Too Cold to Care, Too Sick to Shout [Brittana p.1]

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when she was seven, she promised to be a knight
for the pretty little blonde with heartbreak eyes
and an unguarded smile.

little did she know, that some days
knights need saving too.

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Day One
5: 47 am, Thursday
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While the sun has not yet risen over the ever-present horizon, a set of chocolate eyes slowly stir wakefulness into the rest of their attached parts. Each measured rise and fall of an elegant chest drags the unwilling conscious into orbit, shredding the last vestiges of sleep and exposing the mind to the numbing boredom of another day filled with books, idiots and abusive coaches.

Inside the twisted sheets, Santana wakes.

It's a slow start at first – not a careening lurch towards full-bodied mobility (god, nothing in the world would make her do that) but as soon as a hand reaches out to slap the alarm and realizes that it's strangely loud for something that should have just started, bleary orbs flick over to the luminescent crimson numbers with a hint of unease. Blink. Once, twice. Stare with a certain degree of disbelief, before exploding out of bed in a display of energy never before witnessed.
It seems only the ominous warning of 'Sue Sylvester' can get one out of bed that quickly.

“Mierda!” rings out loud through the house, followed by a faint and ignored warning of 'language, mija!'. Feet slam with lacking grace through the hallways, and a moment later the door smashing shut vibrates throughout the sleeping walls. The latina yanks angrily at the shower's knob and quickly high-steps out of her pajamas, simultaneously sending a rapid text message and barely waiting for the chipper beep before hopping in. Santana grimaces at the feel of lukewarm water running down her taut body still fuzzy from slumber, but rakes fingers through the soaked mane of inky tresses. The job is quick and rushed, but she slows down for a moment as her fingers ache quietly in protest of the rapid movements. She thinks it entirely unfair that she has to shower before practice – isn't she just going to get all gross again anyway? - and flexes them absentmindedly, pushing a hand from her steam filled haven as a shrill chime interrupts the melodious patter of falling water.

silly san. u still need a ride?

She doesn't realize she's smiling until liquid dribbles in from the corner of her mouth, immediately smoothing her expression into amused neutral (what if somebody's watching?) and fingers flicking quickly over the foggy screen.

of course.

Hesitation. Does she really want them both to be late and risk Coach's wrath? If she's not the only one, maybe all of the psychotic woman's anger won't be directed solely on her. Practice starts in twenty minutes, and she ideally needs another half hour to get ready.
… screw it.

pick me up in ten.

Santana cranks the water off to nothing more than a pathetic dribble, wrapping a towel tightly around her head and skidding out of the bathroom. Her middle finger is raised to the offended cry of her brother seeing his sister naked in plain sight – she smirks, maybe he'll grow up to be mentally scarred. or gay. - with seemingly no shame. Perhaps flawed, her reasoning is always something along the lines of: hey, if you've got a body like this, flaunt it for all it's worth. She pulls on the form-fitting Cheerios outfit and subconsciously tugs so that it sits just low enough on her womanhips to expose the flat plains of her stomach and a tantalizing glimpse below if she raises her arms enough. The knowledge that Puck's shoulders are large and much higher above hers makes her smile a secret little grin, pulling her now damp tresses into a loose ponytail that swishes high on her scalp.

While her house has just started to rise save for her mother, her steps are quick as she charges down the stairs and casts a longing eye at the refrigerator. She hesitates for a second, before remember the burning bile that creeps up and the foul stench that requires vicious scrubbing to banish. Her throat is still sore from the previous day, and she really doesn't want to repeat so soon. While all the cheerleaders speak the international language of fat, it really isn't worth the guilt cycle. Santana skips breakfast in hopes of losing that last tiny bit of chub she knows is lurking around there somewhere.

Her phone trills again and she slides it open, mouth twitching when the picture of Brittany pulling a face appears on-screen.

hey! i'm up front. I know u didn't eat 2day, so I got ur favourite coffee from sb's!

This time, dark lips pull upwards with no resistance. Sometimes the blonde knows her better than she knows herself.

---
6:12 am, Thursday
---

“Lopez, Pierce! LATE! Five laps around the track before starting!” Santana scowls but keeps her face carefully hidden from the insane woman glaring down from the bleachers, slowly jogging to the outskirts of the track with the blonde hot on her heels. They slide down to stretch in companionable silence, legs splayed out in wide stances and arms pulled down to their ankles. The latina casts an eye of approval at Brittany's form; the way her spine arches and makes her chest pop out in all the right ways is most desirable. Still, she ignores the twinge in her groin (and in her heart) before letting out a stream of air and sliding down completely into the splits, shifting uncomfortably with the strain.

“Sorry.” she mutters quietly as her hands creep forward to pull her body to the ground, muscles groaning at the rude awakening. There is the feeling more than visual of stickybright blue eyes turning onto her, clear even through the ungodly hours of the morning.

“Why?” Brittany inquires, dipping down to further increase the tug in her hamstrings.

“For making you late.” This is Santana and she never apologizes to anybody whether they deserve it or not, but you must take into account that this is also Brittany who makes her heart melt just a little bit every time she smiles. She steadfastly ignores the jolt of electricity that coruscates through her veins whenever the dutch girl's skin manages to brush against her's, frowning and repeating the mantra she herself instated from the get-go. Sex is not dating. “That's okay. I like running with you.” Santana's eyebrows shoot up – though the sun hasn't yet risen to make the heat unbearable, it's still warm enough to make a thin sheen of perspiration stick her tight Cheerios top to her back.

“Why?” An impish smile, and the graceful dancer gets up to begin her punishment.

“Because you're hot when you're sweaty.”

She canters away leaving the dark-skinned girl to roll her eyes but grin quietly. Something about her light counterpart makes her bad mood disappear, no matter how foul. For a moment she remains in that position, not admitting to admiring the shifting of muscles from under peach skin.

“I didn't pick you to daydream, Lopez!” Sylvester's voice roars from her bullhorn. The interference just before it's raised to her lips is something every cheerleader has learned to fear, and Santana quickly scrambles to her feet to begin jogging after her friend. Once caught up they quickly fall into rhythm, eyes unseeing save for the track that winds endlessly beneath the identical sneakers. Her breath quickly burns in her lungs but it feels good, like she's accomplishing something that makes her into a somebody. That feeling of euphoria generally goes away after the first forty-five minutes of constant cardio and repeat flips, one after the other in rapid succession, but for now she'll remain in this little bubble of complete determination. The slight frown playing along the angles of the taller girl's face mirrors the effect they both feel, and the two cheerleaders lapse into a steady tempo of heavy breathing and feet slapping against tarmac.

After the third lap Santana notices that with each step she takes, her knees murmur quietly in protest. She grits her jaw and carries on, but Brittany observes the clenched fists with a small degree of worry; she certainly doesn't reach out in risk of shattering this fragile balance they have, just the two of them. With a degree of willpower she can block out the ache that lingers in the backs of her consciousness – all too aware of Coach Sylvester's critical eye scanning for any sign of weakness. That woman sees all, and any flaw in perfection is readily pounced upon and torn apart. By the last lap it has descended into tingling, and she pushes it away completely.

They all gather in for another round of berating before the practice even begins; Brittany lays a concerned hand on her best friend's bicep. “You okay?”
Santana nods tightly, not wanting to admit her temporary pain.
Brittany lets it go. For now.

---

Practice is as painful as it is humiliating – in an effort to learn what she calls 'team-effort' (the brunette thinks it's a thinly veiled plot to see them flounder around for her own personal amusement) Sylvester had Santana on the receiving end of the weight for half of practice, and she almost dropped a freshman because she had to shake out her fingers. Maybe she slept on them today or something, and blood circulation's just coming back. It can happen, she's seen it on House.

Everything burns and school hasn't even started yet, so she trudges to the showers with a certain foreboding for the rest of the day. She can't even muster up the ability to utilize her vicious trademark smirk when Quinn is called over to receive a rather brutal ear-lashing from Coach. Though she flinches when the searingly hot water strokes along her bruised form, Santana soon relaxes into the embrace and tugs happily on the constricting binding that holds her hair out of her face. Other girls wander in and out but they stay away from the latina, knowing by now her reputation for, well, just about anything. A flash of golden hair from the corner of her eyes alerts her to another presence, and all it takes is the quiet shuffling for a sigh to be pulled from her lips.

“B, stop it.” It's not unusual for them to be able to communicate without words. They're bound with such a thick tie that many people twice their age don't achieve such a meaningful relationship; all it takes is a simple glance and positioning of the body to allow insight into exactly what they're thinking. It's much easier this way – Santana doesn't really like to talk all mushy and Brittany says words confuse her. She much rather likes to move. “I'm fine. I was just a bit sore this morning, that's all.”

The taller girl weighs it carefully, taking in her dismissive and slightly irritated tone. It's bad to get her annoyed, but occasionally she can't help but worry. Santana is her knight in shining armor, but sometimes even knights need to take a break from that wall they construct around themselves. Still, she smiles and nods, giving a gentle squeeze to the other's hands. Brittany frowns when it prompts a slight wince almost completely covered up. However, per the silent warning in those onyx eyes, she lets it be and simply enjoys the quiet patter of mechanical rain.

---
10: 27 am, Thursday
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The chalk scratching at the worn black-board lulls Santana into a sub-catatonic state, staring sightlessly at the open book sprawled on her desk. Her pen lays limply in her grasp and droops to almost tap the wooden surface, papers whispering as she slowly folds onto them. While her breathing is a measured rhythm, her thoughts have been sedated to a barely coherent crawl – muscles shutting down one by one as they succumb to the sudden bout of exhaustion that has taken her completely by unwanted surprise. Even her fingers seem too heavy to bother moving, so trapped in this hold that the idea doesn't even come to her to look somewhat awake. The scratching stops but she doesn't yet notice, too caught up in her own little world until the teacher calls her name for the third time.

“Santana!”

He snaps, appalled by how she doesn't respond to his (rather quite loud) urging. With a superhuman effort she pushes herself up on her elbows and watches him through a lidded gaze, trying desperately to urge away the bleariness without blinking and giving herself away. They lock eyes as the class hushes silent; a confrontation with the dark-skinned cheerleader is always something entertaining.

“Do you mind telling me what fatal error the Soviet Union made in the Cold War?” She stares blankly for a few moments before scanning the board – notes litter the cloudy wall while her sheets remain ominously silent. A quick glance to the clock reveals she's been sleeping for a little over twenty minutes, but it's as if she had just laid down her head before roused once more into the waking world. All her consciousness – whatever is awake at this moment, which isn't much – scrabbles for a sharp reply that would have her out of this damn classroom and on a one-way trip to the principal's office. Still, nothing comes in her time of need and she instead plasters on a scowl, snapping her mouth shut firmly to prevent anything that could be taken as weakness to stumble forth. Everything is blurred and slick to the touch, so she silently takes her bag and slings it over her shoulder. As she's about to step out of the door she turns and watches, a faint smirk playing along the edges of her lips.

“Not really. But I think a fatal error was letting you teach.”

The class sighs in relief; Santana has delivered, and the cycle goes on.
She stalks out of the classroom with shaky steps, digging aching fingertips into her temple in order to try and stay alert. Only her pride that's often too big for her head stops her from curling into a ball on the floor, weighed down with invisible pounds like she's carrying that damn bitch Lauren. A palm grinds hard into the socket of her eye but it doesn't do anything to alleviate the weariness – she wavers in her destination and slams hard into a locker before stumbling back on course. Clouded with cobwebs, the latina barely notices the change in scenery until a hot wave of air blasts her in the face.

Grimacing at the suffocating furnace now that the sun has decided to bombard the state with rays, she drags her feet along the cobbled path to the back of the school. Where am I going? she shrugs off her own question and instead gropes awkwardly at a shiny latch that suddenly appears in her frame of vision. A momentary struggle with numb arms before the metal door swings wide, and Santana gratefully stumbles into darkness.

Her back hits the hard wall with a muted thud, and she allows her feet to be pushed out from under her as she seats herself down slowly on the worn mattress. Brittany found this place not a little while back on of her familiar absentminded escapades, and within days they had crowned the small space their own. Posters litter the walls, along with a spare set of clothes, pillows and snacks. Perhaps she should be worried about this sudden collapse, but her fingers hurt and her knees hurt and everything is just so tired that she barely has time to realize the sheets – cool and crisp against her sunwarmed skin – still smell like Brittany before she tumbles willingly into aphotic slumber.

---
1:35 pm, Thursday
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There are many things that Brittany does not understand. Math makes her head throb, and sheet music can blur together with all the notes in the wrong places. She often gets her words mixed up with things they shouldn't mean, and sometimes gets lost in the neighbourhood she's grown up in for her whole life. It's not unusual for one of her neighbours to hear the doorbell ring and be greeted with an eyeful of confused blonde, shifting from foot to foot with a sheepish grin plastered on her elegant face. They smile, shake their heads and direct her on her way. But for all of these things, Brittany is not simple or stupid.

Sure, people think she's dumb. She hears the snickers when nobody thinks she's listening, or the offhanded comments that aren't supposed to hurt, but do regardless. In truth, she just prefers to think with her body and let her mind catch up. It's simple to gyrate in time to the music that throbs from the speakers (one, two, shimmy and dip. never put thought into your action, that makes it fake. you must feel in order to dance) and let sensuality do the talking. When she finally graduates, there isn't going to be some fancy scholarship waiting for her like Rachel or Artie or Quinn. No, she's going to do what she does best. Dance. And though it's an activity where nobody can argue her dominance, there is a single subject that trumps even that art put into motion.

Santana.

No matter how much or little she understands, she will always know Santana.

It's an unspoken fact that the Dutch knows the shorter cheerleader better than anybody else, and most probably even herself. They don't need to speak to each other; a lingering touch means affection when saddened, and the casual brush of fingers along the lower back to soothe tension and the urge to ripsmashdestroy (unsurprisingly, it is Santana that is always on the receiving end). Perhaps their beings are intertwined, but when Brittany peers into her future, she is always there. Her friends, family and surroundings change, but the latina is always standing with a cocky smirk and raised eyebrow, seeming to ask well, what did you expect?

She runs her lithe fingers absently along the dark screen of her phone, frowning lightly when the digital clock ticks to 1:38. This has been the third message she's sent, and she never fails to receive a reply. Even if her phone's dead, the brunette steals some unlucky student's device (and one even the teacher's) to type out an explanation to her favourite friend, followed by their daily meetings that involve cutting class and letting go of pent-up sexual frustration. No matter how much Santana would avoid admitting it, Brittany sees that Puck doesn't give her the release she needs to go about her day. The shorter girl is a sex fiend by nature, and being with one guy isn't in her repertoire. Certainly not when she has an eager blonde with piano digits and a seeking mouth eager to devour the caramel skin presented without a flash of hesitation.

Another glance at the clock confirms her thoughts that something is wrong; it's already 1:40 and yet her screen remains ominously dull throughout the equally lifeless lesson. Math is her worst subject besides Spanish – though if Santana was the teacher she'd understand. Just listening to her go on in her fluid, native tongue makes the words take shape without effort inside her muddled thoughts.

Brittany raises her hand in the middle of the teacher's speech about numbers and expeditions (honestly, what does that have to do with calculus?) and he eyes her with more than a hint of trepidation. They've learned to fear the lanky arm that comes with a strange question, whether it would be why his hair looks like a rat or why he's writing Klingon on the board (with wrong spelling, none the less). He sighs and gestures to her, one chalk covered hand letting out a little puff of dust that chokes the students in the first row. “Yes, Brittany?” She smiles brightly and motions to the door, watching him with the glassy expression they've come to associate with her. In reality they're very much clear, people are just unable to see past the daydreaming gaze and into the person inside.

“Can I go to the bathroom?” He's relieved to not have to try and battle out another half-hour of why the square root of four isn't rainbows – should she be placed in special care? – and gestures for her to leave, not even bothering to see her pick up the stylish backpack and stride gracefully from the classroom in a flurry of blonde locks.

Once out of the suffocating smell of chalk and learning, it takes a moment for the tall cheerleader to orientate herself in McKinley's winding halls. She stretches sore muscles and strikes out in a random direction, hoping to run into a door that would lead her outside. Brittany has an unusual knack for getting too lost in her thoughts, so it doesn't take long until the outside world becomes nothing more than a quiet blur.

Cheerios practice was one word: painful. Painful to watch, anyway. Santana's movements were stiff and limited, and she thinks even Quinn realized how she'd clench her fists after holding something (or someone) for a long period of time. Coach pushes them beyond what their limits should be in order to retain sanity and bone structure, but today had a decidedly different air. Upon thinking back, Brittany can't remember anything that would push her friend into such a state. They hadn't done anything strenuous the other day – Sundays were always lazy in an effort to forget the impending doom of school that looms above their heads. They hadn't drunk or had vicious amounts of sex, and the latina was usually good at shrugging off whatever lingering aches would travel over from the previous night. It had to be something recent. She flicks her fingers quickly across the well-worn keypad of her precious phone (she's finally kept track of this one for more than two months) and sends another message in hopes of receiving an answer.

where are u, S? it's late
She knows she won't.

Instead she veers off-course – if she even had a course to start with – and heads outside, barely batting an eye when the glaring sun soaks down into the reds and whites of her uniform. No matter what Santana may feel for her, Brittany is certain that she will always stay by her shorter friend's side; even when she won't admit to needing her. She's addicted to the electricity that sparks when they touch, and it's not just her overactive imagination.. She notices with perhaps a sinful amount of satisfaction the conflicted expression that rises whenever an unexpected brush of limbs occur. While it gets harder to swallow the hurt that appears whenever the dark cheerleader reminds her that sex is not dating, she's content in the quiet moments where the rarely shown vulnerability shines like a beacon, begging the blonde to wipe away the insecurity with soft fingerpads and butterfly kisses. She'll remain as her unwavering ally for now, but the latina knows deep down that she'll be waiting for as long as it takes.

Breathing in the muggy Ohio air, her fingers burn as they rest against the simple metal handle that juts out from the steel door, harsh in contrast versus the rugged brick walling. She hisses quietly under her breath but tugs it open carefully – she knows without a doubt that Santana is in here. It's become a default place for them both to regain steam and sanity after a particularly grueling ordeal. Sometimes the blonde just sits when she should be doing math, relishing in her counterpart's unique presence that lingers long after her frame has left the space. Her eyes travel down as a narrow ray of light shines onto an unmoving body, slumped haphazardly on the frayed mattress with a chest that rises and falls slowly in time to the peaceful inhale and exhale of one who has achieved dark, dreamless sleep.

Brittany crawls in carefully, shutting the door with a soft click and clambers in behind the shorter girl, shifting by feel when her world is shrouded in shadow. The brunette doesn't even stir, gentle snores that only appear when in too deep to respond escaping from minutely parted lips. Despite the worry, the dutch girl smiles in affection at her unguarded form, tracing absent patterns on the downy smoothness of sun-kissed skin. Her nose buries itself in the crook of a relaxed shoulder and she patiently awaits in their haven.

They will talk eventually; it is unavoidable. But for now, she will relish the simple pleasures of another body pressed up against hers and their splayed hair twining as writhing serpents, tendrils mingling against the backdrop of warm summer days and secrets well kept.