Santana retires to the auditorium to wait for Sam to show up for a lover’s duel. And here’s where my mind actually gets blown. I never in a hundred thousand badrillion years thought we’d get to see any emotional substance on the Bram vs. Brittana front. After all, Glee‘s writers aren’t exactly famous for knowing anything about what happened in any episode besides the one that’s airing. Also, no one gets shape-shifted like bisexual characters on TV. They’re practically play dough. But here come Santana and Sam — a confident, gorgeous, fan-favorite gal and a confident, gorgeous fan-favorite guy — stepping up to the line to fight for love in a war where gender isn’t even a factor. They duet on “Make No Mistake (She’s Mine),” and it is heart-wrenching and flawless and the ultimate irony is that their voices sound like they were made to harmonize with each other.
Sam asks Santana to let Brittany go, to let her be happy with him, because all of the reasons she broke up with Brittany are still in play and he’ll never be able to compete with the depth and width of their affection for each other if she won’t set Brittany free. Santana says “Never.” Because even though she knows what Sam is saying is true, Brittany is her one true thing. The only truth she’s ever known. Also, he asked her to eat cereal off the floor.
And now for something that is the opposite of true: Tina is full steam ahead in her delusional pursuit of Blaine, an obsession that is made all the more manic by the fact that Santana’s performance pushed Tina back into the shadows of New Directions. She skips up to Blaine’s locker and tells him she noticed he was getting a cold. How? Well, he sniffled seven times yesterday, five more than his average. Twice at glee club practice; twice in Calc II; once at lunch, right after her finished his sandwich and before he opened his pudding snack; once in the locker room when he was watching Jake and Ryder wrestle, and once right after he turned out his bedside lamp. She has crafted him a care package — chicken soup, Vitamin C, Vap-o Rub, roofies — and he says she’s just swell.
My favorite thing about this clusterfuck is how Blaine literally has no idea that Tina wants to blow his whistle. He’s that guy who lives in a bubble of his own handsome affability, just chasing an old lady down the road to tell her she dropped a hundred-dollar bill and having the old lady go, “Aw, just keep it.” And the pad thai driver showing up with his favorite meal even though he didn’t order it and telling him, what the heck, it’s on the house. And H&M always having just one more sold out shirt in his size back in the store room. And, “We don’t usually let people into the habitats to cuddle with the baby panda bears, Mr. Warbler, but I guess for you we can make an exception.” So when Tina gives him a handmade care package because she just senses that he’s sick, that’s the kind of serendipity Blaine calls “Tuesday.”
He does invite Tina over to practice being a diva, though. Because his heart has to work double-time to make up for the fact that his eyeballs are broken.
In Blaine’s bedroom, which is decorated with more Kurt Hummel paraphernalia than even AfterElton HQ, Tina just randomly asks if Blaine has ever had sex with girls. He has not. He is a gold star gay. Kurt and Eli C. (boooooo!) and one exceptionally awkward kiss with Rachel Berry. Tina starts bitching about Rachel, something Blaine has had to listen to Kurt do so many times in this very bed that his body has apparently developed some kind of autoimmune narcoleptic reflex to it. He just passes right the hell out. Tina makes a heartbreaking love confession before she realizes he’s asleep, and let’s assess her next move on a scale from normal to axe-murderer, shall we?
Normal: Quietly leave. Normal with a side of heartache: Cover him up and turn off his lamp and glance at him wistfully from the doorway. Moderately creepy: Take off his shoes and brush his hair off his forehead and give him a kiss. Creepy: Spoon him. Crazytown Bananapants: Unbutton his shirt and massage his chest with Vap-o Rub.
Glee, good lord. You can get away with a lot of shit by doing that high camp hand-wavey magic trick thing, but you cannot get away with non-consensual semi-sexual touching. And like, the piano in this scene is trying to tell us to feel sorry for Tina, when all any of us want to do is slap her hand away and wash our brains out with bleach. Not OK, show. Not OK a lot or a little bit or anything in between.