Chapter Text
She gives the cold shoulder because, really, she has no other way of coping with what she knows. She wants to talk about it, with somebody, at least, because keeping everything she’s feeling bottled up cannot be good for her stress levels.
If she was still in high school and going to a therapist weekly, all of this anxiety would have already been off her chest, but she’s not in high school anymore.
Rachel’s a big girl. She’s in New York now, and she knows how to handle her emotions without hiding away and crying in her room about it, but sometimes, she does that anyway, because the methods she once learned in therapy were more directed towards tall, awkward boys with clumsy hands and stuttered words rather than cunningly sleek and sexy women with cleverly wicked tongues.
This shouldn’t mean so much to her. Rachel’s fixation should be on her never-ending drive to get on Broadway, but obsessions have an annoying way of focusing on the kinkiest subjects. She finds herself staring at smooth legs, and silky hair, and a plump chest way more than she should.
She’d be ashamed of her wandering eyes if she didn’t already know Santana’s eyes tend to wander on their own accord every now and then, too, but more out of appreciation than arousal, much to Rachel’s disappointment. Santana is gay, sure, but she’s always been exceptional at controlling her urges.
Rachel never asks Santana about what happened between her and Quinn, but it becomes quite obvious when Santana starts to spend all of her time emailing Quinn, texting Quinn with this gut-wrenchingly sexy smirk, and even Skype-ing Quinn about college, fully knowing Rachel could help just as well, or possibly even more.
She feels like an outsider looking in sometimes, and it’s almost like high school all over again, where the two popular girls purposely fail to include the lonely dweeb. Except now, the lonely dweeb is living with one of the popular girls and could possibly be in love with her, while the two popular girls have no idea and are more interested in each other.
Sometimes it’s just better not to know. That’s what Rachel tries to tell herself, at least. She could think about it and speculate all she wants, but that’ll never get her a true response unless she asks Santana herself, and that’s only if Santana decides to tell her the truth.
There are so many secrets surrounding them, but Rachel’s accepted that whatever happened between Santana and Quinn is none of her business. Rachel has her own secrets to worry about. She lied to Santana about Daniel asking her out again in order to get a rise out of her, and she still feels bad about that. It worked, in some regard, but Santana was more upset that Daniel wouldn’t leave her alone rather than being jealous over him.
The biggest secret she’s keeping at the moment is one of her own. Only Angela, Daniel, and Gwen know about it, and no matter how much Angela loves drama, how much Daniel likes Rachel, and how much Gwen wants to catch Daniel’s attention, she knows she can trust them to keep this piece of her life to themselves.
If Santana knows that Rachel knows, her roommate doesn’t let on. She’s annoying to the point of endearing, especially when it comes to getting Rachel’s attention. Before Rachel even knows what’s happened, she and Santana are hugging it out in the kitchen, and she’s forgiven the girl once again without even realizing it.
It’s those big brown eyes, she swears. And that crooked smirk. The soft crinkle in her nose. The pout in her lip as it trembles just enough to be so damn adorable, and Rachel cracks under the pressure of it all, and then Santana’s once again in her good graces, without even really trying.
Santana probably doesn’t even know—never mind care—what she did wrong this time, and Rachel so wanted to make it known, but there was really no way of doing that without making it clear how she feels. All Rachel knows, from that night Santana texted her when they were in Lima, is that Santana needed her.
Of all her classes in high school, Rachel’s poorest subject was math, though she can still put two and two together. She knows what happened between Quinn and Santana, which kind of breaks her heart into a million pieces.
It’s nauseating to think about. Not only because it’s Santana and Quinn, but because it’s not her; because Santana would rather give a very intimate piece of herself to a friend she’s barely even spoken to since graduation than her best friend at the moment.
Forget nauseating. She is damn insulted.
Rachel looks at herself in the mirror and sighs. She knows she’s pretty. She knows she has a nice ass, hot legs, and a glisteningly white smile, but what is that compared to all of the other beautiful women in this world? Nothing, if she can’t have Santana.
She doesn’t measure up. She doesn’t have what Santana obviously wants, but she’s not going to change. Rachel told herself years ago that she would never again change for another person, so there’s really nothing she can do to get Santana’s attention without revealing everything.
Santana’s always wanted what she can’t have, so Rachel decides not to push it. If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. If it’s not…well, Rachel will be heartbroken, but she’ll learn to deal with it.
—
She hears Santana slip through her curtain in the middle of the night, the first time since they’ve been back from Lima, and Rachel really wants to kick her out. She wants to tell Santana that they should stop this—even though it’s not really anything at all—because their dependency on each other is getting a little out of control.
It’s clear Santana’s going through a lot at the moment—though she tries to hide it as much as possible—with her breakup with Brittany, and witnessing her ex move on with a mutual friend, and then all of the expectations her parents have for her, wanting Santana to become a doctor, or a lawyer, or a business mogul.
Rachel’s always known what she wanted and who she’s wanted to be, but Santana’s just now starting to figure things out, and it can’t be easy doing it all on her own. She’s obviously struggling with what she wants right now, none of them having anything to do with Rachel, and it’s hard to watch at times, so she lets Santana sleep next to her and even cuddle up with her when it gets cold.
“Hey, Rach,” Santana whispers.
“Hmm.”
“You awake?”
Rachel thinks about it for a moment. “No.”
Santana nudges the back of Rachel’s thigh with her knee, and Rachel groans in annoyance before turning around and swatting Santana on the arm.
“Fucking liar,” Santana chuckles, rubbing at her shoulder.
“What do you want?” Rachel mutters, rolling back over. “I have class in the morning.”
Santana’s silent for a moment, and Rachel can tell she’s wondering about something scary by the unsteadiness of her breathing. “I was thinking about my story, and what you told me about drawing from experience,” she says, and then the covers shift, and Rachel smiles a little to herself when the blankets are placed higher on her shoulders.
“Mhmm,” Rachel hums, snuggling deeper into her pillow.
“And I’ve been trying to come up with something new and original, and dig deep into what I know,” Santana shifts again, and then breathes out a long sigh, “because that’s the shit we should write, you know.” She pauses and then shoves at Rachel’s shoulder with an annoyed grumble. “Yo, Rach, are you even listening?”
Rachel’s eyes slip open for a moment as she rolls over. “Yeah, what we know. Mhmm.”
Santana props herself up on her elbow and then runs a hand through Rachel’s hair. Rachel tries her best not to shiver, but she loves it when Santana is vulnerable and lets herself feel, lets herself touch and connect with the people surrounding her.
Santana laughs softly, and then whispers, “Go back to sleep, Rachel. You’re ineffective when you’re tired.”
“Okay,” Rachel mumbles, nodding slowly, though she’s not entirely sure why. “Goodnight, Santana.”
There’s a soft kiss pressed to her forehead, and then she hears, “Goodnight, babe.”
—
Stop. Breathe. Wait. Repeat.
It's become a mantra now. She does it every time she sees Santana.
Their eyes lock. Stop. Santana smiles at her. Breathe. There's an innocent touch. Wait. Santana leaves her be. Repeat.
Bold stare. Stop. Santana smirks like the devil possessed by an angel. Breathe. Warm hand palming her leg. Wait. Space is established. Repeat.
Lingering eye contact. Stop. A flashy grin. Breathe. Scolding embrace. Wait. Two minutes alone. Repeat.
It's simple, really. Stop goes the world. Breathe in the anxiety. Wait out the blissful pain. Repeat the lovesick mantra. Stop goes her heart. Breathe out the erupting butterflies. Wait 'til the curse has run its course. Repeat this unrequited technique.
Whichever way you spin it, it'll always be the same dance; the same tango. You can twirl it, dip it, slide, turn, drop, and fall, but it will always be the same steps, moves, and choreography.
The technique remains the same; the dance remains the same. From day to day, nothing changes. Santana's still a force to be reckoned with. She doesn't mess around. She knows what she wants, and the hardest thing for Rachel to come to terms with is that Santana's wants and needs will never line up with hers.
They are on two different paths that will never meet up. All Rachel wants is for them to be on the same page, but they're not even in the same damn book. She thinks it's about time she does something different. But what? What can she do? Where can she go? Who could she think about that's not Santana?
She needs to reprogram her mind. But how to do that? Where to start? Perhaps the place she wants to end; right in Santana's heart. The girl has weird trust issues, but she loves with her whole heart.
She's wary about letting people too close, but once you're in, you're in for life. It's a privilege, not a right. Rachel's not going to ruin this. Santana trusts her, and that's where Rachel's going to start in finding her peace in all of this.
First thing's first. She can't get hurt by the small things. Santana is allowed to smile at other women. She should be able to without Rachel feeling hurt. Rachel tells herself that and then convinces herself of the truth in that statement. Santana can sleep with whomever she cares to, and that in no way shall affect what Rachel does or how Rachel feels.
But she is not becoming careless. No. Not at all. She is merely building a defense mechanism. This is how she will not only deal but manage the pain and hurt coursing through her at the thought of Santana's probable rejection. It's no biggie. Not a big deal in the slightest.
This is just the psychology behind protecting herself from more emotional harm.
—
Okay, so there’s a lot of things about Santana that Rachel’s has had to put up with over the last five months, some tolerable, some absolutely inexcusable, like how she leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor for Rachel to trip over in the morning, or how she steals Rachel’s clothes even though they barely fit her, or how she sometimes walks around the loft in only a towel, dripping water everywhere.
But the most infuriating of her bad habits is when she blow-dries her hair in the middle of the night, because really, who does that? But then there are other parts of Santana—parts that are so great that it easily overshadows all of the nuisances about her.
If Santana really wanted to, she could probably become a comedian. Rachel never noticed how funny she is, but it is so damn attractive. She has no idea why but then decides it doesn’t really matter anyway. It just is.
Another surprise is that Santana’s terrified of vulnerability, but somehow it’s the most endearing thing about her, because she’s always so strong in all other ways.
Santana is the messiest person Rachel’s ever met; her clothes strewn all over the place, her bed never made up. She forgets to put things back where she found them, and Rachel’s not Santana’s mother, so she refuses to pick up after the girl, but when Santana actually makes an effort to clean up after herself and pick up her garbage, it is the most adorable thing.
Santana has this way of telling stories, with wildly animated gestures and illustrious facial expressions, and it’s always entertaining to watch.
She is smitten almost every time Santana opens her mouth, and the crazy thing is, Rachel didn't even fall in love; she kind of stumbled into it, the same way Santana stumbles around their apartment at three in the morning on a weeknight after spending the whole entire afternoon at Cole's place.
Santana doesn't make a habit out of getting stoned, but when she goes for it, she really goes for it. But an intoxicated Santana isn't as destructive as one might presume. She's more disgraceful than anything.
Rachel wakes up to the sound of someone banging and stumbling around in the living area, so she gets up to take Santana to bed—yes, this has happened a few times before—and Santana ends up hanging off of her and laughing as she tries to put on some music and make Rachel dance with her.
But it's a weeknight, and Rachel has dance class with the second worst person in the world—right behind the devil—at eight in the morning tomorrow, so she shushes Santana and tells her to shut up when the girl starts rambling on about her crazy night and all of the digits she got.
There's a pressure against Rachel's side, and she turns to find Santana tucked into her, arms squeezed around her torso as she shuffles her feet drunkenly and then brings them both crashing to the floor.
Rachel squeals on her way down, and Santana snorts hysterically when Rachel lands heavily on top of her. Unfortunately, Rachel can't find it within herself to laugh; the force behind their impact succeeded in knocking all the wind out of her. She wouldn't be able to laugh even if she tried.
Santana laughs for the both of them, craning her neck back and cackling so loudly she wakes up Kurt. From behind his curtain, he yells at them to go to bed, but Santana ignores him, continuing to giggle silently into Rachel's neck as Rachel tries to roll off of her roommate. Santana only follows her, mimicking Rachel's motions and rolling back over so that she's on top of Rachel now.
"Pinned ya," she whispers teasingly, and then laughs again.
A stoned Santana is adorable, but she's also insufferable. "Santana, get off of me. You're not as light as you look."
"Did you just call me fat?" she grumbles.
"Yes, you're humongous and you're doing a great job of crushing my windpipe."
"Oops, sorry," Santana giggles, shifting slightly so that's she's not entirely on top of Rachel anymore, but still on top of her. "You're pretty from this view."
Butterflies erupt in her stomach. "Only this view?"
"All types of views," Santana says, smirking as she picks at Rachel's hair and then twirls a brown strand around her finger. "Especially from behind. Your ass is all kinds of amazing."
Rachel flushes and then brushes off the compliment with a roll of her eyes. She doesn't know how to respond to that, so she keeps quiet and allows her eyes to wander over Santana's face; the dip in her dimples, her smooth eyebrows, the daze in her foggy expression. Meanwhile, Santana's still smiling down at her, dark eyes tracing Rachel's every contour.
Grinning wryly, she ducks her head down to rest on Rachel's shoulder and then tucks her face into the space between Rachel's neck. "You're my favorite person. You know that, Rach?"
"Yeah,” Rachel sighs. “I know."
Santana is Rachel's favorite person too, but Santana already knows that, so she doesn't say it out loud. They know each other. They can practically read each other's thoughts at this point.
"Your breath smells good."
Rachel smiles, stroking a hand down Santana's back. "It's probably the new mouthwash I bought. Got it on sale at—"
"That dingy marketplace on the corner?” Santana asks, and then waits for Rachel to nod before adding, "Love that place."
"They always have the best—"
“Red potatoes," Santana mutters, probably rolling her eyes. "Yeah, I guess, but sometimes they taste like—"
"They do not taste like dirt, Santana. They're organic and—"
"—good for your health and digestive tract and blah yadda blah blah."
See, mind-reading at its finest. Rachel tickles Santana’s sides and then smiles when her roommate laughs into her neck.
They lie like that for a while, Rachel staring up at the ceiling until her eyes get too tired to stay open, Santana curling up more into Rachel's side to find warmth as the heat shuts off after its repeated cycle.
The soft pitter patter of Santana's heart against Rachel's chest starts to slow down, alerting Rachel to the fact that her roommate is falling asleep. Looks like they'll be camping out here tonight.
Again.
Rachel needs to remind herself to start setting out pillows and blankets on the floor before she goes to bed whenever Santana's out late. This is around the seventh time this has happened, and Rachel's back surely isn't appreciating her lack of memory.
A puff of warm air hits the base of Rachel's chin as Santana breathes out tiredly, her heavy eyes opening and closing in a futile battle to stay awake.
"Rach?" she murmurs.
"Mmhm.”
"I have to tell you something."
"Okay."
"But it's a secret,” she whispers, turning her head, and Rachel shivers when Santana’s chin brushes against her boob. “So you have to promise not to tell anyone."
Rachel peeks an eye open and glances down at the bushel of hair resting on her chest. She raises a brow. "Who would I tell?"
"Just promise," Santana whines, finding Rachel's hand and raveling their fingers together.
"Fine.” She squeezes Santana’s hand in hers. “I promise."
For a long time, she just looks at Rachel steadily, as if she’s trying to make sure Rachel’s telling the truth. Eventually, Santana must see something, because she then leans down to hotly whisper, “I miss Brittany,” right into Rachel’s ear.
—
At the beginning of class on Tuesday, Miss July tells Rachel to stay after so that they can have a little talk.
When the rest of the students get word of this, their eyes go wide and they all avoid her for the next two hours, including Angela and Gwen—Daniel’s been avoiding her for weeks now anyway—so she has no one to help her with the steps today.
Her footwork is off because she’s so distracted, which’ll definitely make her talk with Miss July later even worse. The woman hates it when students screw up her choreography.
The end of class comes, way too soon in Rachel’s opinion, and she watches mournfully as the rest of the dancers towel off and slink out of the studio with smiles on their faces. Rachel doesn’t know what she even did wrong this time. She almost thought Miss July forgot she existed, because the instructor literally hasn’t even looked her way since the beginning of the new semester.
“Schwimmer,” she hears from behind her, and Rachel winces before turning around with a forced smile. Miss July saunters over, toned arms up as she ties her silky blonde hair into a tight bun. “So, you’re probably wondering why I’ve asked you to stay after today.”
Obviously.
“Yes,” she says instead. “I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with my dedication to memorize choreography, because I really thought I had been improving, which is the reason you’ve allowed me some space to—"
“Please. Stop talking,” Miss July instructs, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling, “before you say something you’ll regret. You’re not in trouble, okay? You’ve actually been doing pretty okay in this class recently.”
It’s not what Rachel’s expecting to hear at all, and she almost pinches herself to make sure she’s not dreaming. “Oh, well…” There’s a million things Rachel could say in response to that, but she’s always had a tendency of running her mouth and saying something vacuous without even realizing it.
She’s going to take what she’s got for now—because this is already more than she ever expected to hear from Cassandra July—and only say, “Why, thank you.”
“Oh, don’t thank me yet.” Miss July turns and walks over to the barre, waving a hand for Rachel to follow. She immediately obeys, her small smile quickly morphing into a frown when Cassandra looks at her through the mirror with a pained expression. “That girl who's always coming in to pick you up,” she says, lifting her leg to stretch it out on the barre. “She’s gay, right?”
Rachel arches an eyebrow, unsure of where this is going. “How did you..."
"Oh, please, there are mirrors on every wall. I have eyes,” Cassandra laughs, and it’s honestly the first time Rachel’s ever seen the woman smile. She has really pretty teeth, but then the grin is gone, replaced with a thoughtful grimace. “Just keep a leash on her, yeah?"
“I’m sorry,” Rachel drawls, eyebrows knit in confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know where you’re going with this.”
Cassandra breathes out a weary sigh as she drops her leg from off the barre and then leans on it with her forearm. “I’m trying to warn you,” she explains, blue eyes pinned to brown with a duh expression. “Your girlfriend has wandering eyes, and I don't know—I guess I'd hate to see you get hurt, okay?"
A fiery blush makes its way up Rachel’s neck at the implication. This is like, the fifth person who’s thought she and Santana were dating, and Rachel has the same embarrassing reaction every time.
To be fair, it’s really not too far out of left field to think that, because they do act like a couple. Rachel was never as handsy and touchy with Finn as she is with Santana, and Finn was her boyfriend.
Her and Santana's relationship could probably be considered an odd one—which Kurt never fails to point out whenever he catches them snuggling on the couch or sharing food in the kitchen—but do they really look that domesticated to the outside viewer? Rachel doesn’t know whether to be exhilarated or wary of this realization.
(But, despite all of this, she and Santana are just friends—as she’s been called a thousand times over every time Santana introduces her to somebody new and they get the wrong idea.)
Rachel doesn’t mean for her voice to sound so hopeless and hollow when she speaks, but it ends up coming out like that anyway, when she says, “Santana's not my girlfriend. We aren't dating."
"But you'd like to,” is Cassandra’s immediate response. “Date her, I mean.” She says it like she already knows, and dear God, is it really that obvious? First Angela, then Daniel, next that androgynous man at the airport, and now her dance instructor? Is there like, a pink neon sign hanging over her forehead, flashing the words, ‘Hopelessly in love with Santana Lopez’?
Rachel fidgets where she’s standing. “I don't think this is an appropriate conversation to be having with one of my instructors."
"Relax, Schwimmer. I'm here to guide you, and since I have no body fat, the only thing I'm full of is advice and wisdom.” Cassandra slides down to the wooden floor as she bends her legs into a butterfly position, and after a moment of hesitation, Rachel follows her lead.
This is so bizarre, talking to her teacher about this, of all things, but she really has nothing left to lose anyway. Miss July clearly looks like she wants to help, and not like, humiliate her.
“The good thing?” Cassandra arches an eyebrow as she bends forward and touches her chin to her knees. “Your friend knows a hot piece of ass when she sees one, but she didn't go after me, and do you know why?" Rachel shakes her head, so Cassandra continues, "Because I am an older woman, and most likely, I intimidate her. Your friend looks like the type who'll only go after what she can handle to keep from getting her heart broken, so if there's any reason she hasn't shown interest in you, it's because of that. She's either afraid of rejection and doesn't think she has a chance,” Cassandra reasons, shrugging a shoulder, “or she is just that clueless."
Rachel hasn’t heard any advice yet. This all just sounds like an opinion.
“All of your other teenybopper friends probably told you to tell her how you feel, because who knows, she could like you back, yeah?” Rachel nods, because that sounds about right. “For the love of God Almighty, do not do that,” Cassandra warns, shaking her head adamantly. “You know what you do? You seduce her.”
Rachel almost chokes on laughter, because the last time she tried to seduce somebody, they ended up calling her a sad hooker clown, and that was Finn, who admittedly shouldn’t have been that hard to seduce. “Um. That’s not going to work. I can’t seduce Santana.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” she trails off, pulling her knees up into her chest. This is so awkward. “Santana’s not attracted to me. She would think I’m just kidding and then laugh in my face.”
Cassandra smirks. “And that’s why you’ll have to sell it.”
“No, no, this was a bad idea.” Rachel laughs dryly to herself as she gets up from off the floor. “Let’s just pretend this conversation never happened.”
She’s grabbing her bag from out one of the corners in the dance studio when Miss July calls out her name again, sounding frustrated and amused all at the same time.
“What?” Rachel says, refusing to turn around on her way out.
“Fine. I’ll admit seduction was a shitty idea, but how about a long con,” she proposes, and Rachel freezes, listening carefully to the sound of footsteps clicking in her direction until her instructor reappears right in front of her. “I tried this when I was a lovesick student in college, and it came through for me. It’ll take a few months and a willing closet case, but it works like a charm every time.”
Rachel averts her eyes to the mirror and looks at her reflection. This has trouble written all over it. If the sly grin on Cassandra’s face doesn’t give it away, then the expression long con should definitely clue Rachel into the fact that she’s about to make a deal with the devil.
But at this point, Rachel’s willing to do anything. She’s tired of coming in last when she always puts Santana first.
She glances away from her reflection in the mirror to look up at Cassandra. “I'm listening.”
—
Of course once Rachel and Kurt finish planning Santana's surprise party does Santana tell them she has an idea as to what she wants to do for her birthday.
“Just dinner and a movie with my closest bitches,” she says from where she’s sitting at the kitchen counter, and Rachel’s stomach drops, because she, Kurt, and Henry already called all of their friends (and acquaintances) to come out on Santana’s birthday, but all the girl wants is dinner and a movie?
In all honesty, Rachel knew Santana wouldn't be into something like this, but Henry had insisted the look on Santana's face would be totally worth it.
(Actually, that might not be such a good thing, now that Rachel thinks about it.)
Rachel’s smile is strained. “Dinner…” she says, pursing her lips, “…and a movie?”
“Yeah. I mean, you don’t have to go fucking wild with it. It’s only my nineteenth, and it’s not like I know anybody out here anyway—well, anyone I like, at least,” she adds, shrugging a shoulder, “So hanging out with you losers will be good enough for me.”
Rachel blanches, and then shoots a look to Kurt, who appears a bit pale himself. He pretends to be busy, though, until Santana has to leave for work, and then Rachel goes, “I told you so.”
“We’re still throwing the party,” Kurt says, quite clearly disregarding every word he just heard Santana say.
“But that’s not what she wants.”
“Like Santana’s ever known what she wants. Her interests change from day to day, from the women she likes, to the people she hates. It’s an ongoing trend that never ceases to confuse and exhaust me. Believe me, Rachel, when I say she’ll love this.”
“I don’t know. Santana—well, she’s changed since she’s moved out here,” Rachel says, nervously wringing her fingers together. “She’s not the same girl she used to be.”
“Which was…”
Rachel rolls her eyes at him and then plops down on the couch. “Santana likes close, intimate outings with her friends. She’s very sensitive when it comes to that.”
Kurt makes a face. “I don’t want to know how you know this.”
“We’re close, Kurt,” she reasons, turning her attention to the television to refrain from seeing the knowing expression on Kurt’s face. “Santana’s my…I’m not really sure if best friends does it anymore, because we mean so much to each other.”
Kurt rounds the couch and then perches himself on the armrest beside her. “Careful, Rachel, you sound like you’ve got yourself a little crush,” he teases.
She laughs off the idea, but realistically, she’s hurting inside.
--
Down at the corner store, the female store clerk asks for Santana when Kurt and Rachel stop by to pick up some last minute party supplies.
Kurt mentions that it's Santana's birthday, that they're throwing a party, and, “You know what, you should stop by, have a drink,” he tells her, and Rachel smiles weakly in agreement before leaving them to find the guacamole dip.
There are girls waiting for Santana everywhere. The list never ends, and Rachel's just now starting to realize that she’s one of the pathetic girls on that list.
--
Rachel doesn't know how Santana's going to react to this, because her roommate and surprises have never really gotten along. The birthday girl is out with Cole under the assumption that they’re on a scavenger hunt for this elephant antique from India—Rachel honestly doesn’t know how Santana fell for that one—while they all set up for the party.
Rachel had originally volunteered to distract Santana, but Kurt had made this face—a face he’s been making way too much lately—and told her it made more sense if the person who actually lived in their apartment helped decorate it.
Henry’s here, too. He’s the muscle, moving around tables and chairs and furniture to make room for a dance floor, while Kurt and Rachel hang up streamers, chop the ice, and set out the food.
People start arriving about fifteen minutes later. Not a crazy amount. Just a few friends here and there; Rachel’s classmates from her dance and vocal classes, Kurt’s friends from the costume department and the Adam’s Apples, Henry’s colleagues from the New York Journal.
Watching the crowd increase, Rachel starts getting nervous that none of their friends from Lima are going to make it—which wouldn’t be good, because this is a party for Santana, and who throws a party without inviting not one person the birthday girl knows?—but then Noah busts through the front door with a six pack of beer, along with Mercedes, who’s holding a gift bag in her hand.
(They were the only two available and able to make it out to New York on such short notice, because supposedly Noah is shacking up with some cougar in Jersey, and Mercedes was in town because her aunt lives in the Bronx.)
She greets Mercedes first, asks how things are going in Los Angeles, and in turn, Rachel tells a funny anecdote—she thinks it’s funny, at least—about her life in New York. Then Rachel introduces Mercedes to some of the people from her vocal class, and they immediately hit it off.
“Well, if it isn’t my Jewish Princess.” Noah picks her up from behind, squeezes her against him, and Rachel squeals through a laugh, swatting at his shoulder to let her down.
Admittedly, she’s still a little upset with him over leaving Santana outside drunk in the freezing cold, but she is happy to see him again, so she hugs Noah back and then immediately pushes him away when he tries to cop a feel.
Sometime later, once everyone’s arrived, Angela sidles up beside Rachel and asks, “Who is that hunk of a man, and please tell me he’s single.” Her eyes are pinned to Noah, practically digesting him with her stare as if he’s a juicy piece of steak.
Ew.
“His name’s Noah, and he’s…” She actually has no idea what shacking up with a cougar could be defined as, so, “It’s complicated,” she says, because that’s the safest way to go.
But Angela doesn’t even look the slightest bit deterred as she takes a sip of her drink. She’s totally undressing him, right in front of Rachel’s eyes, so Rachel sneakily slips away into the kitchen to make sure everything’s set up and in order for the party.
But when she turns around, a shoulder knocks against her. A voice apologizes, a familiar voice, and Rachel glances up to find Daniel looking down at her. He smiles weakly, obviously trying to remain polite, which is something Finn would have never bothered with in high school had he been mad at her.
Rachel smiles back, and then moves aside to restock the fridge, and Daniel follows a few steps behind. He’s not hovering, but she can still feel his presence from over her shoulder.
“Look, Rachel,” he sighs, sounding tired and apologetic all in one deep breath. “I think we should clear the air. It was wrong of me to pressure you into dating me.” When Rachel turns back around, Daniel’s anxiously twisting a hand around his bottle of beer. “You don’t like me, and that’s cool. I shouldn’t have been so pushy, and I definitely shouldn’t have made you feel bad for rejecting me. I’m really sorry, Rachel.”
Rachel nods curtly, bowing her head as she curls a strand of hair behind her ear. Despite how horrible she was treated in high school, she’s always believed people deserve more than one chance to make up for their mistakes. Daniel’s obviously learned from this experience, and that’s really all that matters.
“I accept your apology, Daniel,” she says, smiling up at him, and Daniel looks so relieved that he grins shyly and then wraps her up in a quick hug.
“It’d be great if we could, I don’t know, be friends,” he says, pulling away. “Actual friends, not just me hoping for something mo—”
Daniel’s words are cut off when the scattered crowd from in the living area yells out a loud surprise, and Rachel blanches as she pushes past Daniel and out of the kitchen, because they weren’t supposed to be home for another fifteen minutes.
Surprisingly, Santana actually looks happier about the party than Rachel thought she'd be. As she goes around and says hello to everyone, she somehow catches Rachel’s eye with an impish smirk through all of the disarray, pandemonium, and chaos, and all of a sudden, the massive OCD freak out she's had for the last week and a half was all totally worth it.
—
Sometime within the next half hour, Gwen steps up beside Rachel, and asks, "So, where's that Quinn girl? I thought you invited her.”
She checks the time on her phone, because she actually did invite Quinn, despite the persistent devil on her shoulder. It was only right, though she's not going to say she's upset the girl has yet to show up.
Rachel looks around for her roommate, but Santana's gone, and it’s like déjà vu when Rachel spots her out on the fire escape. But she’s alone this time, smoking a cigarette and gazing down at the alley beneath her.
Rachel takes a quick sip of her drink and then passes it over to Gwen before making her way across the living area and through the window.
She shuts her eyes tightly against the smoke permeating around the fire escape and waves it away with a cough. "Hey,” she says, rubbing at her arms, because it’s March, not quite spring yet.
Santana looks over her shoulder and smirks. “Hey yourself,” she says, fiddling with the cigarette held loosely between her fingers. "What are you doing out here?"
"I think I should be asking you that question considering it's your birthday party."
"Smoke break," Santana offers lamely. She holds out a pack of cigarettes and then laughs when Rachel waves her hand with a disgusted crinkle in her nose. Santana shrugs and says, “Your loss,” and Rachel smiles sadly, remembering all that she’s never even had.
"Santana," she says softly, coming up beside her roommate. She looks Santana in the eye, carefully, because she knows this is about something more. Something deeper. “Are you okay?”
Dark hair covers the sides of Santana's face like a curtain as she breathes out a sigh and whispers, “Dandy.”
Rachel frowns, because yeah, that response pretty much means the exact opposite. You’d think she’d be a pro at getting information out of Santana by now, but Santana’s just one of those puzzles she’ll never be able to solve.
Santana tugs at the edges of her sleeves and shivers, and Rachel has to physically restrain herself from slipping into Santana’s side to hold her. Instead, she inches down the railing and rests her hand beside Santana’s. “You can talk to me, you know.”
“I know,” Santana dismisses, averting her eyes in the other direction.
Rachel decides to start small, and so she asks, “Is it about Cole?" because she knows it more than likely has nothing to do with her, hopefully.
Santana scoffs through a lazy smile. "No."
"Quinn?" she asks, hesitantly stroking her pinky finger against the side of Santana’s hand.
Santana looks down with an odd look and then moves her hand away. “Why would it be about Quinn?" There’s a defensiveness to Santana’s tone that Rachel recognizes as both deflection and aggression, so she decides not to push the topic of Quinn.
She’d really rather not talk about her anyway.
"No reason,” Rachel drawls, and then turns around to lean up against the metal railing, folding her arms over her chest to fend off the cold.
They're quiet for a moment as Santana takes another drag and then switches the cigarette to her other hand. She looks down and fiddles with the cigarette between her fingers.
It’s barely above a whisper when Santana says, “She didn't come."
"Quinn?" Rachel asks, almost automatically.
"No," Santana says, side-eyeing Rachel strangely before looking back down at her hands. "Britt." It’s said so lowly that Rachel barely hears her words, but she does hear it, and for a long time neither of them say anything. “Did you invite her?” Santana wonders, after a moment.
It was an event on Facebook, so, “Technically, yeah.”
“Then why—“ Santana cuts herself off and lets out a throaty laugh; it's a sad sound, and Rachel tries not to cringe at the harshness behind it. "She hasn't even called or texted. Probably too caught up with Sam to even realize it's my fucking birthday today."
Rachel moves a little closer to Santana. If the other girl was to ask why, Rachel would just blame it on the cold, but Santana doesn’t ask. Instead, she sniffles, moves just a little bit closer to Rachel, and then stays there. Rachel pushes away the urge to smile, because this isn’t about her.
This isn’t about reigning in her proximity to Santana compared to all the other women in her life. This isn’t about using Santana’s vulnerability to her advantage. Santana’s noticeably hurting, and as her best friend, it’s Rachel’s job to help her. “I thought you said you were over her," she says, glancing up at Santana.
"Oh, I am," Santana concedes, nodding her head jerkily.
Rachel doesn't think she looks too sure, but she doesn't say so. If Santana doesn't feel like talking about what’s on her mind, in her heart, then there is pretty much nothing anyone can do to make her. She'll open up when she's ready.
"I am totally moving on," she continues, pursing her lips, and then says, under her breath, "If Brittany can do it with someone we both know, so can I."
Rachel raises a brow at that. "Someone you both know?"
Santana lolls her head to the side, lips twisted into a smirk. "Well, I guess I might as well tell you. It's been killing me keeping this from you anyway." She smiles shyly, and Rachel can't really explain why her heart is pounding so hard in her chest all of a sudden.
There’s a loaded pause as Santana stares past the smoke drifting up from her cigarette. “Quinn and I…we did the dirty at Schuester's wedding," she confesses without even a hint of shame. She actually looks mighty proud of it, which makes Rachel a little sick to her stomach. Standing on her tiptoes, Santana tilts her chin up and yells, "Who's moving on now, Brittany S Pierce?"
Her voice echoes throughout the deserted alleyway, and then she laughs to herself; a dark and humorless laugh, undoubtedly filled with pain and heartache.
Rachel stares at her silently, willing away the flood of tears itching to be released. “So, you and Quinn did have sex,” she whispers, taking a small step to the side and away from Santana.
Amused and unaware, Santana snorts and then taps the tail end of her cigarette, flicking a clump of ash over the railing. "Fucked is more like it."
Rachel wraps her arms around her midsection and blankly stares across the alleyway at the tall brownstone next door. Technically, she already knew this, but to have it be confirmed, to hear the words come out of Santana’s mouth, is harder to handle than Rachel originally thought it’d be.
“How could you?"
She knows she's overreacting, because Santana isn't hers—never has been, and probably never will be—but the confirmation that Santana actually gave a piece of herself to Quinn that she'll never be granted access to really, really hurts.
"How could I what?" Santana leans forward, resting her forearms against the railing. It rattles noisily, but Santana doesn't seem too concerned as she brings the cigarette back to her lips. "Britt'll get over it," she scoffs, shaking her head, "and that's only if she ever finds out, which is pretty slim to none considering the small amount of people who know."
Rachel clenches her jaw. "Santana—"
"And yeah," she goes on, completely tactless, "I know it might be a little weird, being that Quinn is both our friend, but believe me, she's been real chill about the whole thing."
Pursing her lips, Santana blows out a cloud of smoke. It floats right in front of Rachel's face, so if Santana asks, she'll blame her tears on that.
"She didn't even have a gay panic, which is definitely what I would call progress," she adds, shrugging carelessly.
Leaning against the railing beside Santana, Rachel takes a deep breath before asking, "How many times?"
She knows she's overstepped a boundary when Santana scrunches up her nose and side-eyes her incredulously. "Excuse me?"
"How many times, Santana?" Rachel repeats herself, and it surprises her how much she really wants to know the answer. She wants to know if what happened between her two friends was just a drunken mistake, or if Santana and Quinn are actually forming something that she’ll forever be left out of. "How many times did you..." God, how to word this, "...do her?" she asks brazenly, narrowing her eyes sharply on Santana.
"Um, whoa," Santana murmurs, obviously caught off guard as she backs away from the railing. "I don't really see how any of this—"
"And answer this question for me, Santana," Rachel interrupts, exasperated, "because I seem to be lacking a few important social skills when it comes to relationships."
She's pacing now. She's pacing on a damn fire escape, and she must really be upset if the faint rattling noise doesn't even strike a nerve of fear in her. She's just so angry. Angry that Santana would choose Quinn out of everyone they know to use as a rebound. Rachel knows it's stupid and possibly the most pathetic thought she's ever had, but if Santana can so easily give herself away to Quinn, then why not her?
"What does Quinn have that made you sleep with her?" She's yelling now, and Santana's looking at her like she's absolutely lost her mind. Maybe she has. "Actually, I think the better question would be what did all of those girls have back in September, and what does Cole have, because you seem to bed as many women as you can before going after one you may actually care about."
Once she's finished, Santana just stares at her. Every second that passes without a word only escalates the tension building between them. Knitting her eyebrows together, Santana shakes her head in confusion before anger takes over her features.
"While I admire your major balls right now," she says evenly, straightening her posture, shoulders stiffer than they were before. "I suggest you back off, Berry. What I do with my sex life is frankly none of your fucking business." She throws her cigarette down and stomps on it heavily. The whole fire escape shakes, yet neither of them move a muscle. Santana's voice is considerably less harsh, merely a soft whisper, when she says, "And I would truly appreciate it if you wouldn't corner me and then interrogate me about sex with Quinn of all things on my damn birthday. I mean, have you lost your fucking mind or something?”
Petulant, Rachel crosses her arms with a huff. “You need to have a mind to lose one.”
Scoffing, Santana shoulders past her and then steps back into the party. Rachel exhales raggedly and grips the railing so hard her knuckles turn white.
She doesn't cry, because that would be stupid. It's not like she just lost Santana or anything. She never even had her in the first place. It would be stupid to cry, though despite her protest and clenching jaw, a lone tear does make an appearance. It falls fast and without much regard to her perfectly applied makeup.
Rachel spends another three minutes out on the fire escape, breathing in as much fresh air as she can and distantly hoping Santana will come back out to talk to her about what just happened.
But she's left alone.
No one comes out to look for her, or to find out where she's disappeared, and Santana doesn't come back at all, so Rachel decides it's time to go back inside. It’s cold, and she already feels like crap. It wouldn't exactly be the smartest idea to catch the flu.
--
Quinn arrives just as Rachel is stepping through the window. She watches with bloodshot eyes as Quinn goes straight to Santana and then wishes her a happy birthday, kissing her on the cheek before whispering something into her ear with a knowing smirk.
Her lips are practically grazing Santana's earlobe like she's a slice of simmering bacon, and just the sight of them together makes Rachel feel queasy inside. She tries to avoid them both for the rest of the party, but there's just no getting away from Quinn.
Rachel feels a heavy hand clamp down on her shoulder while she's chatting up some NYADA upperclassmen about off-Broadway audition opportunities. The only reason she turns around with a smile is because she thinks it's Kurt trying to slip his way into the conversation, but when Rachel comes face to face with those bright hazel eyes, all she can do is bristle and stare.
The happy smile on Quinn's lips immediately slip away. "Hello, Rachel,” she greets hesitantly, dropping her hand from off Rachel's shoulder. "Is there...something wrong?"
Clearing her throat, Rachel works her hardest to train her features into a surprised smile. It takes some effort, especially with the unbridled anger flowing through her, but she is an actress, after all, and it seems Quinn actually buys it when she excitedly says, "Hi, Quinn, you made it," and goes in for a tight hug, adding, "Sorry, I thought you were this creep who hasn't left me alone all evening."
"Just point me in the right direction and I'll take care of him," Quinn threatens, cheeky smile back in place as she pulls out of their embrace. "I'm so tired of men who just can't take a hint. It drives me up a wall when someone continually goes after a woman who obviously doesn't want them, you know?"
Rachel nods along with a forced smile. Of course she gets it. She's been there before too, but now her agreement feels all too hypocritical to actually voice aloud.
Quinn continues to jabber and blabber on about Yale and her urban anthropology class and her global women studies course, and Rachel plasters on a smile, doing her very best to pretend to listen with as much interest as possible, when what she really wants to do is claw at Quinn’s perfect face.
Instead of adding her input, Rachel scopes out the loft for Santana. She finds her standing by the kitchen entrance, alone, nursing a bottle of beer.
Their eyes meet after a few seconds, and Rachel tries to hold it as long as possible, tries to express everything she feels for the other girl through just their eye contact alone.
Santana gazes on for a short moment before looking away. She's still upset, Rachel can tell. Everything Santana feels is right there in her eyes, always is, but once the sight of that is gone, everything else surrounding them remains unknown.
--
It’s late, probably around two in the morning, and Rachel’s doing the dishes. It could probably wait until tomorrow—or later today, really—but she couldn’t sleep, and cleaning relaxes her sometimes, so here she is.
Santana still hasn’t spoken to her since what happened out on the fire escape, and Rachel honestly doesn’t know if she’s put two and two together yet. There’s really no other explanation for why she would’ve went off on Santana about her relations with Quinn Fabray. Nothing other than jealousy. Though, somehow, Santana always manages to come up with a conflicting reason that correlates to what’s actually going on.
Rachel can’t wait to hear what the other girl grabs out of thin air this time.
Everyone started trickling out of their loft about an hour ago, leaving the place a hot mess, but Kurt is fast and neat, so it didn’t take too long to get the house back in order.
Santana had headed out with Noah, Mercedes, and Quinn to spend the night at his hotel room, and Rachel was offered to come along, of course, but she’d declined after seeing the look on Santana’s face when Noah extended the invitation. It would’ve been nice to catch up with her friends more, but Kurt needed help cleaning up, and it would’ve been rude to leave him with all the work.
Rachel’s scrubbing out a greasy pan when she hears footsteps slowly padding around the island. “I can hear you, if you’re trying to frighten me,” she says, and then glances over her shoulder with a smirk.
“Oh drat. You caught me,” Kurt says dryly, rolling his eyes, because he obviously had no intent in scaring her. “What are you doing up so late—or shall I say, early?”
She never really went to bed, so late, she supposes. “I could ask you the same thing.”
There’s more padding around the kitchen, and then Kurt’s right beside her, picking up her soapy hands and wiping them off with a dry towel. “Put the dishes down, Rachel,” he says, when she refuses to let go with her other hand.
He smiles and splashes water at her. “Ah, stop, Kurt,” she squeals, dropping the plate in the dish rack.
Kurt drags her away from the sink and out of the kitchen. “Then be obedient and come with me.”
He sits her on the couch, and then plops down beside her. Rachel raises a brow, because usually when he tugs her away from the dishes, he either takes over, or he brings her to bed. Neither of that has happened yet.
“Why do I feel like I’m about to hear the talk?’ she asks, because he’s looking at her like her dads had right before telling her about safe sex and contraceptives and self-respect, and Rachel really doesn’t need to have another experience like that until she’s discussing the subject with her own children.
Kurt looks mildly uncomfortable as he scratches at his elbow through his sleep shirt. “It was really nice what you did, inviting Quinn to Santana’s party today,” he says, because Rachel hadn’t told him she was going to do that. It was really just a spur of the moment thing, and it didn’t require bringing up, in her opinion. The less she has to talk about that girl the better. “I just,” Kurt continues, clearly struggling for words. “It was very mature of you to do that, especially in regard to how much distaste you acquire for the girl.”
Distaste is an understatement, but Rachel decides not to voice her envious thoughts. Instead, she pastes on a smile and then nods. “Quinn’s always been a close friend of hers, and somehow I highly doubted Brittany would be able to make it,” she murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It was really nothing.”
Except that’s a lie, because pressing send on that email had been one of the hardest and most selfless actions she’s made in a long time, or maybe even ever. It feels like she’s been lying to everyone these days, including her own reflection in the mirror. And now she’s lying to Kurt, who’s always been the one to see right through her.
He arches an eyebrow. There’s a challenging tone to his voice when he says, “You know, there’s always been an odd tension between you and Quinn, but it’s different now. It’s…one-sided. While Quinn is fine, you seem to be a little on edge, Rachel. Is it just me, or—”
“It’s just you,” Rachel rushes to say, and then clears her throat when her voice cracks on the last word.
Kurt’s silent for a long moment, eyes squinted thoughtfully, and Rachel shivers against the temperature contrast in the room. The apartment is cool, but her body feels hot all of a sudden.
Sighing through his nose, Kurt bites down on the corner of his lip and then says, “Rachel, sweetie, this started off as sweet and…” he trails off, searching for the right words, “and…endearing, even, but I can't continue to stand by and watch you torture yourself any longer."
Rachel plays his words back, but all she’s left with is confusion. “I’m sorry, but what…what are you implying, Kurt?”
"You're in love with Santana,” he says bluntly.
She’s never heard the words repeated back to her, and it sounds almost as ridiculous as it has in her head this entire time. You’re in love with Santana. Although this realization and fact is always there in the back of her head—and heart—it still tends to rattle her when the words are said aloud.
Kurt’s always been naturally astute and irritatingly nosy, so it’s not too much of a surprise that he knows, or at least has an idea of how she feels, but some part of Rachel—the defensive and embarrassed part of her—wants to deny it to no end.
She tries to laugh off his words, but it gets caught in her throat and ends up sounding more like a high-pitched squeal. “No, that’s…” she says, still smiling weakly, so weak that it hurts her cheekbones. “In love…with Santana? Kurt, that is just—"
"Absurd? Insane? Crazy?” he lists off, eyebrows raised to his hairline. “Yes, I completely agree, but that doesn't make it any less true."
Rachel stares at him, doe-eyed and a little bit hurt before nodding silently, because she doesn’t know what else to do in response to that critical remark. Her heart is racing, and she feels a bit cornered, but she can tell by the look on Kurt’s face that he understands. He’s never been in love with his lesbian roommate, but all unrequited love stings with the same balance of pain and sweetness.
Tears brim at the corner of her eyes, but she pushes them away and lets out an empty laugh. It’s dark and hollow, but at least this one is real, and it comes from deep down within the depths of her clenching stomach.
“How did you know?" she asks him, glancing up with a trembling smile.
Kurt offers her a smile back, one just as weary and sad. “Well, for one, I'm not nearly as clueless as our roommate,” he jokes softly, resting a comforting hand on her knee. The touch distantly reminds her to keep breathing. “And it's kind of written all over your face half the time. Either Santana's just that blind, or she's choosing to ignore it."
Rachel sighs, and in a small voice, “You think she knows?”
"Honestly? No. I think she has no idea,” Kurt tells her, which should probably make her feel better, but it only succeeds in dampening her mood even further.
If Santana had at least an idea, then all of the flirting and fleeting glances and small smiles might’ve meant something this entire time, but if Santana really has no idea…then it’s meant nothing. Nothing but goofing off and quick looks and meaningless smirks.
“I know you probably don't want to hear this, Rachel, but it's something you need to hear.” Kurt takes her hand, and it’s reassuring, but nothing like what Santana’s touch makes her feel. “She doesn't like you the way you like her or else she would've done something about it by now. If it's one thing I'm positive about, it's that Santana doesn't shy away from what she wants. She goes after them."
Rachel wants to move away from him for making her feel like this, for telling her truths she’s never wanted to face, but instead she squeezes his hand even tighter as her lower lip trembles pathetically. “Why are you telling me this?” she practically whispers, and then wipes away a tear with her free hand.
“As bad as it sounds, I'm trying to crush your hopes,” he admits, wincing guiltily. “It can be a very dangerous thing if you let it bloom for too long. You need to let this go, Rachel."
A sob racks through her body as more tears dampen her cheeks. She doesn’t wipe them away this time. They’re falling too fast, and Rachel’s much too tired to do anything about it. Kurt’s seen her cry before—over a million times about Finn Hudson—but it’s obvious he’s not expecting this influx of emotion over Santana Lopez. His eyes widen apologetically as he hurriedly brings her into his arms.
“Oh, Rachel, sweetie,” he coos into her ear, rubbing at her back as she hiccups through her cries.
Rachel always feels so small in his embrace. Kurt’s definitely grown since they were sophomores in high school, and she only ever notices it when he hugs her like this, arms wrapped tightly around her body as she shakes and sobs into his shoulder.
“What do you think I've been trying to do this entire time?” Rachel cries, coming up for air. She sniffles and then rubs at her red nose, and Kurt looks at her brokenly as he hands her a handkerchief from out his pocket. “I tried to get over her. I did, I really tried,” she rambles on, wiping at her raw eyes. “You think I want to always feel like I'm second best, Kurt? She slept with Quinn, one of her best friends, so it has nothing to do with her not wanting to ruin our friendship.”
Rachel takes a deep breath, because she’s getting hysterical, and her throat is starting to hurt from her sobbing. Bowing her head, she pinches a loose strand of fabric from off of her jeans and sighs.
“I guess I'm just not what she wants."
“More the reason to move on, Rachel,” Kurt says, and Rachel nods in silent agreement as she looks up to find he has tears in his eyes too, and she feels bad, because she really didn’t mean to make him cry.
Kurt is actually happy with what’s going on in his life. He’s got a boyfriend he loves, he’s one of the lead singers in the Adam’s Apples, and Cole is finally starting to listen to his ideas in regard to the costumes for Hairspray.
It’s been a very long time since Rachel’s felt entirely secure with her life and her friends and herself. Kurt’s happy. Rachel wants to be happy too. She wants to stop hoping for something she knows will never be. Kurt’s right. It’s a begrudging admittance, but it’s true. It’s gotten to the point where she just can’t anymore.
Trying has become too hard and exhausting, and it’s time to do something new.
It’s time to move on.