Fic: The Unbearable Lightness of Being [1/2]
Title: The Unbearable Lightness of Being
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Santana/Brittany
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~11,400
Summary: A piece of cheap silver on her wrist doesn’t change anything.
Spoilers: through 2x16 - Original Song
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Notes: This was written because Kay is evil, and terrible, and decided to point out to everyone that Brittany takes her bracelet off after Duets and Santana doesn't. So after I cried a river of tears for about five days, I tried to fix what she broke. In a way, this is technically just another fix-it fic for Sexy, and it has a lot of similarities to the first one I wrote after the episode, but I think it's different enough to be entertaining.
--
Santana lets her jaw drop open a little bit as the ceiling starts to swim above her. She presses the back of her head into the pillow under it and tries to will the room to stop moving. Her body feels hot, and her mouth is already dry, like a prelude to the cottonmouth she knows she’ll have in the morning. That last shot of tequila Puck slid her was probably a bad idea. Whatever. Totally worth it.
The mattress dips, and Brittany slides onto the bed. Her fingers are blissfully cold as they stroke hair off of Santana’s sweaty forehead, Brittany’s mere presence comforting her more than she’d really like to admit.
“Drunk,” Santana slurs, licking at her lips. She closes her eyes, but it makes the spinning worse, so she’s forced to open them again, turning on the pillow to focus on Brittany’s concerned face.
“I know,” Brittany whispers, her hand still stroking in Santana’s hair.
“You’re not,” Santana manages to get out, squinting a little.
Shrugging, Brittany laughs softly. “I wasn’t at the party, remember?”
The room around Brittany’s face goes fuzzy, and Santana nearly laughs at the image. But she gets caught in the blue of Brittany’s eyes, the way the skin between her eyebrows is crinkled, and the noise stops short before it can escape her throat. A smile spreads across her face, and her eyes blink slowly.
Brittany licks her lips, looking at the expression on Santana’s face in confusion. “You okay?”
Santana nods a little, but the movement makes her feel worse, so she stills and smirks a little. “I’m solid,” Santana jokes.
“Are you gonna fall asleep?” Brittany’s eyes are darting over Santana’s face, like she’s searching for something, but Santana can’t figure out what.
“No,” she answers, “M’good.” It’s half lie, because her eyelids are heavy, and she wants to sleep so badly, but whenever she closes her eyes, she gets kind of nauseated.
Brittany worries her bottom lip between her teeth, and Santana feels a hint of clarity enter her brain - Brittany’s nervous about something. She wants to ask what’s wrong, but her brain feels like it’s trudging through mud right now, and by the time she gets her mouth open, Brittany’s left the bed.
She feels instantly worse for some reason, to be alone in bed again, and her hand reaches out to cover the space Brittany was occupying before, staring at it resentfully, while the sounds of rummaging come from across the room.
Then, what feels like hours later, but is probably only a few seconds, Brittany’s back, sliding on top of the sheets, and moving Santana’s arm as she lies down.
“I got something for you,” Brittany whispers, her tone sounding strangely worried. Long fingers wrap around Santana’s left forearm.
For some reason, the words get jumbled in Santana’s brain, and she can’t really figure out what they mean, but Brittany doesn’t wait for her to say anything. Next she knows, something cold is touching her wrist, and Brittany’s hands are warm where they’re touching her arm. When she gets her eyes to move down and focus on Brittany’s fingers, she watches her friend attach a small silver bracelet with a heart charm on it.
Brittany’s hands drop away from Santana’s wrist, but Santana keeps her arm raised in front of her eyes, focusing on its new addition. Blinking slowly, she watches the lights from her room flicker against the small heart, and through the haze of alcohol, she feels something flutter in her chest.
“I got one too,” Brittany says softly. A paler arm comes up against Santana’s darker one, and she sees the matching bracelet on Brittany’s wrist next to hers.
“S’pretty,” Santana manages to say, her eyes flickering a little bit. Sleep is pulling her head backwards into the pillow, and she’s having trouble fighting it.
Then, like a physical tug against her eyelids, something pricks against her consciousness, and her heart seems to realize what the bracelets mean, even if her head hasn’t caught up yet. Tears pool in her eyes, but she can’t, for the life of her, figure out why she’s starting to cry. Alcohol, she tells herself. Alcohol tends to make her weepy, but she’s only sixteen, and she’s got five years to nip that bad habit in the bud so she doesn’t embarrass herself once she can drink in public.
Her arm drops to the mattress, Brittany’s following, but before she can bring her hand back up and wipe at the tears on her cheeks, Brittany’s lips are brushing against the skin there.
“You like it?” Brittany asks, pulling away to look Santana in the eyes.
She’s able to nod without feeling like she’s going to vomit, and even smiles a little, but she can’t seem to keep her eyes open anymore, and the room is starting to finally still.
Brittany’s hands are back in her hair, and she’s scooting closer, pulling Santana’s body into her own, and murmuring something Santana can’t quite make out into the skin of her forehead. It’s a comfortable, warm feeling, and even though Santana’s dreading the hangover she’ll have in the morning, she looks forward to having Brittany there when she wakes up.
She falls asleep, head pressed against Brittany’s shoulder, and the feel of a smile against her head.
--
Everything hurts. Her head is pounding, the urge to retch is swirling in her stomach, and her throat burns like she spent last night screaming and chain smoking. Eyes closed against her headache, she frantically searches her memory of the night before just to make sure that isn’t the case.
That’s when she remembers the party, the way-too-many shots of tequila, and the part where Brittany practically carried her home and put her to bed. She cracks an eye open to find sheets empty next to her, but they’re tousled and twisted with the lingering memory of Brittany’s body. They’re still a little warm to the touch, and she breathes a sigh of relief when the door cracks open and Brittany walks in. She really hates being hungover alone.
Brittany smiles, striding over to perch on the edge of the bed and look down at Santana. “Morning,” she murmurs.
“Hi,” Santana croaks, observing Brittany through the narrow slits of her squinting eyes. She walks her hand across the sheets and waits for Brittany to take it, tangling their fingers together.
“Water?” Brittany asks.
Santana closes her eyes, and hums in agreement. Squeezing her hand, Brittany stands up and walks back to the door, leaving Santana alone once again.
Her cheek is pressed against her pillow, but she shifts up on her elbow a little bit to turn it over, sighing when her skin hits cool sheets. She splays her hand over the mattress next to her, and blinks her eyes open a little, yawning.
She must fall asleep, because the next thing she’s aware of is Brittany sitting back down next to her, glass of water in her hand.
“Sorry it took so long,” Brittany says sheepishly. “I forgot where water comes from.”
Sitting up, Santana restrains herself from rolling her eyes at her best friend only because she’s hungover, and Brittany’s handing her water, and smiling at her softly, and she’s embarrassingly grateful to have someone there to take care of her.
She sits up against her headboard and reaches out for the glass in Brittany’s hand when she suddenly notices a new weight on her left arm. Her stomach flips over uncomfortably as the memory comes rushing back, and she locks eyes with Brittany, her hand hovering in the air around the glass of water.
Blue eyes widen, but Brittany doesn’t say anything, just glances quickly to Santana’s new bracelet before looking to her own wrist. Santana follows her gaze to see a matching bracelet there. It feels like her heart stutters for a second, as she puts everything together.
There’s this look on Brittany’s face like fear, and Santana gets a sinking feeling in her gut.
“Friendship bracelets,” Brittany whispers, her voice breaking a little.
Santana swallows thickly and tries to ignore how much the silver heart on her wrist doesn’t feel like a friendship bracelet. A friendship bracelet doesn’t remind her of the way Brittany’s lips feel against hers or what color blue Brittany’s eyes are when she’s turned on. It doesn’t make her think of all the things she shouldn’t know about her best friend. Like how Brittany likes it on top when she’s drunk or on the bottom when she’s sober.
There are too many feelings in the room right now, and her head already hurts; she just wants to drink the glass of water she’s being offered and watch cartoons with her best friend.
“Cool,” she mumbles, looking away. She grabs the glass from Brittany, their fingers touch for the briefest of seconds, but it sends warmth straight up Santana’s arm. She nearly fumbles the glass but recovers quickly.
Gulping the water, she’s happy she ultimately manages to not throw any of it back up. Brittany breathes this deep sigh of relief and moves up on the bed to lie between the wall and Santana.
It’s just like any other morning after. Santana moves down on the bed, and lets Brittany press into her from behind. A strong arm slides over her side, and a warm palm rests against her abs, soothing her churning stomach nearly instantly. Brittany’s chest presses against her back, and her breath ghosts across Santana’s neck.
The little TV that sits on a chair across the room clicks on, and Brittany keeps the remote raised in front of her as she adjusts the volume so it’s not too loud. She giggles quietly into Santana’s shoulder at whatever the animated characters are doing on screen, but Santana just closes her eyes and hopes her headache goes away.
But then Brittany shifts just a little, and the bracelet her friend has on slides against Santana’s stomach. Santana’s eyes fly open, and it takes her nearly to the end of whatever show is playing on TV to stop her heart from beating so fast.
--
A piece of cheap silver on her wrist doesn’t change anything. Or so Santana tells herself. At the end of the day, Brittany and her are just friends. Sex isn’t dating, and despite this voice in the back of her head that tells her she’s fooling herself, Santana likes their arrangement. It’s simple and clean.
So when she takes her bracelet off before she sees Puck next, she tells herself it’s only because it can get kind of rough with Puck sometimes. Just because the bracelet isn’t, like, significant or whatever, doesn’t mean she doesn’t like it. The last thing she’d want is for Puck to break it in a sex frenzy or something.
It doesn’t mean anything, even though Santana can’t fight how wrong it feels to take it off. She wonders if this is the way people feel about a wedding ring, sliding it off their finger before they cheat. Except it holds nothing near the significance of a wedding ring, and Brittany’s not her wife, and she’s not cheating.
It doesn’t mean anything, but for whatever reason, Santana misses it when it’s not there. It’s absurd, but when she takes it off, it seems to be all she can think about. Puck’s hovering above her, heavy between her thighs, and grunting hot breath over her face, but all she can think about is a stupid heart shaped charm sitting on her dresser at home.
Seeming to notice her lack of attention, Puck stills and gives her a confused look. It only takes a smirk, and a well-placed scratch of her nails to get him to start up again, but she vows to do something about her distraction in the future.
She figures the best thing, overall, is to just not take the damn thing off.
--
Brittany picks up this weird habit of playing with the thing while they’re in class, or glee, or just next to each other in random places. Pressed close to Santana, she’ll run her fingers over the chain, and flick her nail against the small heart.
Santana finds herself touching it too, without evening thinking about it - a subconscious habit that’d she try to stop if she were more aware of it happening. Brittany will do something particularly adorable that day, or, for reasons far beyond Santana’s understanding, a sudden wave of affection for her best friend will overwhelm her, and she’ll just need to touch it.
Brittany will be across a room, dancing with Mike, or laughing with Finn, and Santana will have trouble tearing her eyes away. Her fingers will twist the bracelet around her wrist, and when Brittany catches her gaze, Santana feels her cheeks flush a little. She’ll smile softly, and look away, but it will take her longer to stop playing with the heart hanging off her arm.
The worst is in bed, when Santana’s reminded just how much she and Brittany aren’t friends. Brittany has her hand down Santana’s pants, fingers stroking far too knowingly. Brittany’s lips hover above her own, teasing in a way that always makes Santana crazy. Licking her lips, Santana brings her hand up to grip Brittany’s neck and eliminate the space between them, but Brittany catches her hand, and brings it back down to the pillow next to her head, interlacing their fingers.
Brittany smirks, pressing harder with her hips, and sliding her fingers deeper into hot flesh. The breath gets ripped straight out of Santana’s chest, and as her orgasm starts to build at the base of her spine, tightening and twisting, she feels Brittany’s bracelet hit her wrist, snug against the hand holding hers to the pillow.
It’s a sharp, quick reminder, of who exactly is on top of her, whose fingers are so skillfully pulling hot, tight pleasure out of her, and it only quickens desire in the pit of Santana’s stomach.
Later, when she’s finally caught her breath again and Brittany’s tucked into her side, leg wrapped around one of Santana’s, Brittany plays with the charm on Santana’s wrist the same way she does most of the day. She runs her thumb over the surface, flicks it back and forth, or twists it around Santana’s wrist.
Santana sees the look Brittany gets on her face - this soft smile, eyes distant like she’s thinking about something far away - but she does her best not to read too much into it.
The bracelet gets heavier and heavier on her wrist the more she sees that look on Brittany’s face, and even though it’s been nearly a year since Brittany first gave it to her, the feeling she gets when she looks at it hasn’t changed.
She makes sure to fuck Puck even harder the next time she sees him. In a moment of desperation, she blows Matt at some party they’re at the weekend after that and feels a little more comfortable with the weight hanging off her wrist afterward.
Brittany stares at her curiously when she rejoins the party, rearranging her hair, lips swollen, and her latest activities written all over her face, she’s sure. Santana considers going over there for a second, guilt spiking quickly in her chest, but Puck is hollering from across the room where he’s practically leaning all over Mike, and she tears her gaze from Brittany and heads that way.
Puck hands her a cup of some fruity concoction he’s spent all night making, and Mike starts to tell her this story, barely able to the get the words out around laughter, but Santana feels Brittany’s eyes on her the entire time. Matt joins them a few minutes later, and any satisfaction she might have felt earlier bleeds out of her.
When she finally gives in and looks back over, Brittany’s on the couch talking to Finn, but Santana can tell she’s uncomfortable about something. Her leg is bouncing up and down nervously, and her fingers are absently toying with the bracelet on her wrist.
Santana bites her lip, turns back to her drink, and forces herself to believe that it doesn’t mean anything.
--
Santana’s not an idiot. Maybe she’s not going to be deemed valedictorian anytime soon, but she wasn’t born yesterday either.
So, when Brittany mentions singing a duet together, a super gay duet together, she knows what’s really happening. The silver at her wrist feels like it’s burning into her skin, and her stomach tightens up. The bitter taste of adrenaline pools on the back of her tongue, and she’s talking in reflex before she can even think about it.
Sleeping with her best friend is one thing. Publicly declaring their gay love or whatever, is an entirely different matter.
“And second of all,” Santana hears herself saying as she sits up. “I’m not making out with you because I’m in love with you and want to sing about making lady babies.”
It’s harsh. Probably too harsh to say to Brittany of all people, but Santana’s instincts have never really been good at taking other people’s feelings into consideration, even feelings she actually kind of cares about. Brittany’s pouting behind her, she’s sure, but she doesn’t dare look.
Days later she’ll kick herself for not looking. If she had been thinking, if she could go back and do this moment over again, she would have done something to placate Brittany like she usually does. She would have made something up about how they can totally sing later in Santana’s bedroom, or how she’ll sing a duet with Brittany next year. Anything to wipe the look off of Brittany’s face, and stop the way that this one stupid insignificant moment somehow changes everything.
But Santana isn’t thinking of the consequences. She’s thinking of the bracelet on her wrist, and the burning desire to get as far away from Brittany as possible. Her heart feels extra heavy in her chest, and she just wants to feel something else. The only way to do that, Santana’s sure, is to run away.
The idea that this moment would be somehow significant to her life never occurs to Santana. It’s why the next day, when she watches Brittany push Artie down the hallway with a look of resentment on her face, she’s nearly shocked into inaction.
It’s okay though, because Santana’s always been pretty good at cleaning up her messes. If Artie Abrams thinks he’s going to suddenly be a part of Brittany’s life just because Santana messed up, and through no effort of his own, well, he’s got another thing coming.
Taking care of Artie is embarrassingly easy. If there’s one thing Santana never fails at, it’s pushing people off a ledge. Figuratively, of course.
So, after giving Artie the “sorry, Brittany doesn’t love you and never will” talk, though not in so many words, she’s pretty convinced that the situation is taken care of. Brittany’s pinky is back to being wrapped around her own later that day, and they go back to sitting next to each other in glee, but Santana can’t deny the way something feels different. Like there’s this shadow creeping up behind her, waiting for the right moment to devour her. She can’t help but feel like maybe it’s not over yet.
And, lo and behold, a few days later, she realizes it’s not.
--
“You’re dating Artie?” She’d say that she doesn’t mean to wrap his name in a tone of disgust, but she’d be lying. Seriously. Artie? She’s so shocked, she can’t even come up with a good, insulting nickname for him.
Brittany just nods, but her eyes can’t quite meet Santana’s. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
This time, Brittany does look at her, eyes a piercing blue. “Why not?”
There’s a challenge in the way Brittany says the words, and Santana nearly flinches away, but she keeps a straight face despite instinct. “It’s a little below us,” Santana responds, eyebrow raised.
“Us,” Brittany says, her voice soft but harder than Santana’s ever heard it, “isn’t dating him. I am.”
It’s never been like that. It’s always been the two of them fused together, like one unit, their failures and successes equally shared. If Brittany takes a social nosedive, Santana gets dragged down with her. It’s been a silent understanding between them since they were kids. Hell, they’ve dated the same guys together, broke up with them together, done everything together.
She refuses to let her hurt show, despite the urge to cry burning at the back of her eyes. “Right,” she bites out, crossing her arms over her chest. “Your funeral then.”
Brittany turns confused eyes her way. “No, it’s a wedding,” she corrects. “And it’s not really mine, it’s Kurt’s, I think. I guess it’s kind of Finn’s too.”
Santana doesn’t really know what to say to that. “That’s not what I...” She drifts off, shaking her head exasperatedly. “You know what, never mind. Fine.”
They stare at each other for a moment longer, Santana not wanting to be the one to walk away first, but her feet disobey her heart, and when she turns on her heel and walks away, the scene feels way too familiar.
--
She actually manages to forget that Brittany’s dating Artie. Okay maybe that’s exaggerating a little, but aside from having to watch Brittany wheel him around and hold his hand in glee, it doesn’t seem like much more changes.
Brittany still locks her pinky around Santana’s, and she still smirks at her when they’re all dancing together, and after Cheerio’s practice, Brittany still uses long, strong fingers to dig the knots out of Santana’s back.
It gets to the point where Santana starts to believe that nothing has changed. The idea starts to soothe an ache deep inside her, and she feels her breath start to come easier.
They’re at Santana’s house, sprawled across the living room couch, watching a rerun of Jersey Shore when she finally gets a taste of the threat Artie poses to her life. Brittany’s laughing hysterically at the TV, and the sound of it makes Santana smile, feeling suddenly comfortable. She pushes back into the cushions and slides down a little, her feet propped up on the coffee table.
The show ends, Brittany’s laughter tapering off as she turns to look at Santana, cheek resting against the couch cushion. “What do you want to do now?”
It’s probably not supposed to be suggestive, but this is Brittany, and Santana’s only ever really had one answer to that question. She doesn’t say anything, just moves a little closer, eyes flickering down to Brittany’s mouth before closing the gap between them and pressing their lips together.
Brittany kisses her back for a second, before squeaking in indignation and pulling back abruptly, hand flying to her mouth. Santana’s eyes go wide in surprise.
“We can’t!” Brittany exclaims, guilt shadowing her face.
Santana furrows her brow, confusion and anger at being rebuffed mixing in her expression. “What, why not?”
“I’m dating Artie,” Brittany explains, but Santana sees the way Brittany licks her lips a little, gaze roaming down to Santana’s mouth.
“So?”
“So that’s cheating,” Brittany whispers, like she’s afraid someone is going to overhear them. “I’m dating Artie,” she repeats. “It’s cheating.”
Santana moves away, flopping back against the couch and sighing exasperatedly. “Oh my God, you have got to be kidding me.”
“I can’t cheat on Artie,” Brittany says, leaning a little closer.
“Stop saying his name,” Santana grinds out. She stares at the ceiling, blowing out a deep breath against the sudden urge to cry.
“I’m sorry,” Brittany says. “You’re my best friend, but it’s cheating.”
“It’s not cheating,” Santana suddenly blurts out, frustrated.
Brittany’s silent, but when Santana looks over, her expression is open and curious, and Santana just keeps talking before she can stop herself. “I’m a girl,” Santana clarifies. “I’m a girl so it’s not cheating.”
“Really?”
Santana nods solemnly. “It’s not cheating if the plumbing’s different.”
Skepticism crosses Brittany’s face, and Santana’s sure her friend is going to call bullshit on this one, but then something sadder takes hold of Brittany’s expression, and the air in the room suddenly goes thick and heavy.
Brittany reaches her hand out and strokes hair off of Santana’s forehead, fingers brushing lightly against her skin. Santana swallows thickly.
“Good,” Brittany whispers, but her expression looks anything but happy, “I don’t really want to stop kissing you.”
Brittany crosses the space between them this time, fingers sliding through Santana’s hair. She presses Santana into the couch and smiles softly in between kisses.
An hour later, after they finally make it to Santana’s bedroom, and they’re tangled, naked, in Santana’s bedsheets, Santana gasps for breath and wonders when exactly Brittany got so good at this.
Brittany crawls back up Santana’s body and smiles knowingly as she puts her head down on the pillow. Santana laughs a little, still trying to catch her breath. She feels lighter than air, happy, and free all at once, and she wonders if it would be possible to just never leave this bed.
Brittany shifts a little closer and runs her fingers down Santana’s arm, stopping to play with the bracelet on the wrist there. It’s all totally normal, and for a second Santana thinks maybe she imagined the part where Brittany was dating Artie and everything felt wrong. Maybe it was just a bad nightmare, and she’s finally waking up.
But then, a supremely guilty look shadows Brittany’s face, and before Santana can say anything, her friend is jumping up and out of bed, reaching for her discarded clothing, and pulling it back on.
Holding the bedsheets against her chest, Santana sits up a little. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve gotta go,” Brittany says, tugging a shirt over her head. A mess of blonde hair falls over her shoulders when she finally gets it on, and Santana nearly loses her breath all over again.
“What, where?”
“I just uh,” Brittany pauses for a second, staring at Santana with wide eyes, “I just have to go.”
“Britt,” Santana pleads softly, sudden understanding flooding over her. The metal against her wrist feels suddenly cold and uncomfortable.
Fully dressed, Brittany steps closer to the bed and kisses Santana hard. “Bye,” Brittany whispers. She’s out the door before Santana can even think to say anything else.
Flopping back down into bed, Santana swallows dryly.
--
She notices it accidentally. They’re walking down the hallway together, because despite all this sudden awkwardness that floats around them, Santana doesn’t really know how to function any differently. She steps into line with Brittany as naturally as breathing.
Only, this time Santana’s so hyper aware of Brittany next to her that she can barely put one foot in front of the other. Brittany glances at her, for just a second, and Santana completely misjudges the space between the floor and her toe.
It’s when she grabs for Brittany’s arm to keep herself steady, fingers wrapping around warm skin, that she notices anything is wrong. Her hand slides all the way down Brittany’s forearm to grip at her wrist, and when she feels nothing but bare skin under her palm where there should be metal, she nearly trips again. Her heart twists uncomfortably, and for a second she can’t breathe.
She straightens up and lets go of Brittany’s wrist like it’s scalding hot, swallowing hard. It feels like everyone is staring at her, even though it’s probably not true.
Despite being unable to think about anything but the way Brittany’s wrist looks like without her bracelet, Santana manages to shake it off and smile a little. She needs to get out of the hallway though, because her cheeks are burning with embarrassment, and she feels like her world just tilted to the side, threatening to topple her.
“Forgot something in my locker,” she croaks, hating the way her voice sounds. She struggles to control it. “I’ll catch up later.”
Brittany tilts her head to the side, confused. She moves an inch closer, the motion probably unnoticeable to anyone that isn’t Santana, but Brittany pulls back quickly, swallowing visibly and nodding. “Okay,” she says softly.
This time, Brittany turns and walks away first, Santana watching her retreat for just a second before moving.
--
She tries desperately to ignore the way it makes her feel, her chest tight, and her left arm heavy, but she can’t stop the way her eyes travel to Brittany’s bare wrist every time they’re together.
Out of spite more than anything, Santana tries to take the bracelet off, but the stupid thing won’t come off her wrist. Alone in her room, she struggles with the clasp, tears of frustration obscuring her vision a little.
It finally unclasps, falling off her wrist and into her palm. She stares at it for just a second before chucking it violently against the far wall. It’s too much for her to handle. Her wrist feels too cold immediately, and she feels off-balance, her arm feeling too light all of a sudden.
She thinks about putting it back on, if only to alleviate the empty feeling curling in her gut, but she restrains herself, settles for picking it up off the floor and setting it back on her dresser.
It’s dark in her room, but she can still see the bracelet as if it were a beacon of light across the room. It glares at her all hours of the day and night, and it’s almost ridiculous how obsessive she’s become about the thing. The cracking feeling in her chest keeps her awake at night, and in a few dark moments, she considers throwing the thing in the garbage just to feel something different. She wishes metal could burn. Maybe she could run over it with her car.
When she goes to school in the morning, she stops in the doorway before leaving her room. Her wrist feels naked, and even though she doesn’t want to put the bracelet back on, she doesn’t think she can go through school without it. She grabs it from her dresser and stuffs it into her pocket.
It practically burns a hole in Santana’s pocket the entire day, but there’s something comfortable about the burn.
Part Two
Fandom: Glee
Pairing: Santana/Brittany
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~11,400
Summary: A piece of cheap silver on her wrist doesn’t change anything.
Spoilers: through 2x16 - Original Song
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.
Notes: This was written because Kay is evil, and terrible, and decided to point out to everyone that Brittany takes her bracelet off after Duets and Santana doesn't. So after I cried a river of tears for about five days, I tried to fix what she broke. In a way, this is technically just another fix-it fic for Sexy, and it has a lot of similarities to the first one I wrote after the episode, but I think it's different enough to be entertaining.
--
Santana lets her jaw drop open a little bit as the ceiling starts to swim above her. She presses the back of her head into the pillow under it and tries to will the room to stop moving. Her body feels hot, and her mouth is already dry, like a prelude to the cottonmouth she knows she’ll have in the morning. That last shot of tequila Puck slid her was probably a bad idea. Whatever. Totally worth it.
The mattress dips, and Brittany slides onto the bed. Her fingers are blissfully cold as they stroke hair off of Santana’s sweaty forehead, Brittany’s mere presence comforting her more than she’d really like to admit.
“Drunk,” Santana slurs, licking at her lips. She closes her eyes, but it makes the spinning worse, so she’s forced to open them again, turning on the pillow to focus on Brittany’s concerned face.
“I know,” Brittany whispers, her hand still stroking in Santana’s hair.
“You’re not,” Santana manages to get out, squinting a little.
Shrugging, Brittany laughs softly. “I wasn’t at the party, remember?”
The room around Brittany’s face goes fuzzy, and Santana nearly laughs at the image. But she gets caught in the blue of Brittany’s eyes, the way the skin between her eyebrows is crinkled, and the noise stops short before it can escape her throat. A smile spreads across her face, and her eyes blink slowly.
Brittany licks her lips, looking at the expression on Santana’s face in confusion. “You okay?”
Santana nods a little, but the movement makes her feel worse, so she stills and smirks a little. “I’m solid,” Santana jokes.
“Are you gonna fall asleep?” Brittany’s eyes are darting over Santana’s face, like she’s searching for something, but Santana can’t figure out what.
“No,” she answers, “M’good.” It’s half lie, because her eyelids are heavy, and she wants to sleep so badly, but whenever she closes her eyes, she gets kind of nauseated.
Brittany worries her bottom lip between her teeth, and Santana feels a hint of clarity enter her brain - Brittany’s nervous about something. She wants to ask what’s wrong, but her brain feels like it’s trudging through mud right now, and by the time she gets her mouth open, Brittany’s left the bed.
She feels instantly worse for some reason, to be alone in bed again, and her hand reaches out to cover the space Brittany was occupying before, staring at it resentfully, while the sounds of rummaging come from across the room.
Then, what feels like hours later, but is probably only a few seconds, Brittany’s back, sliding on top of the sheets, and moving Santana’s arm as she lies down.
“I got something for you,” Brittany whispers, her tone sounding strangely worried. Long fingers wrap around Santana’s left forearm.
For some reason, the words get jumbled in Santana’s brain, and she can’t really figure out what they mean, but Brittany doesn’t wait for her to say anything. Next she knows, something cold is touching her wrist, and Brittany’s hands are warm where they’re touching her arm. When she gets her eyes to move down and focus on Brittany’s fingers, she watches her friend attach a small silver bracelet with a heart charm on it.
Brittany’s hands drop away from Santana’s wrist, but Santana keeps her arm raised in front of her eyes, focusing on its new addition. Blinking slowly, she watches the lights from her room flicker against the small heart, and through the haze of alcohol, she feels something flutter in her chest.
“I got one too,” Brittany says softly. A paler arm comes up against Santana’s darker one, and she sees the matching bracelet on Brittany’s wrist next to hers.
“S’pretty,” Santana manages to say, her eyes flickering a little bit. Sleep is pulling her head backwards into the pillow, and she’s having trouble fighting it.
Then, like a physical tug against her eyelids, something pricks against her consciousness, and her heart seems to realize what the bracelets mean, even if her head hasn’t caught up yet. Tears pool in her eyes, but she can’t, for the life of her, figure out why she’s starting to cry. Alcohol, she tells herself. Alcohol tends to make her weepy, but she’s only sixteen, and she’s got five years to nip that bad habit in the bud so she doesn’t embarrass herself once she can drink in public.
Her arm drops to the mattress, Brittany’s following, but before she can bring her hand back up and wipe at the tears on her cheeks, Brittany’s lips are brushing against the skin there.
“You like it?” Brittany asks, pulling away to look Santana in the eyes.
She’s able to nod without feeling like she’s going to vomit, and even smiles a little, but she can’t seem to keep her eyes open anymore, and the room is starting to finally still.
Brittany’s hands are back in her hair, and she’s scooting closer, pulling Santana’s body into her own, and murmuring something Santana can’t quite make out into the skin of her forehead. It’s a comfortable, warm feeling, and even though Santana’s dreading the hangover she’ll have in the morning, she looks forward to having Brittany there when she wakes up.
She falls asleep, head pressed against Brittany’s shoulder, and the feel of a smile against her head.
--
Everything hurts. Her head is pounding, the urge to retch is swirling in her stomach, and her throat burns like she spent last night screaming and chain smoking. Eyes closed against her headache, she frantically searches her memory of the night before just to make sure that isn’t the case.
That’s when she remembers the party, the way-too-many shots of tequila, and the part where Brittany practically carried her home and put her to bed. She cracks an eye open to find sheets empty next to her, but they’re tousled and twisted with the lingering memory of Brittany’s body. They’re still a little warm to the touch, and she breathes a sigh of relief when the door cracks open and Brittany walks in. She really hates being hungover alone.
Brittany smiles, striding over to perch on the edge of the bed and look down at Santana. “Morning,” she murmurs.
“Hi,” Santana croaks, observing Brittany through the narrow slits of her squinting eyes. She walks her hand across the sheets and waits for Brittany to take it, tangling their fingers together.
“Water?” Brittany asks.
Santana closes her eyes, and hums in agreement. Squeezing her hand, Brittany stands up and walks back to the door, leaving Santana alone once again.
Her cheek is pressed against her pillow, but she shifts up on her elbow a little bit to turn it over, sighing when her skin hits cool sheets. She splays her hand over the mattress next to her, and blinks her eyes open a little, yawning.
She must fall asleep, because the next thing she’s aware of is Brittany sitting back down next to her, glass of water in her hand.
“Sorry it took so long,” Brittany says sheepishly. “I forgot where water comes from.”
Sitting up, Santana restrains herself from rolling her eyes at her best friend only because she’s hungover, and Brittany’s handing her water, and smiling at her softly, and she’s embarrassingly grateful to have someone there to take care of her.
She sits up against her headboard and reaches out for the glass in Brittany’s hand when she suddenly notices a new weight on her left arm. Her stomach flips over uncomfortably as the memory comes rushing back, and she locks eyes with Brittany, her hand hovering in the air around the glass of water.
Blue eyes widen, but Brittany doesn’t say anything, just glances quickly to Santana’s new bracelet before looking to her own wrist. Santana follows her gaze to see a matching bracelet there. It feels like her heart stutters for a second, as she puts everything together.
There’s this look on Brittany’s face like fear, and Santana gets a sinking feeling in her gut.
“Friendship bracelets,” Brittany whispers, her voice breaking a little.
Santana swallows thickly and tries to ignore how much the silver heart on her wrist doesn’t feel like a friendship bracelet. A friendship bracelet doesn’t remind her of the way Brittany’s lips feel against hers or what color blue Brittany’s eyes are when she’s turned on. It doesn’t make her think of all the things she shouldn’t know about her best friend. Like how Brittany likes it on top when she’s drunk or on the bottom when she’s sober.
There are too many feelings in the room right now, and her head already hurts; she just wants to drink the glass of water she’s being offered and watch cartoons with her best friend.
“Cool,” she mumbles, looking away. She grabs the glass from Brittany, their fingers touch for the briefest of seconds, but it sends warmth straight up Santana’s arm. She nearly fumbles the glass but recovers quickly.
Gulping the water, she’s happy she ultimately manages to not throw any of it back up. Brittany breathes this deep sigh of relief and moves up on the bed to lie between the wall and Santana.
It’s just like any other morning after. Santana moves down on the bed, and lets Brittany press into her from behind. A strong arm slides over her side, and a warm palm rests against her abs, soothing her churning stomach nearly instantly. Brittany’s chest presses against her back, and her breath ghosts across Santana’s neck.
The little TV that sits on a chair across the room clicks on, and Brittany keeps the remote raised in front of her as she adjusts the volume so it’s not too loud. She giggles quietly into Santana’s shoulder at whatever the animated characters are doing on screen, but Santana just closes her eyes and hopes her headache goes away.
But then Brittany shifts just a little, and the bracelet her friend has on slides against Santana’s stomach. Santana’s eyes fly open, and it takes her nearly to the end of whatever show is playing on TV to stop her heart from beating so fast.
--
A piece of cheap silver on her wrist doesn’t change anything. Or so Santana tells herself. At the end of the day, Brittany and her are just friends. Sex isn’t dating, and despite this voice in the back of her head that tells her she’s fooling herself, Santana likes their arrangement. It’s simple and clean.
So when she takes her bracelet off before she sees Puck next, she tells herself it’s only because it can get kind of rough with Puck sometimes. Just because the bracelet isn’t, like, significant or whatever, doesn’t mean she doesn’t like it. The last thing she’d want is for Puck to break it in a sex frenzy or something.
It doesn’t mean anything, even though Santana can’t fight how wrong it feels to take it off. She wonders if this is the way people feel about a wedding ring, sliding it off their finger before they cheat. Except it holds nothing near the significance of a wedding ring, and Brittany’s not her wife, and she’s not cheating.
It doesn’t mean anything, but for whatever reason, Santana misses it when it’s not there. It’s absurd, but when she takes it off, it seems to be all she can think about. Puck’s hovering above her, heavy between her thighs, and grunting hot breath over her face, but all she can think about is a stupid heart shaped charm sitting on her dresser at home.
Seeming to notice her lack of attention, Puck stills and gives her a confused look. It only takes a smirk, and a well-placed scratch of her nails to get him to start up again, but she vows to do something about her distraction in the future.
She figures the best thing, overall, is to just not take the damn thing off.
--
Brittany picks up this weird habit of playing with the thing while they’re in class, or glee, or just next to each other in random places. Pressed close to Santana, she’ll run her fingers over the chain, and flick her nail against the small heart.
Santana finds herself touching it too, without evening thinking about it - a subconscious habit that’d she try to stop if she were more aware of it happening. Brittany will do something particularly adorable that day, or, for reasons far beyond Santana’s understanding, a sudden wave of affection for her best friend will overwhelm her, and she’ll just need to touch it.
Brittany will be across a room, dancing with Mike, or laughing with Finn, and Santana will have trouble tearing her eyes away. Her fingers will twist the bracelet around her wrist, and when Brittany catches her gaze, Santana feels her cheeks flush a little. She’ll smile softly, and look away, but it will take her longer to stop playing with the heart hanging off her arm.
The worst is in bed, when Santana’s reminded just how much she and Brittany aren’t friends. Brittany has her hand down Santana’s pants, fingers stroking far too knowingly. Brittany’s lips hover above her own, teasing in a way that always makes Santana crazy. Licking her lips, Santana brings her hand up to grip Brittany’s neck and eliminate the space between them, but Brittany catches her hand, and brings it back down to the pillow next to her head, interlacing their fingers.
Brittany smirks, pressing harder with her hips, and sliding her fingers deeper into hot flesh. The breath gets ripped straight out of Santana’s chest, and as her orgasm starts to build at the base of her spine, tightening and twisting, she feels Brittany’s bracelet hit her wrist, snug against the hand holding hers to the pillow.
It’s a sharp, quick reminder, of who exactly is on top of her, whose fingers are so skillfully pulling hot, tight pleasure out of her, and it only quickens desire in the pit of Santana’s stomach.
Later, when she’s finally caught her breath again and Brittany’s tucked into her side, leg wrapped around one of Santana’s, Brittany plays with the charm on Santana’s wrist the same way she does most of the day. She runs her thumb over the surface, flicks it back and forth, or twists it around Santana’s wrist.
Santana sees the look Brittany gets on her face - this soft smile, eyes distant like she’s thinking about something far away - but she does her best not to read too much into it.
The bracelet gets heavier and heavier on her wrist the more she sees that look on Brittany’s face, and even though it’s been nearly a year since Brittany first gave it to her, the feeling she gets when she looks at it hasn’t changed.
She makes sure to fuck Puck even harder the next time she sees him. In a moment of desperation, she blows Matt at some party they’re at the weekend after that and feels a little more comfortable with the weight hanging off her wrist afterward.
Brittany stares at her curiously when she rejoins the party, rearranging her hair, lips swollen, and her latest activities written all over her face, she’s sure. Santana considers going over there for a second, guilt spiking quickly in her chest, but Puck is hollering from across the room where he’s practically leaning all over Mike, and she tears her gaze from Brittany and heads that way.
Puck hands her a cup of some fruity concoction he’s spent all night making, and Mike starts to tell her this story, barely able to the get the words out around laughter, but Santana feels Brittany’s eyes on her the entire time. Matt joins them a few minutes later, and any satisfaction she might have felt earlier bleeds out of her.
When she finally gives in and looks back over, Brittany’s on the couch talking to Finn, but Santana can tell she’s uncomfortable about something. Her leg is bouncing up and down nervously, and her fingers are absently toying with the bracelet on her wrist.
Santana bites her lip, turns back to her drink, and forces herself to believe that it doesn’t mean anything.
--
Santana’s not an idiot. Maybe she’s not going to be deemed valedictorian anytime soon, but she wasn’t born yesterday either.
So, when Brittany mentions singing a duet together, a super gay duet together, she knows what’s really happening. The silver at her wrist feels like it’s burning into her skin, and her stomach tightens up. The bitter taste of adrenaline pools on the back of her tongue, and she’s talking in reflex before she can even think about it.
Sleeping with her best friend is one thing. Publicly declaring their gay love or whatever, is an entirely different matter.
“And second of all,” Santana hears herself saying as she sits up. “I’m not making out with you because I’m in love with you and want to sing about making lady babies.”
It’s harsh. Probably too harsh to say to Brittany of all people, but Santana’s instincts have never really been good at taking other people’s feelings into consideration, even feelings she actually kind of cares about. Brittany’s pouting behind her, she’s sure, but she doesn’t dare look.
Days later she’ll kick herself for not looking. If she had been thinking, if she could go back and do this moment over again, she would have done something to placate Brittany like she usually does. She would have made something up about how they can totally sing later in Santana’s bedroom, or how she’ll sing a duet with Brittany next year. Anything to wipe the look off of Brittany’s face, and stop the way that this one stupid insignificant moment somehow changes everything.
But Santana isn’t thinking of the consequences. She’s thinking of the bracelet on her wrist, and the burning desire to get as far away from Brittany as possible. Her heart feels extra heavy in her chest, and she just wants to feel something else. The only way to do that, Santana’s sure, is to run away.
The idea that this moment would be somehow significant to her life never occurs to Santana. It’s why the next day, when she watches Brittany push Artie down the hallway with a look of resentment on her face, she’s nearly shocked into inaction.
It’s okay though, because Santana’s always been pretty good at cleaning up her messes. If Artie Abrams thinks he’s going to suddenly be a part of Brittany’s life just because Santana messed up, and through no effort of his own, well, he’s got another thing coming.
Taking care of Artie is embarrassingly easy. If there’s one thing Santana never fails at, it’s pushing people off a ledge. Figuratively, of course.
So, after giving Artie the “sorry, Brittany doesn’t love you and never will” talk, though not in so many words, she’s pretty convinced that the situation is taken care of. Brittany’s pinky is back to being wrapped around her own later that day, and they go back to sitting next to each other in glee, but Santana can’t deny the way something feels different. Like there’s this shadow creeping up behind her, waiting for the right moment to devour her. She can’t help but feel like maybe it’s not over yet.
And, lo and behold, a few days later, she realizes it’s not.
--
“You’re dating Artie?” She’d say that she doesn’t mean to wrap his name in a tone of disgust, but she’d be lying. Seriously. Artie? She’s so shocked, she can’t even come up with a good, insulting nickname for him.
Brittany just nods, but her eyes can’t quite meet Santana’s. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
This time, Brittany does look at her, eyes a piercing blue. “Why not?”
There’s a challenge in the way Brittany says the words, and Santana nearly flinches away, but she keeps a straight face despite instinct. “It’s a little below us,” Santana responds, eyebrow raised.
“Us,” Brittany says, her voice soft but harder than Santana’s ever heard it, “isn’t dating him. I am.”
It’s never been like that. It’s always been the two of them fused together, like one unit, their failures and successes equally shared. If Brittany takes a social nosedive, Santana gets dragged down with her. It’s been a silent understanding between them since they were kids. Hell, they’ve dated the same guys together, broke up with them together, done everything together.
She refuses to let her hurt show, despite the urge to cry burning at the back of her eyes. “Right,” she bites out, crossing her arms over her chest. “Your funeral then.”
Brittany turns confused eyes her way. “No, it’s a wedding,” she corrects. “And it’s not really mine, it’s Kurt’s, I think. I guess it’s kind of Finn’s too.”
Santana doesn’t really know what to say to that. “That’s not what I...” She drifts off, shaking her head exasperatedly. “You know what, never mind. Fine.”
They stare at each other for a moment longer, Santana not wanting to be the one to walk away first, but her feet disobey her heart, and when she turns on her heel and walks away, the scene feels way too familiar.
--
She actually manages to forget that Brittany’s dating Artie. Okay maybe that’s exaggerating a little, but aside from having to watch Brittany wheel him around and hold his hand in glee, it doesn’t seem like much more changes.
Brittany still locks her pinky around Santana’s, and she still smirks at her when they’re all dancing together, and after Cheerio’s practice, Brittany still uses long, strong fingers to dig the knots out of Santana’s back.
It gets to the point where Santana starts to believe that nothing has changed. The idea starts to soothe an ache deep inside her, and she feels her breath start to come easier.
They’re at Santana’s house, sprawled across the living room couch, watching a rerun of Jersey Shore when she finally gets a taste of the threat Artie poses to her life. Brittany’s laughing hysterically at the TV, and the sound of it makes Santana smile, feeling suddenly comfortable. She pushes back into the cushions and slides down a little, her feet propped up on the coffee table.
The show ends, Brittany’s laughter tapering off as she turns to look at Santana, cheek resting against the couch cushion. “What do you want to do now?”
It’s probably not supposed to be suggestive, but this is Brittany, and Santana’s only ever really had one answer to that question. She doesn’t say anything, just moves a little closer, eyes flickering down to Brittany’s mouth before closing the gap between them and pressing their lips together.
Brittany kisses her back for a second, before squeaking in indignation and pulling back abruptly, hand flying to her mouth. Santana’s eyes go wide in surprise.
“We can’t!” Brittany exclaims, guilt shadowing her face.
Santana furrows her brow, confusion and anger at being rebuffed mixing in her expression. “What, why not?”
“I’m dating Artie,” Brittany explains, but Santana sees the way Brittany licks her lips a little, gaze roaming down to Santana’s mouth.
“So?”
“So that’s cheating,” Brittany whispers, like she’s afraid someone is going to overhear them. “I’m dating Artie,” she repeats. “It’s cheating.”
Santana moves away, flopping back against the couch and sighing exasperatedly. “Oh my God, you have got to be kidding me.”
“I can’t cheat on Artie,” Brittany says, leaning a little closer.
“Stop saying his name,” Santana grinds out. She stares at the ceiling, blowing out a deep breath against the sudden urge to cry.
“I’m sorry,” Brittany says. “You’re my best friend, but it’s cheating.”
“It’s not cheating,” Santana suddenly blurts out, frustrated.
Brittany’s silent, but when Santana looks over, her expression is open and curious, and Santana just keeps talking before she can stop herself. “I’m a girl,” Santana clarifies. “I’m a girl so it’s not cheating.”
“Really?”
Santana nods solemnly. “It’s not cheating if the plumbing’s different.”
Skepticism crosses Brittany’s face, and Santana’s sure her friend is going to call bullshit on this one, but then something sadder takes hold of Brittany’s expression, and the air in the room suddenly goes thick and heavy.
Brittany reaches her hand out and strokes hair off of Santana’s forehead, fingers brushing lightly against her skin. Santana swallows thickly.
“Good,” Brittany whispers, but her expression looks anything but happy, “I don’t really want to stop kissing you.”
Brittany crosses the space between them this time, fingers sliding through Santana’s hair. She presses Santana into the couch and smiles softly in between kisses.
An hour later, after they finally make it to Santana’s bedroom, and they’re tangled, naked, in Santana’s bedsheets, Santana gasps for breath and wonders when exactly Brittany got so good at this.
Brittany crawls back up Santana’s body and smiles knowingly as she puts her head down on the pillow. Santana laughs a little, still trying to catch her breath. She feels lighter than air, happy, and free all at once, and she wonders if it would be possible to just never leave this bed.
Brittany shifts a little closer and runs her fingers down Santana’s arm, stopping to play with the bracelet on the wrist there. It’s all totally normal, and for a second Santana thinks maybe she imagined the part where Brittany was dating Artie and everything felt wrong. Maybe it was just a bad nightmare, and she’s finally waking up.
But then, a supremely guilty look shadows Brittany’s face, and before Santana can say anything, her friend is jumping up and out of bed, reaching for her discarded clothing, and pulling it back on.
Holding the bedsheets against her chest, Santana sits up a little. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve gotta go,” Brittany says, tugging a shirt over her head. A mess of blonde hair falls over her shoulders when she finally gets it on, and Santana nearly loses her breath all over again.
“What, where?”
“I just uh,” Brittany pauses for a second, staring at Santana with wide eyes, “I just have to go.”
“Britt,” Santana pleads softly, sudden understanding flooding over her. The metal against her wrist feels suddenly cold and uncomfortable.
Fully dressed, Brittany steps closer to the bed and kisses Santana hard. “Bye,” Brittany whispers. She’s out the door before Santana can even think to say anything else.
Flopping back down into bed, Santana swallows dryly.
--
She notices it accidentally. They’re walking down the hallway together, because despite all this sudden awkwardness that floats around them, Santana doesn’t really know how to function any differently. She steps into line with Brittany as naturally as breathing.
Only, this time Santana’s so hyper aware of Brittany next to her that she can barely put one foot in front of the other. Brittany glances at her, for just a second, and Santana completely misjudges the space between the floor and her toe.
It’s when she grabs for Brittany’s arm to keep herself steady, fingers wrapping around warm skin, that she notices anything is wrong. Her hand slides all the way down Brittany’s forearm to grip at her wrist, and when she feels nothing but bare skin under her palm where there should be metal, she nearly trips again. Her heart twists uncomfortably, and for a second she can’t breathe.
She straightens up and lets go of Brittany’s wrist like it’s scalding hot, swallowing hard. It feels like everyone is staring at her, even though it’s probably not true.
Despite being unable to think about anything but the way Brittany’s wrist looks like without her bracelet, Santana manages to shake it off and smile a little. She needs to get out of the hallway though, because her cheeks are burning with embarrassment, and she feels like her world just tilted to the side, threatening to topple her.
“Forgot something in my locker,” she croaks, hating the way her voice sounds. She struggles to control it. “I’ll catch up later.”
Brittany tilts her head to the side, confused. She moves an inch closer, the motion probably unnoticeable to anyone that isn’t Santana, but Brittany pulls back quickly, swallowing visibly and nodding. “Okay,” she says softly.
This time, Brittany turns and walks away first, Santana watching her retreat for just a second before moving.
--
She tries desperately to ignore the way it makes her feel, her chest tight, and her left arm heavy, but she can’t stop the way her eyes travel to Brittany’s bare wrist every time they’re together.
Out of spite more than anything, Santana tries to take the bracelet off, but the stupid thing won’t come off her wrist. Alone in her room, she struggles with the clasp, tears of frustration obscuring her vision a little.
It finally unclasps, falling off her wrist and into her palm. She stares at it for just a second before chucking it violently against the far wall. It’s too much for her to handle. Her wrist feels too cold immediately, and she feels off-balance, her arm feeling too light all of a sudden.
She thinks about putting it back on, if only to alleviate the empty feeling curling in her gut, but she restrains herself, settles for picking it up off the floor and setting it back on her dresser.
It’s dark in her room, but she can still see the bracelet as if it were a beacon of light across the room. It glares at her all hours of the day and night, and it’s almost ridiculous how obsessive she’s become about the thing. The cracking feeling in her chest keeps her awake at night, and in a few dark moments, she considers throwing the thing in the garbage just to feel something different. She wishes metal could burn. Maybe she could run over it with her car.
When she goes to school in the morning, she stops in the doorway before leaving her room. Her wrist feels naked, and even though she doesn’t want to put the bracelet back on, she doesn’t think she can go through school without it. She grabs it from her dresser and stuffs it into her pocket.
It practically burns a hole in Santana’s pocket the entire day, but there’s something comfortable about the burn.
Part Two