Chapter Text
Santana honestly didn’t know what she expected to change over the summer. Sure, she was casually optimistic when she ended up walking through McKinley’s car park without even getting tossed in a dumpster or being asked about her super imaginary carpet munching over the summer. This was a minor win. She even ended up at her locker without everyone zipping up an imaginary hazmat suit – a major win, in her books – but this was until she spotted that she-devil Quinn Fabray and her equally evil companion Kurt Hummel walking towards her, with matching grins and ice sloshing over the sides of their Big Gulp slushie cups.
“Fuck.” Santana moans at the sight of them, “Can I at least take off my jacket first?”
Quinn smiles, “Sure.”
Santana sighs and crumples her flannel shirt up on the top of the lockers, “Okay, whatever. Go for it.”
Santana closes her eyes and braces for impact, but before she can get bathed in blue raspberry ice, that hack of a Spanish teacher comes bumbling past, smile happy and welcoming, and she thinks for just a moment, that she might just be able to get to first period un-assaulted.
But then he just keeps walking, blissfully unaware as always.
“Hey Quinn, just started reading your report on "que hace el verano pasado”, sounds great so far!” He chimes happily, before he stops to notice Santana behind the two, “Oh! My star pupil, ¿Qué onda Santana?”
“Just getting a warm welcome from my two fave Cheerios.” Santana snarks, glaring at Quinn and Kurt.
Mr. Schue quirks his lips at the three of them, like they’re the cutest rag tag trio of kids he’s ever seen, before sounding off a quick, “That’s great!” and scurrying away, with his preppy little jacket thrown over his arm. God, Santana hates him.
“Well, I wouldn’t call it warm, Santana.” Kurt smiles, and wow, what an awful fucking line. Santana wants to wipe the grin off his face with a well-placed uppercut she learnt from her time in Lima Heights, but she knew it’d end up with her polishing Ms. Sylvester’s trophy case with a toothbrush and dry cleaning her tracksuits one thread at a time. Damn the Cheerios’ immunity.
Before she can even call out the lame ass quip, she hears a callous, “Welcome back, dyke!” and ice cold slushie covers her face, making her gasp. Blue syrup seeps down her collar and into her t-shirt. The sound of plastic cups clatter on the newly cleaned linoleum floors. Kurt and Quinn must slip into the crowd of people immediately after because they’re gone when Santana wipes the slush from around her eyes with a wet sigh. The throngs of students move around her and the slushie cups, as if her existence is decorative. And while Santana would never admit it aloud, the ignorance hurt. Maybe her hope that people would’ve changed over the summer was childish and naïve, because she knew that this kind of relentless bullying is just typical for being McKinley High’s token lesbian.
---
Kurt loves being a Cheerio. He loves the power that comes from it. He likes walking down the hallway and watching people scramble out of his way. One time, a senior accidentally spilt his lunch on him in freshman year, and he went straight to Sue about it and the kid was placed on janitor work - for a whole month! It was kind of awesome. Kurt doesn’t even know if he graduated. He really could care less about the diets and the back handsprings because it’s all fluff for what he really loves - and that’s power.
This road to utmost dominance includes, as Noah would put it, “bullying dweebs”. The slushie machine that was installed earlier this year is one method of extreme torture that Kurt didn’t expect to get cleared - something about cruel and unusual punishment springs to mind - but the footballers are apparently extremely beguiling when they want something, especially when they win their first game all season. He isn’t sure about it, but he won’t question it. It’s really not his place.
Quinn hums softly to herself, “Do you think slushies actually hurt? Like, are they painful?”
“Not sure.” Kurt snorts, “Am not interested in checking either.”
“Hey guys!” Blaine bounds up to them, sidling up to Kurt with a big grin. As per the usual for all footballers, he wears his jersey proudly over the top of a black polo and blue jeans which makes Kurt hum appreciatively - nothing awfully preppy there. Blaine is improving. Not a bowtie in sight, but then again, Blaine’s bowties are steadfastly tucked away in a plastic container under Kurt’s bed. He had to give up something for Lent – and every day past that. But Blaine can be incredibly absent-minded so Kurt wouldn’t put it past him to conveniently “forget” his pledge to buy more. “How was your summer, Quinn?”
“Hey, Blaine,” Quinn smiles politely at him, “Nothing exciting. I volunteered at my church a few times, visited some fancy dinners with my parents… what about you?”
Blaine shrugs sheepishly, “Nothing, really. I… burnt… some brownies… um, my brother came down to visit. That was fun, I think. Saw Kurt and some of the football guys.”
Kurt nods, “It was another summer, and now It’s just another semester.”
“Just another semester.” Blaine agrees, grinning.
---
Rachel Berry deserves every single ounce of bullying she gets. Santana wants to take photos of her from long distances, put them on sasquatch hunting forums and tell people she found an extremely small Bigfoot dressed in her grandmother’s clothes. She wants to figure out a way to balance a bucket of cement on the door and have it fall on her - wet or otherwise like she’s a fucking Tom & Jerry skit. She wants to proceed to laugh at her after this and continue to sneer in her direction. Santana hates Rachel Berry and everything she has to offer.
Santana didn’t speak at all to Rachel in freshman year, not a fucking word, but that doesn’t mean she never had to listen to Rachel yap on - because she never shuts the fuck up. Rachel interrupts every lesson with inane personal trivia about herself. Rachel pointed out a mole on a random girl she had never met and warned her to get it checked out for cancer. Rachel started every sentence when they learnt about World War II with, “As a Jew,”. Sometimes, Santana would laugh at the comments Quinn and her legion of blonde sycophants would leave on her MySpace, at least until Santana gets another private message from a new account calling her an abomination.
Regardless, Rachel Berry still sucks. What makes her even worse is that she’s suddenly the lead of the Glee club that the chump Schue took over from the creep Ryerson. Santana was excited for a minute, because she likes singing and she certainly likes being the center of attention for something other than her sexuality. This is before she is totally confronted with the fact that show choir is actually totally lame for a reason, and now the lineup is the lamest this school has to offer. It’s just a girl who can’t get through a word with stuttering herself into a panic attack, a guy who can’t dance, not because of his lack of rhythm, but because of his lack of a functioning spinal cord, a black girl Santana doesn’t know the name of, and Berry, who just stormed out in a huff like this is America’s Next Top Model or some shit.
“I am not going to be the Rowland to Rachel’s Beyonce.” Santana snarks at Schue, who pinches at his brow with a frown.
“Look, guys…”
“No, you look. This stupid club is the only thing stopping me from completely checking out the moment I step foot in this school. I’m not letting her get away with being a total selfish brat every time she doesn’t get her way in something I actually care about..”
Schue sighs, “I’ll talk to her.”
He walks out the door, shoulders a little tense, and once he’s gone, Santana groans loudly. Black-girl-who-she-doesn’t-know-the-name-of-yet comes out to pat her shoulder soothingly, “You took the words out of my mouth, Santana.”
Santana looks at her with a raised eyebrow, “Really?”
She kind of had the impression that everyone in this school either refused to admit she existed or just wanted to bother her until she stopped. That and that they’re all classless morons who will be stuck washing her and her very beautiful wife’s delicates.
“And that Destiny’s Child reference? Classic.”
Santana scoffs, “I was just saying what everyone was thinking. Girl thinks she’s, like, the main character of show choir or some shit…”
“S-someone needed to say it.” Stutter girl stutters out, “A-and it c-couldn’t be me, ‘cuz, well, t-the obvious.”
“Well then. Looks like we’re allies then.” Santana’s lips quirk up teasingly, “And, well, I wanted to be nice about it, but I honestly don’t remember any of your names. Sorry.”
---
Rachel comes back, and she’s not alone either. Santana honestly would’ve preferred if the homeless guy who barks at people at the public library walked onto the auditorium over fucking Finn Hudson. The guy’s a total douche, Santana knows this because he and his braindead friends nailed all the lawn furniture to her roof last year. Her dad didn’t even own a ladder. She had to scale up the side of the house like a fucking spider monkey to pull it all back down, and she doesn’t even know how they got her address. It was probably Figgins.
Schue and Rachel spend the entire start of practice cajoling Finn into a performance of some song from a movie she could give less of a damn about. Rachel dances around Finn in a way that even a blind man could see what exactly she wants from him, and then, blessedly, Mercedes puts it all to an end when she yells unexpectedly about being a background singer.
“I ain’t no Kelly Rowland.” She bites.
“Twinning…” Santana murmurs, earning a wink from Mercedes.
“Okay, look, Mercedes, it’s just one song.” Schue reasons.
Tina nods furiously and adds, “A-and we actually s-sound pretty g-good.”
Mercedes sighs, defeated, before she slides back into position with a harsh-worded warning against Finn, which earns a smile from Will as they perform the song one more time. Santana just rolls her eyes and mimes shooting herself at Mercedes for the rest of the practice. She makes Mercedes giggle at least three times. The thought of actually making a new friend puts an unexpected warmth in her chest.
---
“Finn joined Homo Explosion.” Noah announces randomly on the bleachers, crowding Kurt and Blaine, who were previously huddling and laughing at a video on Blaine’s new iPhone… Look, the screen’s bigger than his Blackberry, okay? Nothing untoward about it.
“What explosion?” Blaine asks, pausing the video abruptly, making Kurt frown.
“He joined that gay glee club!” Noah asserts, “You know, the club for gay people? They’re totally going to make him gay!”
Kurt squints his eyes, “You can’t make someone gay just from joining a club.”
“Um, hello, it happened to Elton John? Do you think he was always gay? No, he played the piano first, then he started liking dick.” Noah rubs his neck, becoming more sheepish by Kurt and Blaine’s combined stunned scrutiny, “That’s what my ma told me at least. Anyway, we’re going to hire paintball guns and fire them at him anyway. You guys in?”
“Wouldn’t that hurt?” Blaine asks, concerned.
“You are such a softie, man, you never do anything fun.”
Kurt agrees internally, Blaine’s idea of fun is one of those puzzles where every piece is essentially the same and trying to figure the placement based on shape alone.
“Kurt? You’re in, though, right?”
Blaine looks at him dubiously, and Kurt completely understands with that look in his eyes, he’s pleading him not to, but Kurt’s resigned to admitting that Blaine’s warnings have a twenty-five-percent effectiveness rating, and it’s not like he has anything to owe to Finn Hudson of all people. He’s… an annoying idiot.
Kurt looks away and shrugs, “Sure.”
---
“Alright, that is it. Someone hold my earrings, I’m ‘bout go all Lima Heights on this bitch,” Santana snarls, pulling off her hoop earrings as Rachel squeals.
“Just because you can’t get the steps right does not mean you have to be hostile with me!”
“Oh, you want to see how hostile I can get?” Santana spits, “Huh, hobbit? ‘Cause I will ends you.”
“This is such a mess.” Artie mutters.
“Geez, calm down. Everyone, calm down!” Finn calls as he tumbles on stage, feet just barely managing not to trip over one another, “What the hell’s going on?”
“Finn, you’re here… I knew you’d come for me.” Rachel murmurs reverently, before her voice goes hard, “Get her out of here. Santana, that is.”
Finn scratches his head, “Uh, I came for the club but…”
“Oh, look, it’s Prince Charming with the fucking two left feet!”
“Look, I’m sorry.” Finn mutters, “I shouldn’t have quit. I don’t want to be that guy who drives around throwing eggs at people just ‘cause they’re a little different or… whatever.”
“Wait, you did that?” Rachel asks.
Santana snorts, “You and your friends put a dead mouse in my locker.”
“That… that wasn’t actually me…” Finn starts hesitantly, before he ends up showing some actual leadership skills that end up impressing Santana, at least a little bit. She always thought he was a figurehead quarterback who had a hell of a lot of brawn and not much brain. They end up covering some old song for white men from the 80s, but honestly, in the end, she can’t admit that she didn’t have fun. It was… enjoyable but she’d sure as hell never admit that to Finn, Rachel or Schue, who of which, miraculously ended up staying to watch their performance and immediately taking his leadership back from Finn and Rachel - thank God. At this - Santana shares a private smile with Mercedes, before staring at her white trainers, the smile still intact.
Maybe she still has a little bit of hope for things to change. Maybe.
---
“They were pretty good… the New Directions, that is.” Blaine mentions innocently after Quinn ran off to her car, probably going to stage a call with Finn and try to catch him lying so she can get mad at him. She’s particularly devious in a way that Kurt would hate to be on the opposite end of.
Kurt hums, “You saw Quinn, Sue and I then.”
“You saw me?”
“I could notice those curls anywhere.” Kurt ruffles them as they walk outside together, watching as the air curls the hairs around his fingers.
Blaine hums quietly, “Do you ever think of joining? Together?”
“Why are you bringing this up?” Kurt frowns, pushing his hands back into his pockets, “I sing like a girl. You know that. I’d probably get laughed out of the country, or at least slushied ‘til my skin turned blue. So, no. I’m not.”
“You sound beautiful.” Blaine utters with complete sincerity, which honestly makes Kurt feel a little sick to acknowledge.
Kurt laughs nervously, “You make it sound so gay.”
“Sorry.” Blaine mumbles, “But seriously, would you get upset if I auditioned?”
Kurt stops to look at him, a few steps ahead of him, and knows Blaine’s being completely honest. He loves singing, Kurt knows this from the thousands of cover videos on Blaine’s laptop that he’s too scared to post online in case he gets found out like Berry did. They sing together sometimes, small things in the safety of Blaine’s bedroom, where no one will bother them, or make fun of them for it. He has an image to maintain, they both do, and Kurt will do anything to keep them pristine.
So, with a sigh, Kurt keeps walking, “It’s not something you should be thinking about, Blaine.”