Fanfic | Glee | Brittany/Santana, Brittany/Artie | PG-13
Title: Before the gold and the glimmer have been replaced
Pairing: Brittany/Santana, Brittany/Artie
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~3100
Summary: A story in which Santana tries to get her girl back and also cries in her car to Dashboard Confessional
Disclaimer: None of this is mine except for the weak plot and bad grammar
AN: Someone on this one board mentioned how they’d like to see an angsty fic that included some music by DC and Santana crying to it, so I got an idea. Not a very good one, mind you, but it’ll do until I learn how to write better stories. Also, yay for my first Brittana fic! ‘Twas about time. ‘Twas about time I wrote something, anything, actually. I’m no random_flores , kiddies, but I don’t always suck, either. Here, have some angsty Brittana fluf. It’s from the heart. Title from Dashboard Confessional’s song ‘Stolen’
To me, you are perfect.
She watched Love Actually again over the Christmas holidays and, even though Jamie and Aurelia's story was always her favorite, this time she couldn't help herself tearing up at the scene where Mark shows up at Juliet's door and expresses his hidden love to her. She couldn't watch past that scene and, just as Mark said 'Enough', Santana said it to herself too and turned off her TV. She sat on her bed for a while then, looking at the cell phone next to her and contemplated sending a text to Brittany. She picked it up, started typing, changed her mind, put it down only to pick it up again, this time to call, and then changed her mind again. She huffed, tossed the phone aside and then plopped back on her bed and stared at the ceiling until the wee hours of the morning.
After the Christmas holidays were over and it was back to school as usual, Santana found herself even more distracted than she was before the holidays began.
On the other side of the choir room, the three of her schoolmates found a corner and seemed to enjoy their little party. Mike made a move, Brittany mirrored it and then they both repeated it together once more. Artie provided the rhythm with his beat boxing. Like the rest of the group didn’t exist, Santana zeroed in on the three and watched them from the doorway.
Quinn didn’t have to announce her presence - Santana could feel her standing just a step behind her back, Quinn’s eyes burning holes in the back of her scull, willing Santana to turn around by a sheer force of her mind.
Finally, Santana rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “What?” she snapped, turning to glare pointedly at Quinn.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. I can hear you thinking.”
“And what was I thinking?” Quinn’s lips stretched into a thin smile.
“What would be the next best spot on my back to stab me this time?”
Quinn’s smile grew bigger, “Wow, it’s like you’re an actual mind-reading super-villain.”
Santana tsked dismissively and turned her back again at Quinn. Her teammate didn’t read it as an end-of-conversation sign, but instead stepped closer and leaned into Santana. She could actually physically feel her personal space being violated and wondered where in all hell has Quinn found such audacity. She was a second away from murder when Quinn’s quiet words stopped her train of thought to a screeching halt.
“You should talk to her. Tell her you miss her.”
Santana’s jaw dropped and she turned again, slowly, and regarded Quinn with disbelieving eyes. “Are you for real?”
“I’m just trying to-”
Santana’s hand shot up to silence Quinn. “No! Don’t. Don’t try anything besides minding your own business.”
“It is my business if one of my Cheerios is sulking around the corridors like a kicked puppy for months now. If she’s not focused and keeps dropping people in the practice. Or sings off key in the background when I finally get a chance for a solo, or almost runs my boyfriend over in the parking lot because she’s too busy shooting daggers from her eyes at Artie instead of keeping them on the road.”
“What’s your point?” Santana squinted at her.
Quinn exhaled exasperatedly, “Just talk to her already and get it over with. Don’t make me talk to her because if I do I’ll leave out all the lovey-dovey stuff and get right to the point.”
“What lovey-dovey stuff?”
Quinn’s eyes gave her a flashing warning. “I’m serious Santana. This is becoming ridiculous.” And with that, Quinn marched past her to find her seat next to Sam.
In that corner on the other side of the room, there were only two of them now. Brittany sat on Artie’s lap while he wheeled them around in small semicircles. Left-right. Left-right. He said something to her and she giggled before her arms few around his neck and her lips landed a loud smack against his mouth. He looked so smug Santana wanted to march over there and slap that expression off his face. Instead, she rolled her eyes once again and muttered to herself, “Oh, barf!”
She could see actual terror in his eyes when she bellowed “HUMMEL!” from across the road and he stood frozen, mid-step on the stairs in front of the Dalton Academy. His eyes shifted from side to side, probably evaluating the best and fastest way for him to run, but then his expression changed when he saw her anxiously hopping on the balls of her feet and Kurt decided to walk over to her anyway. Her smile is as fake as her boobs, he thought, but he had to admit he was intrigued because finding Santana Lopez waiting for him in front of his school was a sight he never thought he’d live to see.
“Santana?” He drawled suspiciously and made sure he was standing an arm’s length from her, just to be on the safe side.
“Hi,” she smiled again and he felt a churn in the pit of the stomach. Something was definitely not right. Until, “Where’s your husband?” Santana looked over his shoulder as if trying to find another familiar face in the crowd. “Or is he your wife...? I. Don’t... Know how. That works.” She smiled smugly. Yes, that was the Santana he knew. But what did she want?
He smiled back, just as fakely. “If you mean Blaine,” she nodded, “his classes are running longer today. I’m meeting him later at the library.”
“Awesome. I’ll give you a lift.” She pointed to her car parked a little further away.
“No,” he frowned. “At the Dalton’s library. We have one here?”
“Swanky.”
“Yes. What do you want with Blaine?”
“Oh I don’t need him. I wanted to talk to you. Buddy.” She reached over to pat his arm but he shrunk away. Habit. “I didn’t want him to see us together and, you know, get the wrong impression.” She winked and Kurt made a face. “Anyway...”
“What do you want to talk to me about?”
“Hypothetically,” she began, “if there was a girl who had feelings for this other girl-”
“Is this about Brittany?”
“What’s with everyone and Brittany today?” She gaped at him, “I said hypothetically, didn’t I?”
“Yes. Fine. Hypothetically. A girl, not Brittany. Continue.” He crossed his arms.
“So. If there were these feelings-”
“Hypothetical feelings.”
“Yes,” Santana nodded, “how is this girl to come about expressing them without coming off as wimpy.”
“Because the hypothetical girl is a bad ass?”
“And head bitch in charge.”
“I see...” Kurt scratched his chin. “Has the girl tried to talk to this other girl about her hypothetical feelings?” Santana rolled her eyes. “Okay, so how about flowers?”
“I said not wimpy, Hummel.”
Kurt shrugged, “How about a song? Does the girl have a nice voice?”
Santana’s smile beamed at him, “Actually, she has a pretty damn good voice, yes.”
“So there, she should sing her a song or something.” He slapped his hands against his thighs in finality. “Hypothetically.”
“That’s still wimpy, Kurt. I thought you were supposed to be good at this gay stuff.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. If it’s love, if it’s feelings… Even the hypothetical ones,” he squeezed in before she could protest, “then maybe wimpy is not such a bad thing. It’s what love does to you; opens you up and mellows you out without making you weak.”
“Oh my god, you really are super gay.” She scrunched up her nose.
“Hey, you came to me, not the other way around.”
“Right.”
She rocked on the balls of her feet again and he just couldn’t resist, “So how is Brittany? I hear she and Artie are deeply in love.”
“Screw you, Tinkerbell.” She huffed and he grinned. “Go before you miss the parade.” She jiggled her keys and then pressed unlock.
“Anyway, you’re welcome.” He yelled after her when she was already half inside the car. “Good luck with the hypothetical thing.”
She waved at him half-heartedly and turned the key in the ignition. Automatically, the radio came on and with it Dashboard Confessional’s ‘Stolen’ filled the inside of her car. She sat for a moment, listening, and then felt her jaw tightening in that familiar way of fighting tears that threatened to come.
“Fuck this shit,” she squeezed out and turned the radio off before she shifted the gear into reverse.
“G-C-D.” Her tongue stuck out from the corner of her mouth while her fingers tried to hold down the chords. The guitar was Puck’s and too big for her, not to mention how sore the pads of her fingers have become after the entire week of pressing down strings in attempt to teach herself to play. As the weekend rolled over, the tips started to slowly callus over and it became easier to maintain a chord without wincing or cursing or forgetting the line she was singing.
“What do you need my guitar for?” Puck towered over her when she came to his door to ask for a favor.
“Are you gonna give it to me or what?”
“Can you even play?”
“I’ll learn.”
He chuckled, “Chica, it’s a skill, it’s not something you learn in a day.”
“Just give me the fucking guitar and I’ll return it to you next Monday.”
He shrugged, “What’s in it for me?”
“You don’t get smacked with the damn thing over your head?”
“You’re such a bad ass,” he smirked. “Why don’t you come inside and convince me to lend it to you?”
“Why don’t you go die in a fire?”
“Whoa! You’re feisty today, chica.”
“And yes, do call me chica one more time. I dare you.”
“Fine,” he lifted up his arms defensively. “I’ll get the guitar for you, chilax.”
She squinted and smiled at him in mock delight, “You’re the best, Puckerman.”
So by the time Friday evening came, she was somewhere in between not quite sucky and moderately bearable when it came to keeping up with the strumming the right chords while singing.
“G-C-D. G-C-D.”
With the determination she only showed in the presence of her cheerleading coach, Santana decided to skip breakfast on Saturday, lunch, dinner and then another breakfast just because she wanted to get it right.
She only sat down to have lunch on Sunday with the family because her mother threatened to take her car and her phone away from her if she didn’t get something to eat. She couldn’t hear her mother’s angry monologue when she skipped on dinner again that same day because she was on her way to Brittany’s with something important to share.
It was around nine in the evening when she finally got the courage to throw the first pebble against Brittany’s window. A moment later, the window slid up and a head with a mass of blond hair poked through.
“Santana?”
“Yeah, your back door is locked and I can’t climb up with this thing.” She lifted the guitar up. “Puck would kill me if I scratched it or something.”
“Come to the front then-”
“No. Just meet me at the back door.”
“Okay.” Brittany nodded and then disappeared inside. Soon, Santana could hear the familiar ‘click’ of the back door’s lock. “Hi.” Brittany smiled when she saw her standing there. “Will you be coming inside?”
“Hi. Yeah. Stealthily, though. I don’t want your family...” She scrunched up her nose.
“Oh okay,” Brittany ushered her inside. “Watch for the toys. My little sis leaves them everywhere.”
Santana smiled, “Yes, I know,” and then winced when she bumped the butt of the guitar against the doorjamb. “Fuck,” she hissed.
Once they were inside Brittany’s room and the other girl sat on the corner of the bed, folded up her hands in her lap and looked at her patiently but expectantly, Santana felt her palms start to sweat and her throat go dry. This is ridiculous and stupid, she thought to herself. I know Brittany almost as long as I know myself. But once she was met with those big blue eyes and Brittany’s perfect posture of a dancer even when sitting down, Santana couldn’t feel any more stupid than she already has.
“Did you wanna play something?” Brittany prompted her.
“What?” Santana croaked.
“The guitar,” Brittany nodded at the instrument in her hand, “I didn’t know you could play.”
“I don’t. I didn’t. I kinda learned this one song over the week...”
There was genuine excitement now in Brittany’s eyes, “Which one?”
“Uh.” She slowly exhaled, “Come to my window?”
Brittany’s mouth slowly opened until a small squeal came from her, “That’s my favorite!”
“I know.” Santana muttered while looking down at the tips on her shoes. “That’s why-.”
“Artie plays it for me, like, all the time!” She beamed up at Santana.
“He what?!” Santana felt herself sway on her feet.
But Brittany only nodded with her smile as big as ever, “Yes! And he even taught me to play it a little.” She arranged her left hand as if she had a guitar in her hands and positioned her fingers as if on strings, “It goes, like: G-C-”
“I know!” Santana growled, clenching one fist by her side in attempt not to lose it. She saw Brittany’s startled look and took a deep breath. “I know how it goes,” she repeated, this time softly, giving Brittany one of her kind smiles.
Careful not to bump it against anything again, Santana placed the guitar against the wardrobe, took a few steps over to Brittany’s bed and sat beside her.
“Do you love him?” She asked, genuinely.
Brittany gave a tiny shrug, “He’s nice to me.”
“I was nice to you. He treats you like a child. I never did that.”
“He’s nice in different ways.” When Santana raised her eyebrows as a request of an example Brittany offered, “I’m number one to him. He always calls me first, and I don’t have to share him with anyone.”
Santana blinked, “So you’re telling me you’ve also became monogamous now? Because of Artie?”
“He’s my boyfriend.” Brittany said matter-a-factly.
“Huh.” Santana frowned. “So if I were to, say, suggest some heavy petting or even just dry humping... You’d say no?” Brittany nodded with conviction. “Oh wow.” Santana shook her head. “I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot.”
“Oh yeah, I am.” Santana stood up and turned around herself in search of her stuff. There was only Puck’s guitar leaning against the wardrobe. “And all this time I thought you were in love with me.”
“I am.” Brittany said flatly stopping Santana dead in her tracks.
“But you just said-”
“I know what I said. And it’s the truth. Artie is my boyfriend. I’m in love with you. But that doesn’t mean I’ll cheat on him, especially since I got tired of waiting on you. Also, you kinda broke my heart.”
“What? When did I-”
“When Puck was in juvie.”
“Oh.” Santana frowned and then it dawned on her. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, so what happens now?”
“You came here to sing...”
“Oh hell, I’m not singing that song now; it’s tainted forever.”
Brittany shrugged and bit her lip. “So you’re gonna tell me you love me too?”
The words got caught in Santana’s throat; she hasn’t exactly planned on declaring her love. Besides, this thing has turned out much too complicated for her to handle in such small amount of time.
“I miss you,” she simply said instead. “I feel like he robbed me of you. And I’m not just talking about the sex either… It’s just… He doesn’t know you like I do.”
“He’s trying.”
It was too much, she decided. Enough. Enough, now, she said to herself. Santana nodded, reached for Puck’s guitar and bid Brittany good night. Her friend opened her mouth to say something but she never did. Santana hoped she would at least step outside in the hall and see her out, but when she turned at the bottom of the stairs, Brittany was nowhere in sight.
She shoved the guitar into Puck’s arms as soon as he opened the door and then wordlessly turned on her heels and walked down his driveway to her car, not hearing a word he said to her, nor did she blink when he purposely called her ‘chica’ again. He stood, confused, at his door for minutes after she drove off.
Everything was relatively fine until she pulled up to her house and then sat in her car for a moment too long and the new song came up on the radio.
“Oh for fuck sake!” she hit the steering wheel and then gripped it with both of her hands as Dashboard Confessional’s ‘Stolen’ continued playing. That time she couldn’t stop the tears.
She always hated Mondays with passion and this particular Monday was already on the list of her top hated ones. She had a bad hair day, she was too late for school to properly iron out her uniform and she couldn’t bother to put on any make up. She had already snapped at Puck first thing in the morning when he blocked her way in the hallway demanding compensation for ‘completely ruining his one prized possession’.
“It’s a fucking piece of wood, Puckerman, with some strings on it.” She barked, “How fucking prized can it be?”
The crowd in her way moved like in those best days of her shared reign with Quinn Fabray, but not because they feared her like she wanted them to, they moved out of her way because she was now the outcast, regardless of her Cheerio uniform. She was a nobody. She was unwanted. Unloved. Lonely.
Santana contemplated on ducking into one of the empty classrooms to get away from all those prying eyes, and just as she noticed a doorway to her salvation, a tug on her hand stopped her.
Brittany, with her perfect pony-tail and perfect makeup, without a wrinkle in her clothes and a peaceful smile on her face got in step with her, side by side, and fished for Santana’s pinkie finger with her own until she found it and linked them together. Santana gave her a look of surprise, which Brittany never returned but looked straight ahead with her chin up. She did, however, lean into Santana as they walked down the hall and whispered in Santana’s ear, “I’ve missed you too.”
The end
Pairing: Brittany/Santana, Brittany/Artie
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~3100
Summary: A story in which Santana tries to get her girl back and also cries in her car to Dashboard Confessional
Disclaimer: None of this is mine except for the weak plot and bad grammar
AN: Someone on this one board mentioned how they’d like to see an angsty fic that included some music by DC and Santana crying to it, so I got an idea. Not a very good one, mind you, but it’ll do until I learn how to write better stories. Also, yay for my first Brittana fic! ‘Twas about time. ‘Twas about time I wrote something, anything, actually. I’m no random_flores , kiddies, but I don’t always suck, either. Here, have some angsty Brittana fluf. It’s from the heart. Title from Dashboard Confessional’s song ‘Stolen’
To me, you are perfect.
She watched Love Actually again over the Christmas holidays and, even though Jamie and Aurelia's story was always her favorite, this time she couldn't help herself tearing up at the scene where Mark shows up at Juliet's door and expresses his hidden love to her. She couldn't watch past that scene and, just as Mark said 'Enough', Santana said it to herself too and turned off her TV. She sat on her bed for a while then, looking at the cell phone next to her and contemplated sending a text to Brittany. She picked it up, started typing, changed her mind, put it down only to pick it up again, this time to call, and then changed her mind again. She huffed, tossed the phone aside and then plopped back on her bed and stared at the ceiling until the wee hours of the morning.
After the Christmas holidays were over and it was back to school as usual, Santana found herself even more distracted than she was before the holidays began.
On the other side of the choir room, the three of her schoolmates found a corner and seemed to enjoy their little party. Mike made a move, Brittany mirrored it and then they both repeated it together once more. Artie provided the rhythm with his beat boxing. Like the rest of the group didn’t exist, Santana zeroed in on the three and watched them from the doorway.
Quinn didn’t have to announce her presence - Santana could feel her standing just a step behind her back, Quinn’s eyes burning holes in the back of her scull, willing Santana to turn around by a sheer force of her mind.
Finally, Santana rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “What?” she snapped, turning to glare pointedly at Quinn.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. I can hear you thinking.”
“And what was I thinking?” Quinn’s lips stretched into a thin smile.
“What would be the next best spot on my back to stab me this time?”
Quinn’s smile grew bigger, “Wow, it’s like you’re an actual mind-reading super-villain.”
Santana tsked dismissively and turned her back again at Quinn. Her teammate didn’t read it as an end-of-conversation sign, but instead stepped closer and leaned into Santana. She could actually physically feel her personal space being violated and wondered where in all hell has Quinn found such audacity. She was a second away from murder when Quinn’s quiet words stopped her train of thought to a screeching halt.
“You should talk to her. Tell her you miss her.”
Santana’s jaw dropped and she turned again, slowly, and regarded Quinn with disbelieving eyes. “Are you for real?”
“I’m just trying to-”
Santana’s hand shot up to silence Quinn. “No! Don’t. Don’t try anything besides minding your own business.”
“It is my business if one of my Cheerios is sulking around the corridors like a kicked puppy for months now. If she’s not focused and keeps dropping people in the practice. Or sings off key in the background when I finally get a chance for a solo, or almost runs my boyfriend over in the parking lot because she’s too busy shooting daggers from her eyes at Artie instead of keeping them on the road.”
“What’s your point?” Santana squinted at her.
Quinn exhaled exasperatedly, “Just talk to her already and get it over with. Don’t make me talk to her because if I do I’ll leave out all the lovey-dovey stuff and get right to the point.”
“What lovey-dovey stuff?”
Quinn’s eyes gave her a flashing warning. “I’m serious Santana. This is becoming ridiculous.” And with that, Quinn marched past her to find her seat next to Sam.
In that corner on the other side of the room, there were only two of them now. Brittany sat on Artie’s lap while he wheeled them around in small semicircles. Left-right. Left-right. He said something to her and she giggled before her arms few around his neck and her lips landed a loud smack against his mouth. He looked so smug Santana wanted to march over there and slap that expression off his face. Instead, she rolled her eyes once again and muttered to herself, “Oh, barf!”
She could see actual terror in his eyes when she bellowed “HUMMEL!” from across the road and he stood frozen, mid-step on the stairs in front of the Dalton Academy. His eyes shifted from side to side, probably evaluating the best and fastest way for him to run, but then his expression changed when he saw her anxiously hopping on the balls of her feet and Kurt decided to walk over to her anyway. Her smile is as fake as her boobs, he thought, but he had to admit he was intrigued because finding Santana Lopez waiting for him in front of his school was a sight he never thought he’d live to see.
“Santana?” He drawled suspiciously and made sure he was standing an arm’s length from her, just to be on the safe side.
“Hi,” she smiled again and he felt a churn in the pit of the stomach. Something was definitely not right. Until, “Where’s your husband?” Santana looked over his shoulder as if trying to find another familiar face in the crowd. “Or is he your wife...? I. Don’t... Know how. That works.” She smiled smugly. Yes, that was the Santana he knew. But what did she want?
He smiled back, just as fakely. “If you mean Blaine,” she nodded, “his classes are running longer today. I’m meeting him later at the library.”
“Awesome. I’ll give you a lift.” She pointed to her car parked a little further away.
“No,” he frowned. “At the Dalton’s library. We have one here?”
“Swanky.”
“Yes. What do you want with Blaine?”
“Oh I don’t need him. I wanted to talk to you. Buddy.” She reached over to pat his arm but he shrunk away. Habit. “I didn’t want him to see us together and, you know, get the wrong impression.” She winked and Kurt made a face. “Anyway...”
“What do you want to talk to me about?”
“Hypothetically,” she began, “if there was a girl who had feelings for this other girl-”
“Is this about Brittany?”
“What’s with everyone and Brittany today?” She gaped at him, “I said hypothetically, didn’t I?”
“Yes. Fine. Hypothetically. A girl, not Brittany. Continue.” He crossed his arms.
“So. If there were these feelings-”
“Hypothetical feelings.”
“Yes,” Santana nodded, “how is this girl to come about expressing them without coming off as wimpy.”
“Because the hypothetical girl is a bad ass?”
“And head bitch in charge.”
“I see...” Kurt scratched his chin. “Has the girl tried to talk to this other girl about her hypothetical feelings?” Santana rolled her eyes. “Okay, so how about flowers?”
“I said not wimpy, Hummel.”
Kurt shrugged, “How about a song? Does the girl have a nice voice?”
Santana’s smile beamed at him, “Actually, she has a pretty damn good voice, yes.”
“So there, she should sing her a song or something.” He slapped his hands against his thighs in finality. “Hypothetically.”
“That’s still wimpy, Kurt. I thought you were supposed to be good at this gay stuff.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. If it’s love, if it’s feelings… Even the hypothetical ones,” he squeezed in before she could protest, “then maybe wimpy is not such a bad thing. It’s what love does to you; opens you up and mellows you out without making you weak.”
“Oh my god, you really are super gay.” She scrunched up her nose.
“Hey, you came to me, not the other way around.”
“Right.”
She rocked on the balls of her feet again and he just couldn’t resist, “So how is Brittany? I hear she and Artie are deeply in love.”
“Screw you, Tinkerbell.” She huffed and he grinned. “Go before you miss the parade.” She jiggled her keys and then pressed unlock.
“Anyway, you’re welcome.” He yelled after her when she was already half inside the car. “Good luck with the hypothetical thing.”
She waved at him half-heartedly and turned the key in the ignition. Automatically, the radio came on and with it Dashboard Confessional’s ‘Stolen’ filled the inside of her car. She sat for a moment, listening, and then felt her jaw tightening in that familiar way of fighting tears that threatened to come.
“Fuck this shit,” she squeezed out and turned the radio off before she shifted the gear into reverse.
“G-C-D.” Her tongue stuck out from the corner of her mouth while her fingers tried to hold down the chords. The guitar was Puck’s and too big for her, not to mention how sore the pads of her fingers have become after the entire week of pressing down strings in attempt to teach herself to play. As the weekend rolled over, the tips started to slowly callus over and it became easier to maintain a chord without wincing or cursing or forgetting the line she was singing.
“What do you need my guitar for?” Puck towered over her when she came to his door to ask for a favor.
“Are you gonna give it to me or what?”
“Can you even play?”
“I’ll learn.”
He chuckled, “Chica, it’s a skill, it’s not something you learn in a day.”
“Just give me the fucking guitar and I’ll return it to you next Monday.”
He shrugged, “What’s in it for me?”
“You don’t get smacked with the damn thing over your head?”
“You’re such a bad ass,” he smirked. “Why don’t you come inside and convince me to lend it to you?”
“Why don’t you go die in a fire?”
“Whoa! You’re feisty today, chica.”
“And yes, do call me chica one more time. I dare you.”
“Fine,” he lifted up his arms defensively. “I’ll get the guitar for you, chilax.”
She squinted and smiled at him in mock delight, “You’re the best, Puckerman.”
So by the time Friday evening came, she was somewhere in between not quite sucky and moderately bearable when it came to keeping up with the strumming the right chords while singing.
“G-C-D. G-C-D.”
With the determination she only showed in the presence of her cheerleading coach, Santana decided to skip breakfast on Saturday, lunch, dinner and then another breakfast just because she wanted to get it right.
She only sat down to have lunch on Sunday with the family because her mother threatened to take her car and her phone away from her if she didn’t get something to eat. She couldn’t hear her mother’s angry monologue when she skipped on dinner again that same day because she was on her way to Brittany’s with something important to share.
It was around nine in the evening when she finally got the courage to throw the first pebble against Brittany’s window. A moment later, the window slid up and a head with a mass of blond hair poked through.
“Santana?”
“Yeah, your back door is locked and I can’t climb up with this thing.” She lifted the guitar up. “Puck would kill me if I scratched it or something.”
“Come to the front then-”
“No. Just meet me at the back door.”
“Okay.” Brittany nodded and then disappeared inside. Soon, Santana could hear the familiar ‘click’ of the back door’s lock. “Hi.” Brittany smiled when she saw her standing there. “Will you be coming inside?”
“Hi. Yeah. Stealthily, though. I don’t want your family...” She scrunched up her nose.
“Oh okay,” Brittany ushered her inside. “Watch for the toys. My little sis leaves them everywhere.”
Santana smiled, “Yes, I know,” and then winced when she bumped the butt of the guitar against the doorjamb. “Fuck,” she hissed.
Once they were inside Brittany’s room and the other girl sat on the corner of the bed, folded up her hands in her lap and looked at her patiently but expectantly, Santana felt her palms start to sweat and her throat go dry. This is ridiculous and stupid, she thought to herself. I know Brittany almost as long as I know myself. But once she was met with those big blue eyes and Brittany’s perfect posture of a dancer even when sitting down, Santana couldn’t feel any more stupid than she already has.
“Did you wanna play something?” Brittany prompted her.
“What?” Santana croaked.
“The guitar,” Brittany nodded at the instrument in her hand, “I didn’t know you could play.”
“I don’t. I didn’t. I kinda learned this one song over the week...”
There was genuine excitement now in Brittany’s eyes, “Which one?”
“Uh.” She slowly exhaled, “Come to my window?”
Brittany’s mouth slowly opened until a small squeal came from her, “That’s my favorite!”
“I know.” Santana muttered while looking down at the tips on her shoes. “That’s why-.”
“Artie plays it for me, like, all the time!” She beamed up at Santana.
“He what?!” Santana felt herself sway on her feet.
But Brittany only nodded with her smile as big as ever, “Yes! And he even taught me to play it a little.” She arranged her left hand as if she had a guitar in her hands and positioned her fingers as if on strings, “It goes, like: G-C-”
“I know!” Santana growled, clenching one fist by her side in attempt not to lose it. She saw Brittany’s startled look and took a deep breath. “I know how it goes,” she repeated, this time softly, giving Brittany one of her kind smiles.
Careful not to bump it against anything again, Santana placed the guitar against the wardrobe, took a few steps over to Brittany’s bed and sat beside her.
“Do you love him?” She asked, genuinely.
Brittany gave a tiny shrug, “He’s nice to me.”
“I was nice to you. He treats you like a child. I never did that.”
“He’s nice in different ways.” When Santana raised her eyebrows as a request of an example Brittany offered, “I’m number one to him. He always calls me first, and I don’t have to share him with anyone.”
Santana blinked, “So you’re telling me you’ve also became monogamous now? Because of Artie?”
“He’s my boyfriend.” Brittany said matter-a-factly.
“Huh.” Santana frowned. “So if I were to, say, suggest some heavy petting or even just dry humping... You’d say no?” Brittany nodded with conviction. “Oh wow.” Santana shook her head. “I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot.”
“Oh yeah, I am.” Santana stood up and turned around herself in search of her stuff. There was only Puck’s guitar leaning against the wardrobe. “And all this time I thought you were in love with me.”
“I am.” Brittany said flatly stopping Santana dead in her tracks.
“But you just said-”
“I know what I said. And it’s the truth. Artie is my boyfriend. I’m in love with you. But that doesn’t mean I’ll cheat on him, especially since I got tired of waiting on you. Also, you kinda broke my heart.”
“What? When did I-”
“When Puck was in juvie.”
“Oh.” Santana frowned and then it dawned on her. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, so what happens now?”
“You came here to sing...”
“Oh hell, I’m not singing that song now; it’s tainted forever.”
Brittany shrugged and bit her lip. “So you’re gonna tell me you love me too?”
The words got caught in Santana’s throat; she hasn’t exactly planned on declaring her love. Besides, this thing has turned out much too complicated for her to handle in such small amount of time.
“I miss you,” she simply said instead. “I feel like he robbed me of you. And I’m not just talking about the sex either… It’s just… He doesn’t know you like I do.”
“He’s trying.”
It was too much, she decided. Enough. Enough, now, she said to herself. Santana nodded, reached for Puck’s guitar and bid Brittany good night. Her friend opened her mouth to say something but she never did. Santana hoped she would at least step outside in the hall and see her out, but when she turned at the bottom of the stairs, Brittany was nowhere in sight.
She shoved the guitar into Puck’s arms as soon as he opened the door and then wordlessly turned on her heels and walked down his driveway to her car, not hearing a word he said to her, nor did she blink when he purposely called her ‘chica’ again. He stood, confused, at his door for minutes after she drove off.
Everything was relatively fine until she pulled up to her house and then sat in her car for a moment too long and the new song came up on the radio.
“Oh for fuck sake!” she hit the steering wheel and then gripped it with both of her hands as Dashboard Confessional’s ‘Stolen’ continued playing. That time she couldn’t stop the tears.
She always hated Mondays with passion and this particular Monday was already on the list of her top hated ones. She had a bad hair day, she was too late for school to properly iron out her uniform and she couldn’t bother to put on any make up. She had already snapped at Puck first thing in the morning when he blocked her way in the hallway demanding compensation for ‘completely ruining his one prized possession’.
“It’s a fucking piece of wood, Puckerman, with some strings on it.” She barked, “How fucking prized can it be?”
The crowd in her way moved like in those best days of her shared reign with Quinn Fabray, but not because they feared her like she wanted them to, they moved out of her way because she was now the outcast, regardless of her Cheerio uniform. She was a nobody. She was unwanted. Unloved. Lonely.
Santana contemplated on ducking into one of the empty classrooms to get away from all those prying eyes, and just as she noticed a doorway to her salvation, a tug on her hand stopped her.
Brittany, with her perfect pony-tail and perfect makeup, without a wrinkle in her clothes and a peaceful smile on her face got in step with her, side by side, and fished for Santana’s pinkie finger with her own until she found it and linked them together. Santana gave her a look of surprise, which Brittany never returned but looked straight ahead with her chin up. She did, however, lean into Santana as they walked down the hall and whispered in Santana’s ear, “I’ve missed you too.”
The end