To Give You Everything

4x15 reaction ficlet.

“Tequila shots. Go.”

Santana thumps a full bottle of Jose Cuervo down on the table and pushes a plate with lime wedges and two salt shakers right up against Kurt’s elbows. He rubs his hands over his face, wearily turns one shot glass over.

They don’t talk, not at first. Just taking shot after shot, Kurt giving a full-body shudder after each bitter, burning swallow, Santana pumping her fist in the air and chanting a litany of swears in Spanish.

“God, you are so fucked up for him,” she finally says, voice too loud and slurred at the edges of each word.

Kurt doesn’t haven’t to clarify which him she’s talking about. He knows. She knows. He knows she knows and she knows he knows and does Adam know? Should he know? The room spins a bit and Kurt presses his fists to his eyes to halt the line of very confusing thoughts swirling around him.

He wants to say that she’s wrong. Or at least that he’s working on not being completely fucked up for him. That he’s getting over him. But the alcohol is a warm thrum in his veins, spreading out from his center, pushing every should, every could, every last bit of defense he’s barely holding on to anymore.

“How do I stop?”

Santana hiccups, licks the patch of salt still left on the web of her thumb and pointer finger. “If you’re looking for advice on how to quit loving someone you’re asking the worst fucking person.”

Her eyes start to well and shit, Kurt forgot she’s a crier when she’s drunk. He reaches a clumsy hand across the table to pat hers but miscalculates the distance, knocks the plastic plate with lime rinds down onto the floor and yells, “mother fucking shit,” before diving to the floor.

Santana cackles above him; loud, wheezing laughter until Rachel bangs on the wall and chastises them for waking her up.

“I like you drunk,” Santana says from somewhere behind him on the floor. Kurt rolls flat to his back, plate forgotten, to see her crawling towards him. 

“I like you on rare occasions too Santana,” he says, then grunts when she falls to the floor next to him, chest to chest. Kurt closes his eyes tight, waits for the ceiling to stop being a whirling vortex above him. She pillows her head on his shoulder and elbows his ribs pretty severely in the process of getting more comfortable. “Love sucks,” she says finally.

“Your boobs are squashy,” Kurt replies.

“So’s your face.”

Kurt ignores her. “Blaine used to say he found them aesthetically pleasing.”

“God, he would.”

He knows Santana means it to be dismissive and a little indignant, but it makes him smile anyway. It’s one of the things he loves about Blaine, his ability to find joy and beauty in just about anything. He loves Blaine.

“Hey, if you start crying then I’ll start crying and both us will have to live with that humiliation for the rest of our lives so don’t.”

Kurt sniffles, wipes his eyes. “Okay.”

Santana groans, pushes off of his chest to splay out next to him, gestures crudely in the air and groans, “Tequila makes me so horny.” 

“Not it.”

“Yeah right,” she waves her hand at him, smacks his cheek on accident. Possibly. “I do envy you. Wish I had a couple pieces on the back burner.”

“I do not-” Kurt says and lifts up on to his elbows. Which is a mistake. He gingerly lays back down, breathes slowly through the wave a nausea. “Wait, do I?”

“Mmhmm. And one of them gots to go and soon. You have a desc- A division-” Her face pinches tight in thought. “You have to pick, is what I’m saying. Either shit or get out of the kitchen.”

Kurt lets his head flop to the side, cool linoleum soothing on his hot skin. “I don’t think that’s the phrase.” 

“Whatever. You know what I mean.” 

He does. And he knows she’s right. He can’t stay in the land of perpetual indecision forever. Not when he knows. Knows he knows. Adam is great. Nice and fun and here and he likes Kurt, a whole lot. He’s everything Kurt should want. 

“Shouldn’t love be easy?” He muses.

Santana stops her nonsensical mumbling, or was she singing? His head feels a little like it’s been stuffed with cotton batting so he’s not sure. She leans over, way too close to his face, hot breath reeking of Tequila and lime, jabs at the center of his chest over and over to punctuate every syllable.

“Trusting someone with your heart is scary as shit, but what? You either trust him with it or you spend the rest of your life hiding it away. That’s real. That’s hard. That matters.”

The speech seems to zap the last of Santana’s energy because she nods definitively, curls up next to him then starts snoring softly. He’s too drunk and too confused and too tired to really think through what she said, but he presses his hands over his heart, fingers folded over it’s comforting thump thump thump. 

He can’t trust its safety again, not yet. To hand it over as easily as he did before. But he knows that every single beat of it belongs to Blaine. Will always belong to Blaine. 

“Love sucks,” he says to the room, still and silent and listing dangerously. It hurts and it’s hard and it’s scary and he wants it back so badly. 

He just hopes he’ll be ready soon.


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