The second the bottle lands on Santana she’s screwed.
She doesn’t even register it properly before Berry climbs into her lap, murmuring something about pinkness and rocking her world, lacing her arms around her neck, pressing her lips against Santana’s.
It’s a slow, sloppy kiss, what with Rachel being drunk-drunk. It has way too much salvia, there’s way too much tongue in her mouth, way too much force to be even considered enjoyable. It may be one of the worst kisses she ever had, but, as she slowly starts to kiss back, she realizes that even though it’s technically an awful kiss, she still feels more than she ever felt kissing a boy.
It’s a punch in the gut, a sharp stab, unleashing a wave of nausea. Up until now she could lie to herself that Brittany was an exception, that it just felt better because she knew Brittany for years, not because she was a girl. It was one thing feeling those things fooling around with Brittany, but now that she felt those things with Rachel fucking Berry out of all people, she knows it’s something deeper that she’s not willing to explore.
At least not yet.
As Rachel pulls away, slowly blinking with those big, doe eyes, she holds her breath, steadying herself, waiting for the other girl’s next move.
She expected a rambling from her, telling everyone how it felt to kiss Santana – because it’s something that she did with Finn and earlier that night with Blaine. Expected her to burst into a song, probably Katy Perry’s I Kissed a Girl, trying to drag Santana along with. Instead, Rachel just scrambles back to her earlier position quietly, picking at the nail on her left thumb slowly, with a frown on her face. It’s unnerving, seeing Rachel so quiet.
It’s a game of avoidance, from that point. Neither of them looks at the other the whole night, not even stealing glance. It goes on in the school, in glee, in every other class they share. It goes on for a while, up until they win Regionals, because then it’s another drunken night, another party game except this time it’s Truth or fucking Dare, and Santana wants to bash Puck’s skull in with her bare hands as he dares her out make out with Berry again.
She doesn’t back down, because Santana Lopez never actually backs down from a dare, and the next thing she knows is that she has Rachel pinned to a wall. It’s more aggressive than the first one, and there’s definitely less tongue, and she’s surprised to say that the kiss is pleasant. She can distantly hear Puck’s catcalls, Artie’s whooping, but she doesn’t care; all she can think of is the lips that are pressed against her own, moving deliciously.
It makes her insides fuzzy and warm, in a way that’s familiar yet not. She felt it before, when she was in the comfort of her room, in her bed, wrapped in sheets with Brittany, holding her, cherishing her.
The fact that she feels it kissing Rachel in a room full of people makes her skin crawl, and this time she’s the one who pulls out from the kiss, only much more suddenly, much more violently than Rachel did.
She’s not sure what compels her to do it, but she slaps Rachel.
Hard.
There’s a lump in her throat that makes it hard to swallow, a lump that makes it hard to breath.
She feels the eyes of the glee club on her, closing in on her, watching her, analyzing her.
It’s uncomfortable, it makes her feel like she’s in some kind of reality show, under the watchful eyes of a million people.
So, she does the one thing she knows how to:
She runs away.
Or, at least she tries to, until she gets to the front steps of the Hudsmel household, because the lump that made it hard to swallows suddenly gives way, and she empties her whole stomach into Carol’s rose bushes, probably killing every chance of that the flowers would bloom come spring. If she were a better person, she’d feel better about it, but as it is, she just sits down as the whole world spins around.
She doesn’t know how long she sat outside, but by the time someone opens the front door she doesn’t feel her nose and fingers. And then, whoever stumbled out drunkenly falls over her, knocking both of them down the stairs.
“M’sorry” is the only thing she hears, and God must really hate her today, because of course it’s Rachel. A much, much drunker Rachel that she saw earlier, if her breath is any indication.
“Just… just get off me.” and then, the weight on top off her goes away, along with arms pulling her up, making her sit upright. It’s silent, as Rachel settles besides her.
It oddly makes her feel comfortable, too.
Then, to none of their surprise, Rachel breaks the silence.
“I know it’s not easy for you, but believe me, it’s not for me either.”
Santana could deny it all. She could tell Rachel that she has no idea what she’s talking about, that she’s not like that, but instead she just snorts as she answers her, deciding to be honest for once in her life. “I’m sure your daddies will be alright with you being gay or whatever.”
“It’s not about them. I’ve heard all this….this bullshit all my life, about them turning me gay, infecting me with their disease. And now, I’m sitting here, being…”
“Attracted?” Santana supplies, trying to help the drunker girl out as she’s struggling to tie together her sentences.
“Yes! Feeling attracted to another girl. I don’t want them to be right, giving them even more amn….amoni…ammunition against them!” She doesn’t have to ask whom them are; she has a good idea about it being Quinn, her parents, Karofsky, Santana herself.
And then, she reaches out, slowly taking Rachel’s hands, rubbing her thumb over her knuckles.
“I’ve been known to make those jokes about you, but I’m sorry.” she whispers softly “And I’m sorry for attacking your lips. And for the slap. But maybe if you’d like to, we could figure all this shit it out together?”
And against all odds, Rachel smiles at her, kissing her cheek.
“I’d like that.”