Their feeble reasoning mainly claimed that they were worried about Lucy adjusting to a different curriculum and her grades subsequently suffering, but Santana had her own theory that had more to do with them not wanting to face hard facts and actually have to admit that - gasp! - a member of the Fabray family was far from revered and admired. Santana felt a mixture of pity and disgust when considering the likelihood that Russell and Judy only procreated a second time in hopes to create a carbon copy of their first child, Jennifer, who was pacified with a silver spoon since the moment she arrived in the world. A bright blonde picture of perfection, Jennie was almost a specimen of an individual. Her graceful, beautiful, and waif-like presence set the bar even higher for Lucy, who had the weight of a world she had not yet entered on her formless, fetal shoulders; a weight she would buckle and be crushed under. Whether it was simply the unpredictability of the gene pool or Judy's unabashed heavy drinking during her pregnancy, Lucy Fabray was born a defective, damaged duckling into a family who had upheld their swan status with white-knuckled pride. And while Russell and Judy never bluntly said anything, it boiled Santana's already hot-tempered blood when she sensed passive resentment against Lucy for destroying their Norman Rockwell family portrait of deception.
Her personal insight into the truth behind the Fabrays’ white picket fence had been fostered by the murmured gossip between her own parents, Santos and Eva Lopez, who had been attending church with Russell and Judy since long before she, Lucy, or even Jennie were born. Whispers of alcoholism, infidelity, and even suspected spousal abuse lingered like silent smog that painfully clouded Santana's lungs and armed her with a pessimism that soured her once innocent view of the world. She came to realize the cruel falsehood of her childhood cartoons, with their repeated tales of how the bad guys, identifiably cloaked in darkness, would always be trumped by the valor of the good, who would likewise earn what they deserved. Having to watch Lucy, of all people, volley between brutal peers and artificially affectionate parents, debunked all fairy tale myths with the harsh reality that life claims its victims at random, instilling Santana with a hard-pressed determination to live her life as anything but that; a victim.
On that train of thought, she wished more than anything that Lucy would finally relent and give up the names and addresses of her most frequent harassers, knowing that between her, her college-aged brother, and their combined 8 years of martial arts training, she could rightfully scare the piss out of even the biggest adolescent pricks. But while appreciative of the offer, Lucy repeatedly refused, both confusing and slightly angering the Latina. She knew she could never turn the other cheek the way her friend did, and while she partly longed for the day where Lucy would give in, another part was grateful for the reliability in Lucy's values remaining the same.
In fact, the one thing Santana never had or ever would wish was for anything about Lucy to change, emotionally or physically. It seemed effortless for the world at large to find fault in the way Lucy looked: her underactive thyroid kept her figure constantly rotund, which of course was unknown to those who instead cruelly insisted that ‘Lucy Caboosey’ should lay off the McDonald’s. Dark blonde hair that behaved unpredictably depending on the weather framed a face often spotted with acne, both of which were attributed by outsiders as poor personal hygiene when in reality Lucy was vigilant about washing and showering daily. And her near-legal blindness contributed to an overall lack of coordination, even despite her thick-framed glasses, which hurt her socially more than they helped. Still, it baffled Santana how no one else stopped to admire how Lucy's curves gave way to a striking pear-shape,( and made her the best hugger ever). Or that people could fail to appreciate the gleam of her emerald eyes and how they could only be rivaled by an endearingly crooked, yet undeniably striking smile.
"Come on," Santana urged gently, tucking Lucy's arm protectively under her own, "let's go upstairs."
As always, the shorter girl ushered her friend through the kitchen, where they would both cast split-second glances at Eva, who despite knowing exactly what was going on, smiled and pretended to be none the wiser per Santana's request. She knew that letting on that her mother knew would only further humiliate Lucy, and that was the last thing either of their adolescent hearts could bear.
They detoured from their usual path and stopped in the upstairs bathroom, Santana retrieving soap and a washcloth before turning on the faucet to a hot, yet comfortable temperature. As she patted the Formica slab beside the sink, prompting Lucy to hoist herself up, she glanced to observe whether or not the deep purple residue covering the palms of the other girl’s hands - and her shirt, neck, and bottom of her chin - had transferred to the counter. It didn’t, which was good for the countertop, but bad for the top layer of Lucy’s skin that was likely about to be grated off in an attempt to get her hands and neck clean. She sighed, quietly grateful that this was at least better than the time they attempted to chip off super glue from the seat of Lucy's pants.
“What happened?” Santana asked flatly.
Lucy's downcast eyes relinquished a few more slow tears before she finally spoke. “Today was field day. We always do it on the second to last day of school, and I always try and participate just enough to not be too much of an outcast, but not enough to make myself a target,” she exhaled, grimacing slightly at the coarseness of the washcloth as it abraded her hands. “And I thought everything was going fine until this guy yelled ‘heads up!’ and tossed me what I thought was a water balloon. I reached out to catch it, and this liquid exploded all over me, and then him, his buddies, and their girlfriends ran away screaming, ‘die, Caboosey, die!’ It was clear that the vicious nickname burned on Lucy’s tongue and she swallowed hard before continuing. “I don’t know if they were telling me to die or letting me know that it was dye in the balloon, but…” her voice trailed off.
“Jesus,” Santana respired angrily, “and no one did anything? Not even a teacher?”
She shook her head dejectedly. "Yeah, like the teachers even care. They consider anything outside of textbooks and homework to not be their problem."
The Latina had no reply. She knew that her school was no better at putting a stop to bullying and name-calling, and a pang of guilt jabbed at her stomach when realizing that she was apart of that very problem at McKinley. In an attempt to soothe herself, Santana began to rationalize that she only put on a sometimes-intimidating front to keep afloat in the social shark tank that was Middle School; and that she would never just randomly target and torture an innocent like Lucy.
Following the purple path ingrained in the grafted skin on the underside of Lucy's left hand, Santana pushed up the sage-colored sleeve of the shirt that she had assured her friend time and time again brought out the splendor of her eyes. Before she could tell her once more, her jaw diminished involuntarily when she saw deep, discolored slashes marring the soft skin on Lucy's wrist.
"What the - oh my God! What the hell happened?" Santana couldn't help but stammer and gape. Her eyes were so fixated on the cuts that she was only able to look up when Lucy hurriedly yanked her sleeve back over her arm, a look of unmistakable panic flashing through her eyes.
When she finally spoke, it was barely a murmur. "It's not important."
"Like hell it's not!" Santana countered. "Who did this to you? They won't ever know that you told me, but you need to let me know."
She tried to shift her arm behind her back, a laugh so blatantly fake coating her voice. "Seriously, don't worry about it -"
"Who did this to you, Lucy?!" Santana shouted, her tone dogged and laced with what might be tears. She was frustrated, desperate even. When their cares and woes were locked securely outside of the imaginary castle walls of the Lopez residence, things between them felt perfect and effortless like they always had. But it was times like these, when worldly evils managed to slip through the tiniest cracks in an otherwise stone fortress that Santana felt like their entire friendship was just a series of unanswered questions. Whether she liked it or not, today was the day that Lucy would at last give her some answers.
Lucy firmly sank her teeth into her bottom lip the way she always did to attempt to mask its trembling, and Santana knew that meant a major breakthrough was on its way. After moments of labored breathing and impossibly heavy silence, Lucy finally spoke up. "It wasn't -" she began, another exhale reluctantly releasing the last of her hesitance, "I did it. To myself."
What seconds ago was the mere threat of tears manifested themselves into two real, dew-like droplets that draped over the slight curves of Santana's face before she could even realize that they'd fallen. She remembered hearing all about this in Health class three years in a row, and suddenly the words "cutting" and "self-harm" and "self-mutilation" were clanging in her ears like a church bell, demanding to be heard. She actually recalled wondering at the time how common self-harm could really be and why they had to learn about something so awfully uncomfortable so frequently. After all, the drinking and drugs and sex she could understand, at least in theory, since contrary to the rumors flooding the school that bizarrely worked in her favor, she had never dabbled in any of the three. But hypothetically she could see the allure and easily understand how people could develop addictions to even fleeting feelings of euphoria. The thought of purposely inflicting pain in addition to the garden variety Middle School kind simply seemed ludicrous to her -- not to mention the last thing she would ever expect from Lucy Fabray, or Lucy Q as she called her affectionately.
Against her better judgment, Santana once again took Lucy's left hand in hers, bunching up the green fabric to examine the same wrist that had brushed against her own so many times when they were young, when their fingers would entwine and nothing could touch them. She could feel herself tensing reflexively, and as much as she loathed the damn tears that had silently come and gone on her reddened cheeks, she knew that her dangerously brewing anger would only worsen things.
She breathed a shuddered breath in an attempt to calm herself. "Why the..." her voice began to drift before she composed herself, "how could you do something like this to yourself?" She silently prayed that her rare vulnerability would inspire the same in Lucy, receiving the slight consolation only seconds later when she could detect that it was so just by studying the other girl's face.
"I know it sounds crazy but for me, it helps. It takes my mind off of the hurt that I feel every single day," Lucy lamented, eyes aimed directly at the floor.
Santana was quiet for a moment, but this time when she spoke, her voice was louder; stronger. "I'm sorry, but I can't buy that. Nope," she began bluntly, causing green eyes to trail up and meet hers. "All that does is bury the pain you're truly feeling by causing more unneeded pain that's only going to remind you of what it is you're trying to hide. And just because you push it aside doesn't mean it goes away. It's still there."
Another thick quiet filled the small space between them, and as soon as she stopped talking, she noticed that once again Lucy couldn't bear to look her in the eye. Her own heart was sounding a steady bass beat against the wall of her chest, knowing that this moment carried so much emotional weight -- feelings of shame, loss, grief, and confusion were nearly tangible, and Santana couldn't stop the same question from running tired circles around her mind.
"Why," she swallowed, refusing to let any more tears slip by, "didn't you just come to me? We're supposed to always have each others backs and I thought I was... doing a good job at showing you that." It didn't occur to her until after the words left her lips that they sounded almost accusatory, which isn't what she wanted, but decided to let the sentiment stand as it was.
Instead of defensiveness, Lucy closed her eyes, seemingly contemplating her next answer. When she opened them again, she remained transfixed on the trademark patch of floor, slightly rocking as if almost to propel the words out of her troubled heart and into the open once and for all. "I guess I just... felt like I didn't deserve to find a solution. To feel better. To even have a friend like you to come to. I mean, you don't need to be dealing with any of this. You're one of the lucky ones. One of the people who God or whoever is up there pulling all of our puppet strings wants to be happy." Her eyes once again met Santana's. "Look at me, look at my life. Do I really seem like someone who deserves happiness?"
A warm, formerly anonymous pulse began throbbing profusely in both of Santana's ears, flooding her skin with an uneasy heat and drawing a few more objectionable tears down her cheeks. Her mind raced by and through combinations of words that sounded perfect and comforting and somewhat like the big turning-point speeches made by some guy in almost every chick flick who has fucked things up with the girl he loves in just about every way imaginable, but somehow finds the wherewithal to carefully craft his thoughts just enough to win her back. It scares her for only a second that her innermost thoughts make that parallel to her relationship with Lucy before submitting to the fact that her real, non-scripted feelings were simply above and beyond anything words could capture.
As if time and her judgment met up and agreed to lapse simultaneously, the next thing she remembered was hearing Lucy suddenly gasp at the feeling of Santana's lips on the underside of her wrist. She froze for an instant, wondering how she got here but knowing now that this was honestly the best she could do. Her silken lips filled in the hardened cracks of once-flawless skin, pointlessly determined to kiss the pain away yet encouraged by what she knew were happy tears just by the mere sound and the gentle quake in Lucy's body.
Her kisses slowly ascending the arch of Lucy's arm, Santana was overcome by a relief that only the disclosure of a suppressed secret could achieve. Before giving herself time to weigh the consequences, she pulled her mouth away from Lucy's wrist only to press it immediately against the other girl's lips, the long-ignored passion adding a rough urgency to the tender innocence of their first kiss.
Seconds later, they pulled away, only to have their focus pulled by Eva's voice calling from downstairs to tell them that it was snack and study time.
Although they filed out of the bathroom without so much as a syllable about what had just happened, their knowing glances confirmed that it wouldn't be the last time they would kiss. And while Santana had thought not long ago that what she needed most was answers, she soon realized that sometimes the most important things in life were never really questions at all.
So, funny thing about this story is that I was planning on making it a 4-chapter fic, story and chapter titles already in mind, and develop things from this point. However, when I finished writing this chapter, it felt... strangely complete? I'm always unsure whether to elaborate on fics that seem to wrap up nicely/leaving room for interpretation for the readers as to what happens next, but seeing as I'm posting this for the benefit of others, what do you guys think? Should I leave it here or continue? Neither answer will offend me, because I can see either as an option, but I would rather accommodate what you guys want/feel is best. Regardless, I do hope to hear your general thoughts via review, as they inspire me and plainly make me happy! ^_^