Name: Blame It On Santana

Rating: K+

Chapter No.: Chapter 1

Characters: Santana Lopez, Will Schuster, Brittany Pierce

Status: In-Complete. I had written 3 more chapters, but my memory stick malfunctioned, and I am working on fixing it. If not, I'm not sure I'll continue, I feel a bit disheartend :/ Good reviews may change my mind ;)

As Santana stumbled into the barely lit street, the cold air made her aware of the thin coating of sweat that covered her body. Her head felt numb, and she felt slightly unstable standing up. She leant against the brick wall, damp with rain, and reflected on the night so far. Pretty average, she thought. She had nights like these all the time, but tonight felt different somehow. She barely noticed the slight pain of the wall scraping the skin of her back through the thin fabric of her shirt as she slid down to the ground. What the fuck do I do now? She asked herself.

Her stomach was in turmoil, her breathing was fast and her heartbeat was pounding erratically. She thought back to Mr Schuster telling them all about alcohol poisoning. Oh crap, she thought as she contemplated whether or not she had it. She didn't know whether Mr Schuh had gone on to elaborate about the symptoms, because she had burst into tears. She had been thinking about Brittany all that day, and she had been weepy. But if he had given a lecture on the subject, she had missed it: every one of her senses had been wrapped up in the warm embrace of Brittany's body that followed her crying.

She seemed to recall him saying 400 people died every year from it. She was relieved. I'm totally fine. There had been at least 50 people in that club that had drank way more than she had. And then she realised why tonight felt different. Brittany wasn't here.

She and Brittany did everything together. She laughed internally. They really did do everything together. And Artie had no idea. He's incredibly stupid, even for a boy. Sam didn't have a clue either, but Santana put that down to his blonde Bieber hair and his trout DNA.

She was a mess.

She had danced with at least twenty different guys in that club. Even the alcohol levels in her blood and the thumping beat that filled her with adrenaline didn't change the fact that none of those guys held any attraction for her.

Twelve hours ago, she had envisioned tonight being completely different. She had intended on snuggling up to Brittany on her favourite couch and watching Sweet Valley High. Her mum would've been out, and their make out session could've lasted hours. She had even bought in some hot chocolate with the mini coloured marshmallows that Brittany loved so much. An act of such affection was highly unusual for Santana, and she felt pathetic now. Brittany had told her she was pregnant. It was a shame really, Miss Holiday's song – Do You Wanna Touch? – had really got her blood racing. She was in the mood for loving. But now, her plans were ruined, as well as the future of her preference. Santana's heart had sunk like an anchor, and her first reaction was to shout Brittany's secret to the first person that passed her: it was so fast it was practically a reflex.

It had got back to Artie so fast it was astonishing. She had hoped that they would break up, but it turned out that Brittany's endearing stupidity had once again supplied false information: she thought a nesting bird was to bring her a baby.

She breathed a sigh of longing at the memory of Brittany's innocence. She wanted her so bad; there was nothing she wanted more. Except possibly to be rich and/or famous.

This sudden longing filled her body, and in the cover of the semi-darkness, she allowed herself a few tears: it was a luxury she rarely let herself indulge in.

She stayed like that for about twenty minutes, sobbing her battered heart out. She didn't know who she was anymore. Why couldn't she be normal?

Of course, she was as "normal" as you could get in everyone else's eyes. She was a hot cheerleader. Normal. Except, she wasn't.

She was in love with her best friend… a girl.

She cried for about another five minutes, and then she fumbled in her pocket for her phone. She had to call Brittany.

No, she thought. She doesn't want me, she wants Artie. But as she withdrew her hand, the distinct edge of a piece of paper brushed against her palm, and she pulled it out.

It was the sobriety pledge form. And in the corner…

Mr Schuster's phone number.