Work Text:
Kurt is crying. Again.
By this point, he’s quite sick of it.
The sound is inordinately loud in the auditorium, echoing off of the high ceiling and polished stage. He swings his legs against the edge of the stage and sniffles, wiping a hand underneath his nose.
Utterly intolerable.
He doesn’t want to give Santana the satisfaction of knowing how deeply her words have affected him. Doesn’t want to tell her that it’s hardly the first time he’s heard them in relation to himself. That for the past few months the same dark little murmurs have been chasing themselves around his brain, little gremlins and ghouls digging in with sharp claws to cling to his shoulder and whisper in his ear – Heartless. Selfish. Cold. Empty.
And now a new one to add to the pile. Intolerable.
‘You know, the last time we were here, our positions were reversed.’
Kurt’s head jerks up at the voice. From the shadows off to the side, where the steps lead into the corridor, Santana appears.
Kurt pulls himself to his feet and swipes under his nose and eyes. ‘There’s no need for a round two,’ he says thickly. ‘I can assure you that your first go wiped me out as spectacularly as the German army in a Russian winter. I’m flattened, I promise.’
He turns to make his escape (flee; that’s all you do these days), but Santana’s voice stops him. ‘It was during Finn’s memorial week,’ she says. ‘Do you remember?’
Of course he remembers. He remembers the way Santana’s face had crumbled during her song, the way her whole body had wracked with anguish. He remembers the way she had screamed and run off and he’d found her here, in the auditorium. A more deflated, softer version than he had ever seen before. He remembers wanting to help her.
‘Do you have a point, Santana?’ he asks wearily. His eyes are beginning to ache from the tears and he’s not sure that he can deal with another tirade that he’s well aware Santana can hurl against him. Almost involuntarily, his mind flicks through all of the ways that moment of vulnerability could be used against him.
Santana shrugs. She’s closer now, close enough that he can see her facial expression. She looks uncharacteristically serious, her mouth pulled in straight line, not a hint of malice on her face.
‘I guess I’ve just been thinking of some of the things you said to me then,’ she tells him, pulling her dress down so that she can climb onto the stage beside him. He crosses his arms and resists the urge to take a step back. Here it comes.
‘You told me that one day, I would regret people not knowing that I was kind.’
Well. That’s not exactly what he was expecting.
‘I did say that,’ he says cautiously.
‘It occurs to me,’ Santana says slowly, ‘that your disgustingly Hallmark-esque attitude may have actually rubbed off on me this past year, because believe it or not, Twinkles, I actually regret that scene in the hallway.’
Kurt blinks.
Santana takes a breath and continues. ‘It also occurs to me that your absolutely stellar Eeyore impression these past few weeks isn’t quite the overreaction that I’ve been telling people it is.’
Kurt breathes in and studies the scuff marks on the stage floor.
‘It wasn’t cool of me to say those things to you, especially when I already know that you’re hurting,’ Santana says quietly. Like Kurt, she seems determined not to make eye contact. ‘And don’t make me say it more than once, because I can already feel the stomach ulcers developing, but I apologise. It was – dirty and underhanded, like most of the things I do. And I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay,’ Kurt says immediately. ‘I know why you got angry – ‘
‘It’s actually not okay,’ Santana interrupts. ‘I – I do this thing where I have these insecurities and when people poke them my brain ferments them into pure rage, and I somehow forget that the people I’m talking to are actually people.’
‘Yeah, um – ‘ Kurt takes a steadying breath. ‘You really went for the jugular with all the stuff about Blaine.’
Santana’s mouth twitches down. ‘I have a lot of practice targeting people’s weaknesses. Once upon a time it felt like the only way to survive.’
‘Everyone has their own defence mechanisms, I guess,’ Kurt murmurs. And he does understand – Santana protects herself by actively pushing people away who hurt her. Kurt protects himself by never letting people in in the first place.
Santana rolls her eyes. ‘Yeah, alright, Dr Phil. What I’m trying to say is that these days I’m at least aiming for Purgatory instead of my rightful place as queen of Hell, and I screwed up today. This is like, my confessional. To free me of sin and shit.’
‘I’m an atheist, not a priest,’ Kurt says under his breath. Santana rolls her eyes again.
‘I’m – I’m sorry about what I said in the choir room,’ Kurt makes himself say. ‘I’m kind of surprised that you didn’t literally set Cerberus on my tail after bringing down your proposal.’
Santana shrugs. ‘I would have if I could, baby.’ She turns and heads for the wings of the stage, and now some of the signature cockiness has returned to the sway of her hips. ‘And Kurt?’ she calls over her shoulder. ‘Britts and I aren’t going to fail, but even if we did, it wouldn’t be about age. Nobody’s relationship fails because of age. Maybe you should think about that.’