fic: if my heart was a compass - 5/10 - glee, brittany/santana, nc-17
Title: If My Heart Was A Compass (5/10)
Author: zerodetorres
Characters: Brittany/Santana, Quinn, Puck
Rating: NC-17
Length: 6,306 (of ~56k)
Timeline: Season 1
Summary: Santana Lopez has a plan. A three-point plan. A really fucking efficient three-point plan that's going to get her the hell out of Ohio. This is her story.
Notes: You guys, it's my "beta" bradyyface's birthday tomorrow. ♥ She's going to be older than me for exactly a month before I catch up, and boy is she going to enjoy every moment of it.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
Santana had been so sure she'd have the guts to buckle down and 'chase some hot dancer tail', as Puck had so eloquently put it, but she'd been trying so hard not to watch Brittany at all for two weeks that the moment she actually looks at the blonde properly, all she sees is long legs and piercing blue eyes, and her breath catches in her throat. She decides to give herself until the end of the day to chill the fuck out before she makes a complete fool of herself stumbling all over the place in front of the entire school. She's Santana Lopez, for god's sake, and she'd better start acting like her again.
Santana figures she'll catch Brittany at the end of Glee practice, but three-thirty comes and Brittany skips into the choir room, laughter in her eyes. She sidles up to Mike, and the two start chuckling to themselves about something.
Santana knows, okay? She knows full well that Mike and Brittany are a hundred percent platonic, and that they're really great friends because they're both freakishly good dancers and Mike's kind and patient and a little goofy (apparently? Santana doesn't really know him) while Brittany's fun and energetic and the brightest ray of sunshine, so it all fits. It still makes Santana's stomach churn to think that she's so easily replaceable.
Brittany drags Mike closer to Puck and his guitar so that the two of them can improvise a little dance-off before Mr. Schue and his blinding enthusiasm show up. Santana watches them for a few minutes and decides to give it another day.
One day becomes two, then three, and Santana loses her resolve.
Puck tries to ask her what's up, but she shuts him down. Quinn powers herself into Santana's car on the fourth day, a Monday afternoon, and basically follows Santana home like a hobo. A big, pregnant hobo.
"Thought you'd like some company," Quinn chirps cheerfully as she buckles herself into the passenger's seat, and ugh, Santana is already not into it.
"One word about you-know-what and I'm kicking you out," Santana grumbles as she pulls out of the parking lot. "Not even stopping the car. Just a bruise on your side the shape of my shoeprint and a broken window."
Quinn smiles. "Got it."
The ride to Santana's is quiet. Quinn fiddles with the radio an irritating number of times, but Santana doesn't say anything, just tightens her grip on the steering wheel and keeps driving. Mercifully, her street soon comes into view. She pulls into her driveway and cuts the engine.
She glances at Quinn. "Why are you even here?"
"To keep you company, like I said," Quinn replies as she unclips her seatbelt. "You look like you could use a friend."
"What I could use is some pot," Santana mutters as she reaches for her car door.
Quinn does the same and follows Santana to the front door, but Santana spins around and glowers at Quinn.
"Look, I know you think you're doing me some kind of favor," Santana snipes, "or you're trying to whip up some good karma with the big dude upstairs, but I'm really not desperate for company."
"San, come on." Quinn holds out her hands defensively. "Don't be a bitch. I'll leave you alone if you really want. This just gives me a good excuse to get out of Puck's house for a few hours. His mom drives me nuts and his sister is pretty much psycho. Let me sit in your house and like, do homework. I'll stay out of your way."
Without another word, Santana unlocks her door and lets Quinn in. Quinn kicks off her shoes and immediately heads for the living room. Santana follows behind and watches as Quinn sets her bag down next to the coffee table and unzips it.
Santana frowns. "What are you doing?"
Quinn looks up. "Building a treehouse, what does it look like?"
"Fuck you."
Quinn grins. "Actually, hot date with a set of geometry problems and a Spanish essay. Jealous?"
Santana rolls her eyes. "Get your ass upstairs. There's a desk in my room, and I'll write your damn essay if you let me copy your geometry worksheet. I fucking hate triangles."
And that's how Santana finds herself sprawled on her stomach across her bed, typing away at Quinn's Spanish essay on her laptop while Quinn busies herself with perpendicular bisectors.
"Make some mistakes," Quinn requests, "or Mr. Schue's going to get suspicious."
"I know, Q, I've written Spanish essays for you before," Santana replies as she purposely misconjugates a verb. "Schuester's really gone off the deep end with this one. I mean, 'Should foreign language instruction begin in kindergarten?' That doesn't scream desperation or anything."
Quinn falls quiet, and Santana figures she's just concentrating on her geometry assignment until the blonde turns slightly in her seat.
"Brittany has the same assignment. She might need help."
Santana groans. "Real subtle, Fabray."
Quinn shrugs. "Just saying."
"Whatever, Chang's fluent," Santana points out as she types out another sentence, fingertips pounding roughly against the keyboard. "I'm sure he'll swoop right in and spit one out for her."
Quinn quirks an eyebrow. "You do know they're just friends, right? And that Brittany is totally gay?" She stares pointedly at Santana. "Totally gay for you?"
"And where did I say they weren't?" Santana fires back, artfully dodging the latter part of Quinn's comment. "I don't want in your pants and I'm writing yours for you."
"Santana, this is pathetic," Quinn says flatly. She leaves her seat and climbs onto Santana's bed to sit next to her. "You think she's replaced you, don't you?" she asks softly. "Is that why you're avoiding her like the plague?"
"I'm not-" Santana clenches her jaw, chest unbearably tight. "I'm not avoiding her. For fuck's sake, Quinn, will you just drop it?"
Quinn is undeterred. "She misses you, you know."
"No she doesn't."
"San…"
Santana sits up, Spanish essay forgotten. "Are you and Puck conspiring to make my life one big uncomfortable hell? Because both of you are succeeding, and right now, you're kicking his ass by leaps and bounds."
Quinn smiles a little. "Puck's been going around patting himself on the back for being a good 'lesbro' so you know. Cut him some slack."
Santana makes a face. "Lesbro? Oh my god, how many times am I going to have to clarify that I'm not fucking gay?"
Quinn's smile only widens. "Oh yeah? Name one guy you'd rather sleep with than Brittany."
"Britt-Brittany doesn't count," Santana stammers.
"And why not?" Quinn asks, a touch of amusement in her tone.
"She's not like, any girl, okay?" Santana replies, and her heart aches a little. She shakes it off and glares at Quinn. "I'd never sleep with you."
Quinn grins. "Fair point."
"Are we done here? I have an essay to half-ass."
"We're just worried about you," Quinn says with a half-shrug. "Beyond your stupid commitment issues, you've known Brittany practically your whole life. That's got to count for something."
"Yeah, well, it doesn't, and I'm fine," Santana insists, pushing Quinn off the bed. "Go finish your math."
Quinn slides back to the desk and leaves Santana alone. Santana gives herself a moment to cool down before pulling her laptop closer and tapping out a few more sentences. The last half of the essay ends up error-ridden, which is perfect for Quinn's purposes, but honestly, Santana doesn't even make the mistakes on purpose.
--
To say that Santana is surprised to see Mike Chang, in full football uniform, jogging up to her as she stretches near the bleachers before Cheerios practice is a huge understatement. To say that Santana is immediately irritated? Wholly true.
"Hey," he says. He doesn't wait for Santana to respond. "Listen, I know we don't really… talk, but Brittany is miserable."
Santana's heart jumps to her throat at the mere mention of her name. It's pathetic. She steels herself. "How is that my problem?" she asks, focusing on the pull of her hamstring as she brings her head down toward her outstretched knee.
"I know you guys are fighting, or whatever this thing is, but isn't she still your best friend?"
"She's got you, doesn't she?" Santana stands up straight and faces him, and an irrational rage boils at the pit of her stomach. "You go and make her feel better."
"She's upset because of you." Mike crosses his arms over his chest. "I know you don't understand, and she's probably going to be mad I'm even telling you this, but she talks to me about you."
Santana rolls her eyes, even as her chest gets tight. "What could she possibly have to say about us?"
Mike's eyes narrow. "She's not an idiot. Maybe you should stop treating her like one."
"I don't treat her like an idiot," Santana replies angrily, turning to leave.
Mike follows behind her. "Then what was the whole deal with Puck?"
Santana keeps walking, further incensed by the fact that Mike apparently thinks he knows enough about her relationship with Brittany to be making judgments. "What about it?"
"You're jerking her around, Santana, and you need to knock it off."
Santana spins around, defenses rising. "I happen to like Puck. Just because she's exclusively into chicks and queers, doesn't mean I am."
Mike makes a face. "I can't believe you're being such a stubborn bitch."
Santana suppresses the urge to acquaint her knee with Mike's crotch. "Why the fuck are you even talking to me?"
"Because unlike you," he replies coolly, "I actually care about Brittany."
"Go care about her somewhere else," she snaps, knowing at the back of her mind that she's past the point of reason but also that she's utterly powerless to stop herself. "Better yet," Santana barrels on, "take her with you and show her exactly how much you 'care' about her."
Mike looks almost horrified. "Are you really that dense? I'd kill for that girl, but I'm not into her like that." He shakes his head, disappointment evident. "Obviously I'm wasting my time here because apparently, neither are you."
"I am!" Santana blurts out, her skin unbearably hot and suddenly confining.
Mike just stares at her, unflinching. "You do a hell of a job convincing her otherwise."
Santana's head starts to spin. "Convincing her of what? I haven't even spoken to her in weeks."
"That's exactly my point," Mike maintains, his index finger coming dangerously close to Santana's face. "You haven't done anything to show her you still want her."
"Two-way street, Chang," Santana fires back.
Mike just looks baffled. "Are you kidding me? You're telling me that the girl who's followed you around through hell and high water for the past nine years of your life isn't doing enough to show you she wants you? Damn, Lopez, I'd heard that you sucked at this, but now I'm completely embarrassed for you."
The realization is like a slushie to the face, and Santana swallows hard. She doesn't think she's ever wanted to turn into a blade of grass and disappear into the field more than she does now. Spend the rest of her life being cut down and stomped on. It'd be fitting punishment. Her head swims, and all she knows in that moment is the horrible, horrible ache in her chest.
"Let me make it easy for you," Mike offers. "Tell me what you think she should do. I mean, what do you want from her?"
Santana looks down, stares at the large '28' painted across the front of Mike's jersey. Her cheeks burn with humiliation. "I-nothing. I just want her back," Santana replies, so quietly she can barely hear her own words.
Mike catches them just fine. "To do what, exactly?"
Santana hardens, eyes snapping back to Mike's face. "What the fuck are you implying?"
"That you have the emotional capacity of a piece of chewed gum," Mike answers frankly and unapologetically. "You want to sleep your way through the school, fine. You leave her out of it."
"I only want her," Santana spits out, "and I told her that, right before she went off to play house with Kurt the flaming homo."
"Give me a break. You're going to pin this on her and Hummel? What about you and Puck? You and Matt? Hell, you and Quinn for all I know. If I stand around here long enough, maybe you'd even give me a go."
Santana has never known Mike to be remotely malicious, but his words are pointed and his intent is clear. It riles Santana up. "Shut the fuck up, Chang. You don't know the first thing about me."
Mike remains maddeningly level-headed. "Just because you keep everything bottled up inside until some unfortunate soul looks at you the wrong way, doesn't mean Brittany does. Why else do you think I'm here? Not because you're a pleasant conversationalist, that's for sure."
"So, what? Brittany told you all my dirty little secrets and now you're here to rub it in?"
"I'm not interested in your shit, Santana," Mike retorts, sounding genuinely angry for the first time, "but when it starts upsetting Brittany, it becomes my problem too. You bowl over anyone else you want, but not Brittany. She deserves better than that. Better than you."
"Then maybe," Santana suggests, her words filling with spite, "she should just go and find someone better than me."
"Brittany doesn't want someone better. She's in love with you," Mike blurts out angrily, emphasis sharp. "Do you get it now?"
Santana's blood turns to ice, and she has to will herself not to start sobbing right then and there as the words barrel into her with the force of a freight train. Of course. Of course ofcourseofcourse. She opens her mouth, and she wants to say a thousand things, all of them insufficient, but nothing comes out.
Mercifully, Mike isn't done. "Look, I don't know what your deal is, nor do I really care, but Brittany is my friend. You don't get to go around pissing on her because your mommy doesn't hug you enough."
"That's fucking low," Santana growls. Her voice trembles a little.
"Yeah, well. Not like you're the sparkling example of decency," Mike shoots back, and okay, Santana gives him that one. Mike continues, "I don't know what she sees in you - frankly, I think you're a complete asshole most of the time - but she's my girl. You fix this."
Santana stares at Mike, and she wants to hit him, shove him, punch him so hard she draws blood, but she doesn't do any of that. Her body is shaking with what she thinks is rage but quickly realizes is more like shame-a thick shame that constricts her and threatens to eat her alive. She's unprepared, and she almost wishes Mike would slug her across the face just so she can feel something beyond the hollow ache in her chest. For once in her life, she'd take the punishment sitting down.
Mike's words ring in her head, over and over, and all Santana wants in that moment is to hear Brittany's laugh, to make Brittany laugh, and it hurts - it physically hurts - to know that all this time, Brittany has been upset and the only thing Santana has done is wallow in her own goddamn misery. Worse, the whole thing is pretty much all Santana's fault. She feels like scum.
"I messed up," she admits quietly to nobody in particular.
Mike's features turn sympathetic. "I know you did, but she thinks it's all on her."
"No, she-god." Santana looks away, heart aching.
"Suck it up and talk to her," Mike instructs, giving Santana's shoulder a quick squeeze. "She's hurting too. Just remember that." He turns to leave. "See you around, Santana. Nice chatting with you." His tone is neither sarcastic nor resentful. Leave it to Mike to end the most uncomfortable conversation of Santana's life with a touch of courtesy.
"Hey, Chang!" Santana calls out after him. Mike turns back, and she looks at him with unease. "Thanks," she mutters, feeling more than a little on edge.
With an acknowledging nod, Mike jogs back to football practice across the field. Nearby, a few Cheerios have already started their warm-ups. Santana walks back to the bleachers and waits for Brittany to show.
As soon as she catches sight of Brittany, Santana's mouth goes dry, and shit. This whole thing has potential disaster written all over it. But Santana sucks it up. She has to. For Brittany. And well, for herself too, if she's being honest about it. Her palms get sweaty as she approaches, but she tries not to think about that. Or the fact that she hasn't so much as touched Brittany in any form except accidentally in almost three weeks. That's not exactly a lifetime or anything, but it's pretty much the longest she's ever been without Brittany, and the blonde is just standing there all skin and short Cheerios skirt, and damn it, Santana is in way over her head.
Santana catches up to Brittany before she's even figured out what to say. Brittany looks hesitantly at Santana with the bluest eyes, and Santana nearly word-vomits all over the place. But she holds it in and tries to play it cool.
"Britt, hey." And okay, so far so good.
Brittany's voice is small but sure. "Hi."
Santana wets her lips. Brittany slows to a stop halfway between the bleachers and where a small group of Cheerios have gathered and turns to Santana, as though waiting for something.
"I really need to talk to you," Santana broaches.
"About what?"
Santana's hand itches to hold Brittany's. She shakes it off. "Can we get out of here?"
Brittany motions toward the other Cheerios. "We have practice," she points out.
"After practice," Santana suggests. "My place?"
Brittany is still looking at the other cheerleaders when she says, "Santana, I can't do this anymore."
Santana's heart drops. "Do what? N-no sex, or anything like that," she says desperately, and Brittany immediately turns to stare intently at her. The look burns. "Britt, please," Santana tries again. "I just want to talk. Just talk, I promise."
Finally, Brittany nods. "Okay."
It is the longest Cheerios practice of Santana's entire existence. She is thrumming with anxiety, and she can barely concentrate on any of the routines. As she's being lifted to the top of the pyramid, her knees buckle, and she takes a hard tumble backwards into the arms of two spotters.
"Santana! Has your highly ambiguous sexuality caused you to spontaneously sprout horrifically oversized male genitalia, resulting in this pathetic excuse for a balancing act? Because I have one word for you: castration."
By the end of practice, Santana has been called every name under the sun, and she's pretty sure Coach is about to have a damn stroke, but she cannot even bring herself to be concerned about her position on the Cheerios because Brittany is walking up to her slowly, all long legs and cautiousness.
Brittany doesn't say anything, just follows Santana to the locker room to pick up their bags, and then to Santana's car, murmuring a quiet 'thanks' when Santana opens the door for her. Santana climbs into the driver's seat, snaps on her seatbelt, and pulls out of the student lot. She flicks on the radio - soft rock - to fill the stifling silence. The music is calming, and Santana loosens her grip around her steering wheel.
As she's turning into their street, the first notes of Aerosmith's I Don't Want to Miss a Thing drift through the speakers, and Santana very nearly gets into a wreck trying to change the station and turn at the same time.
Brittany's hand is gentle on Santana's, stopping her, and Santana's skin burns at the brief contact. She can't help it, even as she thinks it's pathetic pathetic pathetic. As quickly as the touch comes, it's gone, and Brittany's hand returns to her lap. Santana tosses Brittany a curious glance.
Brittany shrugs. "I like the song," she offers as an explanation. And then, quietly, "I liked it when you sang it to me."
"I can sing it to you again sometime?" Santana proposes. "Or another song, or-or anything."
Brittany looks out the window. "Okay."
Santana pulls into her own driveway and parks. She casts one brief glance at Brittany before she pushes open her door and steps out. She pulls both of their bags out from the backseat, tossing her own over shoulder, then rounds the trunk of her car to hand Brittany hers.
"I need a shower," Brittany says suddenly. A hard silence stretches between them, and Brittany adds, "I'm going to go home and shower, and I'll come by in an hour?"
The adrenaline coursing through Santana's bloodstream is unbearable, but she pulls it together and nods. An hour. She can wait an hour. Besides, after Cheerios practice, Brittany isn't the only one who needs a shower, and maybe Santana will manage to soothe her shot nerves. Probably not, but she's got to try before she does something stupid like shove Brittany against the side of her car and kiss her senseless, nosy neighbors be damned. Santana swallows hard.
Without another word, Brittany takes her backpack from Santana, slips it over her shoulders and heads down the street.
Santana clutches her keys tightly against her palm as she makes her way to her front door. As soon as she steps inside and closes her door, she leans back against it and shuts her eyes, breathing heavily. She'd almost forgotten how it'd felt to be around Brittany, to talk to her, even strained and through blankets of tension.
Santana tosses her bag aside and heads upstairs. After grabbing a change of clothes, she heads for the shower. The first spray of water hits her like a cool summer rain, and she shivers. As the water temp adjusts and evens out, Santana closes her eyes and just lets it beat down on her. And then Santana does something that both embarrasses and liberates her: she cries. Really cries with full-on snot and spit and it's so gross she almost laughs through her own tears. Santana has never been much of a crier. Sure, she tears up sometimes at those stupid chick flicks Brittany loves so much, and losing her tanning privileges had been a big deal, but she doesn't remember the last time she'd shed a tear over something that she'd legitimately been upset about, and she knows she owes that largely to one person. She cries harder at that thought, the sounds of her sobs muffled by the hammering of the water.
It's therapeutic though, because Santana's pretty sure she would've broken down in front of Brittany otherwise, and she would really prefer not to do that. So she lets herself cry herself out, and as mortified as it kind of makes her, it feels good. And when she's done, she's done. The water washes away any trace of weakness, she pulls back her shoulders and reaches for the shampoo.
By the time Santana is dried and dressed in sweatpants and a tee, she's ready for this. For Brittany. All of it. She stretches out across her bed and checks the time. Seventeen minutes to go.
Exactly nine minutes later, Santana hears familiar footsteps in the stairwell, and soon, a flash of blond hair appears at her doorway.
Brittany's hair is down, and she is dressed as casually as Santana - sweatpants and a tank top. Brittany smiles, a little uncertain. "I still had your key…"
Santana sits up and impulsively pats the free space beside her on the bed. Brittany though, she walks around the room in a large arc and slides onto Santana's desk, letting her legs dangle off the edge. The rejection stings a little.
"You look good," Santana acknowledges after a moment.
Brittany tilts her head. "You too."
Santana looks at Brittany, unsure where exactly she's going. She doesn't remember a time when it'd been this difficult to hold a conversation with Brittany. She just wants to reach across the room and pull Brittany into her bed and show the beautiful blonde everything she has so much trouble articulating. But Santana knows that she's past that point. That she needs to cement everything she feels with words.
Santana takes a breath. "I had this plan," she begins, and it's not perfect, but it's something. "To rock this school and get out of Ohio, I had this plan."
Brittany waits.
"The plan didn't involve you," Santana continues.
Brittany's eyes darken as she shuffles uncomfortably against Santana's desk.
Realizing what she'd said, Santana shakes her head. "No, I mean-" She slides to the edge of the bed closest to Brittany. "The plan wasn't about us. It was about how to be popular and get everyone at school to worship me."
"Looks like it worked," Brittany says impassively, picking at nothing on Santana's desk.
"Yeah, I guess, but-" Santana's shoulders rise in a short shrug. "I think I need to rewrite my plan."
Brittany remains unmoved. "Why?"
"Because," Santana replies softly, "I think you should be in my plans, Britt." Her cheeks are suddenly hot, and she quickly pushes on, "I mean, what happens after? We've got a little over two years, and then what? I want to get the hell out of this town, but-what are you doing after high school?"
Brittany shrugs. "I don't know. Dance, maybe. Mike's talking about eventually opening up a studio."
"Here in Lima?"
"Dunno." Brittany shrugs again. "Probably not. He wants to dance somewhere where it's okay to dance. Where it's cool to dance. Like Glee Club, except bigger."
"I don't want us to be on opposite coasts or something." Santana plays nervously with the hem of her shirt. "You know, apart."
"You were okay with it these past few weeks," Brittany says quietly.
Santana's chest tightens. "No, I wasn't." She rises from the bed and steps toward Brittany, feeling the words coming on, and she decides that, screw it. Keeping shit to herself hasn't exactly done her any favors. "I was miserable without you, Britt," she blurts out. "All I could think about was your smile and your laugh and your kisses and-and I missed you. I missed you so much I didn't even know what to do with myself. Everyone kept telling me to just talk to you, and that's exactly what I should've done three weeks ago, but I was so sure that was it. That we were just, I don't know. That it was over."
Brittany slides off the desk, and she's suddenly right there in front of Santana. Before Santana can even process what's happening, Brittany's hands slip fluidly around Santana's waist, pulling her close, and Santana presses her face into Brittany's hair and breathes her in.
"God, B," Santana murmurs, reaching up and wrapping her arms around Brittany's neck.
Brittany's grip tightens around Santana. "I missed you too, San."
Santana's hand splays across the nape of Brittany's neck, and she runs it back and forth gently. Brittany presses a kiss to Santana's shoulder. And then they just remain, breathing, absorbing, feeling, and Santana's lungs fill with the first breath of fresh air in weeks and weeks.
When they pull apart, a faint smile adorns Brittany's lips as she looks at Santana.
"You're crying."
Santana touches her own cheek and is surprised to find it wet. So much for not bawling in front of Brittany. Santana laughs a little. "I didn't know," she replies, wiping at her cheeks.
Brittany gently pulls Santana's hands away and leans closer, pressing her lips to Santana's still-moist cheeks. Brittany is meticulous in her work as she kisses across Santana's face, and Santana cannot help it; she tilts her head, meeting Brittany's lips with her own.
Brittany lets out a soft moan as she opens her mouth, ever-receptive. Santana feels a second onslaught of tears, and when the hell did she become such a goddamn sap? But the ache in her chest is a good kind of ache, like relief. She kisses Brittany slowly, trying to savor the moment, but the first brush of tongue has Santana pressing Brittany back against the edge of her desk, hips pushing urgently against hips, and the kiss turns frantic, all tongue and teeth and desperation.
"Santana," Brittany is trying to say through heavy breaths. "Wait, you said-"
Santana detaches herself from Brittany's lips and buries her face into Brittany's neck, and she knows what's coming. Brittany nudges Santana gently, and Santana backs up and sits down on her bed. This time, Brittany takes a seat next to her.
"I talked to Mike," Santana says, studying Brittany.
Panic flashes across Brittany's eyes. "Why would you do that?"
"He came to me," Santana explains. "He was worried about you."
Brittany looks down at her lap. "He's not like you, San."
Santana's heart flips. "How's that?"
"I can talk to him about you," Brittany answers quietly.
Santana turns to stare straight ahead, unsure how to take that. "And you can't do that with me?"
Beside her, Brittany shifts. "Not really. You always get upset."
"I can change," Santana offers. "I-let's talk about us, okay?"
"Okay," Brittany says with a nod, and she's waiting.
Santana draws a quick five-pointed star on Brittany's sweatpants without realizing she's doing it. She frowns at her hand as she pulls it away. She's not about to add fucking Tourette's to the long list of issues she's apparently got going on.
"I got scared," Santana admits without looking up. "And I know that's as shitty an excuse as they come, but that's exactly what happened. I got scared. I never wanted to hurt you, and I just thought-everyone loves you, you know. People are just drawn to you." She looks up, and Brittany is watching her, eyes unusually dark but as striking as Santana has ever seen them. "I thought you'd finally gotten sick of my shit," Santana continues, "that you were better off without me. I was so busy rolling around in my own self-pity that I never stopped to see it from your side. I'm so sorry, Britt. You deserve better than what I've given you."
Brittany neither confirms nor disputes that statement. She says quietly, "I didn't know how to tell you."
"Tell me what?" Santana prompts, matching Brittany's soft tone.
Brittany's eyes flash. "That I didn't want to share you anymore. I told you to go after Finn so you could be head Cheerio, and that's what you wanted, but I didn't like how it made me feel." She looks down. "I didn't know how to tell you," she repeats.
Santana runs an apologetic palm along Brittany's upper thigh. "I shouldn't have even put you in that position. I mean, something was happening and I just-I didn't know how to handle that." She takes in a shaky breath. "Chang set me straight though."
"What did Mike even say to you?"
"Basically, he told me I was being an idiot," Santana replies with a small smile. "He wasn't too far off."
The corners of Brittany's lips twitch. "Let me guess; you didn't take kindly to that."
Santana chuckles. "I'm pretty sure I should apologize to him the next time I see him."
Brittany just smiles. "He's a big boy. He can handle it. And anyway, he deserves everything he got for going to you without telling me."
Santana looks thoughtfully at Brittany. "I'm glad you have someone like him," she decides. "Someone who isn't like me."
Brittany appears confused, even a little disapproving. "Why do you say that?"
"Because I'm not any good at this," Santana explains with a short sigh. "Relationships, I guess. Mike seems like a nice guy, and he obviously cares a whole lot about you. I mean, I do too but-I'm not so good at showing it."
Again, Brittany doesn't qualify that with a response. "Were you jealous?" she asks instead.
Santana bites the inside of her cheek. "Did Quinn say that?"
"No, San, give me a little credit here." Brittany grins. "I've known you for ages."
Santana mirrors Brittany's smile. "Yeah, I guess I was, a little. Not because I thought anything was going on, just-he's such a good person, and I-"
"So are you," Brittany interrupts.
Santana laughs dryly. "Britt, seriously."
"You're different when you're with me. You notice that?" Brittany's fingertips brush Santana's jaw. "Actually, you're different when you're performing. Happier, I think."
"Yeah, well, I look hot," Santana deflects. "What's not to like?"
"You do," Brittany is quick to agree. "But that's not really what I mean."
Santana suppresses the sudden urge to push Brittany down and kiss her until neither of them can breathe. It'd be easier than this, she knows, but she forces herself to buckle down. "I just-I freaked out because I was so-" She trails off and exhales, trying to recollect her thoughts. "I wanted you everywhere."
Brittany's face knits up in confusion. "You had me, San. Everywhere."
Santana looks back down at her lap, running from Brittany's eyes like they could burn her. "I couldn't, not in this stupid town. You see what happens to that Kurt kid. Even now that he's a Cheerio."
"I don't care about that," Brittany says.
"But I did," Santana reveals, fighting tears, "and I feel like such an asshole for making that choice. Why would I give a shit about what people thought of me when those people aren't you? I had all these reasons why I couldn't be in love with you - because you were a girl, or because of this shit town, or because I suck at all this romantic stuff, and I just started making excuses. That it was just sex, that it was just high school, that everything I felt for you would go away with a little distance. But it wasn't, and it didn't." Santana finally lifts her head, turning to meet Brittany's gaze. Brittany's eyes are soft, and Santana's heart aches with apology. "I should've been focusing on the reasons why I should be in love with you," she finishes quietly.
Brittany's hand slides soothingly to Santana's knee, but she doesn't say anything.
Santana swallows hard. "The truth is," she continues, "I need you more than you need me."
Immediately, Brittany's eyes spark. "That's not true, San. You know that's not true."
And no, she hadn't, not until this very moment when Brittany's conviction rocks her. Santana takes another breath. "Remember how this started? It was just supposed to be a way to relieve some tension, and then it got so… real."
"Is that a bad thing?" Brittany asks in a guarded voice.
"No," Santana reassures her. "No, but I mean, we were both still hooking up with other people at the time. Right?"
Brittany nods solemnly.
"Right," Santana echoes. "I knew something was different. That something needed to change. I knew it, but I didn't know how to handle it. I just convinced myself that you weren't any different than anyone else, but you were. God, you were. You are."
Brittany picks Santana's hand off her lap and starts playing with her fingers. "I should've just told you that I wanted you to myself, instead of making it worse."
Santana leans over and presses her lips to Brittany's bare shoulder. "No, I would've flipped," she points out. "You're right, Britt; I don't react well to talking about us." Craning her neck, Santana reaches Brittany's jaw and plants another kiss there. "What did Mike think?"
"That I should move on and forget about you," Brittany replies with a small smile, her head falling to Santana's shoulder. "I said I couldn't."
Santana reaches up with her free hand to touch Brittany's cheek. "I love you."
Brittany's smile widens. "I love you too," she echoes, and Santana marvels at the way Brittany makes it sound so easy. Brittany squeezes Santana's hand. "What happens now?"
"Now we just…" Santana kisses the top of Brittany's head. "You want to give this a shot? Just you and me?"
Brittany nods against Santana's shoulder. "Yeah."
"Okay," Santana says softly. "Then that's what we'll do."
Brittany uses her weight to push Santana down onto the bed, and as soon as Santana is adjusted, Brittany moves to straddle Santana's hips but there's no intent for sex. Brittany leans down, and her hair falls around Santana's face. It makes Santana thinks of light rain, and she tucks Brittany's hair behind her ears, palms gentle against Brittany's cheeks.
"I don't even know how I managed to breathe without you," Santana says in a whisper.
Brittany plants a kiss on Santana's neck, near her pulse point, and Brittany keeps her head there, pressed against Santana's collarbone. Santana's hands slide to the small of Brittany's back. Brittany starts humming a familiar tune, and Santana can't help it. The song flows from her lips.
"I could stay awake just to hear you breathing…"
Brittany smiles, tilting her head to look at Santana as she sings.
"Watch you smile while you are sleeping, while you're far away and dreaming…"
It's not the best Santana's ever sounded, especially since she's lying down with Brittany's weight pressing against her chest, but Brittany doesn't seem to care, and so neither does Santana.
"I could spend my life in this sweet surrender, I could stay lost in this moment forever…"
Brittany reaches up to wipe at Santana's moist cheeks, and Santana laughs. She really needs to quit doing the whole crying without realizing it thing. Brittany just smiles and urges Santana on with a soft 'keep going'. Santana kisses Brittany's forehead and complies.
"Every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure…"
Part 6
Author: zerodetorres
Characters: Brittany/Santana, Quinn, Puck
Rating: NC-17
Length: 6,306 (of ~56k)
Timeline: Season 1
Summary: Santana Lopez has a plan. A three-point plan. A really fucking efficient three-point plan that's going to get her the hell out of Ohio. This is her story.
Notes: You guys, it's my "beta" bradyyface's birthday tomorrow. ♥ She's going to be older than me for exactly a month before I catch up, and boy is she going to enjoy every moment of it.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
Santana had been so sure she'd have the guts to buckle down and 'chase some hot dancer tail', as Puck had so eloquently put it, but she'd been trying so hard not to watch Brittany at all for two weeks that the moment she actually looks at the blonde properly, all she sees is long legs and piercing blue eyes, and her breath catches in her throat. She decides to give herself until the end of the day to chill the fuck out before she makes a complete fool of herself stumbling all over the place in front of the entire school. She's Santana Lopez, for god's sake, and she'd better start acting like her again.
Santana figures she'll catch Brittany at the end of Glee practice, but three-thirty comes and Brittany skips into the choir room, laughter in her eyes. She sidles up to Mike, and the two start chuckling to themselves about something.
Santana knows, okay? She knows full well that Mike and Brittany are a hundred percent platonic, and that they're really great friends because they're both freakishly good dancers and Mike's kind and patient and a little goofy (apparently? Santana doesn't really know him) while Brittany's fun and energetic and the brightest ray of sunshine, so it all fits. It still makes Santana's stomach churn to think that she's so easily replaceable.
Brittany drags Mike closer to Puck and his guitar so that the two of them can improvise a little dance-off before Mr. Schue and his blinding enthusiasm show up. Santana watches them for a few minutes and decides to give it another day.
One day becomes two, then three, and Santana loses her resolve.
Puck tries to ask her what's up, but she shuts him down. Quinn powers herself into Santana's car on the fourth day, a Monday afternoon, and basically follows Santana home like a hobo. A big, pregnant hobo.
"Thought you'd like some company," Quinn chirps cheerfully as she buckles herself into the passenger's seat, and ugh, Santana is already not into it.
"One word about you-know-what and I'm kicking you out," Santana grumbles as she pulls out of the parking lot. "Not even stopping the car. Just a bruise on your side the shape of my shoeprint and a broken window."
Quinn smiles. "Got it."
The ride to Santana's is quiet. Quinn fiddles with the radio an irritating number of times, but Santana doesn't say anything, just tightens her grip on the steering wheel and keeps driving. Mercifully, her street soon comes into view. She pulls into her driveway and cuts the engine.
She glances at Quinn. "Why are you even here?"
"To keep you company, like I said," Quinn replies as she unclips her seatbelt. "You look like you could use a friend."
"What I could use is some pot," Santana mutters as she reaches for her car door.
Quinn does the same and follows Santana to the front door, but Santana spins around and glowers at Quinn.
"Look, I know you think you're doing me some kind of favor," Santana snipes, "or you're trying to whip up some good karma with the big dude upstairs, but I'm really not desperate for company."
"San, come on." Quinn holds out her hands defensively. "Don't be a bitch. I'll leave you alone if you really want. This just gives me a good excuse to get out of Puck's house for a few hours. His mom drives me nuts and his sister is pretty much psycho. Let me sit in your house and like, do homework. I'll stay out of your way."
Without another word, Santana unlocks her door and lets Quinn in. Quinn kicks off her shoes and immediately heads for the living room. Santana follows behind and watches as Quinn sets her bag down next to the coffee table and unzips it.
Santana frowns. "What are you doing?"
Quinn looks up. "Building a treehouse, what does it look like?"
"Fuck you."
Quinn grins. "Actually, hot date with a set of geometry problems and a Spanish essay. Jealous?"
Santana rolls her eyes. "Get your ass upstairs. There's a desk in my room, and I'll write your damn essay if you let me copy your geometry worksheet. I fucking hate triangles."
And that's how Santana finds herself sprawled on her stomach across her bed, typing away at Quinn's Spanish essay on her laptop while Quinn busies herself with perpendicular bisectors.
"Make some mistakes," Quinn requests, "or Mr. Schue's going to get suspicious."
"I know, Q, I've written Spanish essays for you before," Santana replies as she purposely misconjugates a verb. "Schuester's really gone off the deep end with this one. I mean, 'Should foreign language instruction begin in kindergarten?' That doesn't scream desperation or anything."
Quinn falls quiet, and Santana figures she's just concentrating on her geometry assignment until the blonde turns slightly in her seat.
"Brittany has the same assignment. She might need help."
Santana groans. "Real subtle, Fabray."
Quinn shrugs. "Just saying."
"Whatever, Chang's fluent," Santana points out as she types out another sentence, fingertips pounding roughly against the keyboard. "I'm sure he'll swoop right in and spit one out for her."
Quinn quirks an eyebrow. "You do know they're just friends, right? And that Brittany is totally gay?" She stares pointedly at Santana. "Totally gay for you?"
"And where did I say they weren't?" Santana fires back, artfully dodging the latter part of Quinn's comment. "I don't want in your pants and I'm writing yours for you."
"Santana, this is pathetic," Quinn says flatly. She leaves her seat and climbs onto Santana's bed to sit next to her. "You think she's replaced you, don't you?" she asks softly. "Is that why you're avoiding her like the plague?"
"I'm not-" Santana clenches her jaw, chest unbearably tight. "I'm not avoiding her. For fuck's sake, Quinn, will you just drop it?"
Quinn is undeterred. "She misses you, you know."
"No she doesn't."
"San…"
Santana sits up, Spanish essay forgotten. "Are you and Puck conspiring to make my life one big uncomfortable hell? Because both of you are succeeding, and right now, you're kicking his ass by leaps and bounds."
Quinn smiles a little. "Puck's been going around patting himself on the back for being a good 'lesbro' so you know. Cut him some slack."
Santana makes a face. "Lesbro? Oh my god, how many times am I going to have to clarify that I'm not fucking gay?"
Quinn's smile only widens. "Oh yeah? Name one guy you'd rather sleep with than Brittany."
"Britt-Brittany doesn't count," Santana stammers.
"And why not?" Quinn asks, a touch of amusement in her tone.
"She's not like, any girl, okay?" Santana replies, and her heart aches a little. She shakes it off and glares at Quinn. "I'd never sleep with you."
Quinn grins. "Fair point."
"Are we done here? I have an essay to half-ass."
"We're just worried about you," Quinn says with a half-shrug. "Beyond your stupid commitment issues, you've known Brittany practically your whole life. That's got to count for something."
"Yeah, well, it doesn't, and I'm fine," Santana insists, pushing Quinn off the bed. "Go finish your math."
Quinn slides back to the desk and leaves Santana alone. Santana gives herself a moment to cool down before pulling her laptop closer and tapping out a few more sentences. The last half of the essay ends up error-ridden, which is perfect for Quinn's purposes, but honestly, Santana doesn't even make the mistakes on purpose.
--
To say that Santana is surprised to see Mike Chang, in full football uniform, jogging up to her as she stretches near the bleachers before Cheerios practice is a huge understatement. To say that Santana is immediately irritated? Wholly true.
"Hey," he says. He doesn't wait for Santana to respond. "Listen, I know we don't really… talk, but Brittany is miserable."
Santana's heart jumps to her throat at the mere mention of her name. It's pathetic. She steels herself. "How is that my problem?" she asks, focusing on the pull of her hamstring as she brings her head down toward her outstretched knee.
"I know you guys are fighting, or whatever this thing is, but isn't she still your best friend?"
"She's got you, doesn't she?" Santana stands up straight and faces him, and an irrational rage boils at the pit of her stomach. "You go and make her feel better."
"She's upset because of you." Mike crosses his arms over his chest. "I know you don't understand, and she's probably going to be mad I'm even telling you this, but she talks to me about you."
Santana rolls her eyes, even as her chest gets tight. "What could she possibly have to say about us?"
Mike's eyes narrow. "She's not an idiot. Maybe you should stop treating her like one."
"I don't treat her like an idiot," Santana replies angrily, turning to leave.
Mike follows behind her. "Then what was the whole deal with Puck?"
Santana keeps walking, further incensed by the fact that Mike apparently thinks he knows enough about her relationship with Brittany to be making judgments. "What about it?"
"You're jerking her around, Santana, and you need to knock it off."
Santana spins around, defenses rising. "I happen to like Puck. Just because she's exclusively into chicks and queers, doesn't mean I am."
Mike makes a face. "I can't believe you're being such a stubborn bitch."
Santana suppresses the urge to acquaint her knee with Mike's crotch. "Why the fuck are you even talking to me?"
"Because unlike you," he replies coolly, "I actually care about Brittany."
"Go care about her somewhere else," she snaps, knowing at the back of her mind that she's past the point of reason but also that she's utterly powerless to stop herself. "Better yet," Santana barrels on, "take her with you and show her exactly how much you 'care' about her."
Mike looks almost horrified. "Are you really that dense? I'd kill for that girl, but I'm not into her like that." He shakes his head, disappointment evident. "Obviously I'm wasting my time here because apparently, neither are you."
"I am!" Santana blurts out, her skin unbearably hot and suddenly confining.
Mike just stares at her, unflinching. "You do a hell of a job convincing her otherwise."
Santana's head starts to spin. "Convincing her of what? I haven't even spoken to her in weeks."
"That's exactly my point," Mike maintains, his index finger coming dangerously close to Santana's face. "You haven't done anything to show her you still want her."
"Two-way street, Chang," Santana fires back.
Mike just looks baffled. "Are you kidding me? You're telling me that the girl who's followed you around through hell and high water for the past nine years of your life isn't doing enough to show you she wants you? Damn, Lopez, I'd heard that you sucked at this, but now I'm completely embarrassed for you."
The realization is like a slushie to the face, and Santana swallows hard. She doesn't think she's ever wanted to turn into a blade of grass and disappear into the field more than she does now. Spend the rest of her life being cut down and stomped on. It'd be fitting punishment. Her head swims, and all she knows in that moment is the horrible, horrible ache in her chest.
"Let me make it easy for you," Mike offers. "Tell me what you think she should do. I mean, what do you want from her?"
Santana looks down, stares at the large '28' painted across the front of Mike's jersey. Her cheeks burn with humiliation. "I-nothing. I just want her back," Santana replies, so quietly she can barely hear her own words.
Mike catches them just fine. "To do what, exactly?"
Santana hardens, eyes snapping back to Mike's face. "What the fuck are you implying?"
"That you have the emotional capacity of a piece of chewed gum," Mike answers frankly and unapologetically. "You want to sleep your way through the school, fine. You leave her out of it."
"I only want her," Santana spits out, "and I told her that, right before she went off to play house with Kurt the flaming homo."
"Give me a break. You're going to pin this on her and Hummel? What about you and Puck? You and Matt? Hell, you and Quinn for all I know. If I stand around here long enough, maybe you'd even give me a go."
Santana has never known Mike to be remotely malicious, but his words are pointed and his intent is clear. It riles Santana up. "Shut the fuck up, Chang. You don't know the first thing about me."
Mike remains maddeningly level-headed. "Just because you keep everything bottled up inside until some unfortunate soul looks at you the wrong way, doesn't mean Brittany does. Why else do you think I'm here? Not because you're a pleasant conversationalist, that's for sure."
"So, what? Brittany told you all my dirty little secrets and now you're here to rub it in?"
"I'm not interested in your shit, Santana," Mike retorts, sounding genuinely angry for the first time, "but when it starts upsetting Brittany, it becomes my problem too. You bowl over anyone else you want, but not Brittany. She deserves better than that. Better than you."
"Then maybe," Santana suggests, her words filling with spite, "she should just go and find someone better than me."
"Brittany doesn't want someone better. She's in love with you," Mike blurts out angrily, emphasis sharp. "Do you get it now?"
Santana's blood turns to ice, and she has to will herself not to start sobbing right then and there as the words barrel into her with the force of a freight train. Of course. Of course ofcourseofcourse. She opens her mouth, and she wants to say a thousand things, all of them insufficient, but nothing comes out.
Mercifully, Mike isn't done. "Look, I don't know what your deal is, nor do I really care, but Brittany is my friend. You don't get to go around pissing on her because your mommy doesn't hug you enough."
"That's fucking low," Santana growls. Her voice trembles a little.
"Yeah, well. Not like you're the sparkling example of decency," Mike shoots back, and okay, Santana gives him that one. Mike continues, "I don't know what she sees in you - frankly, I think you're a complete asshole most of the time - but she's my girl. You fix this."
Santana stares at Mike, and she wants to hit him, shove him, punch him so hard she draws blood, but she doesn't do any of that. Her body is shaking with what she thinks is rage but quickly realizes is more like shame-a thick shame that constricts her and threatens to eat her alive. She's unprepared, and she almost wishes Mike would slug her across the face just so she can feel something beyond the hollow ache in her chest. For once in her life, she'd take the punishment sitting down.
Mike's words ring in her head, over and over, and all Santana wants in that moment is to hear Brittany's laugh, to make Brittany laugh, and it hurts - it physically hurts - to know that all this time, Brittany has been upset and the only thing Santana has done is wallow in her own goddamn misery. Worse, the whole thing is pretty much all Santana's fault. She feels like scum.
"I messed up," she admits quietly to nobody in particular.
Mike's features turn sympathetic. "I know you did, but she thinks it's all on her."
"No, she-god." Santana looks away, heart aching.
"Suck it up and talk to her," Mike instructs, giving Santana's shoulder a quick squeeze. "She's hurting too. Just remember that." He turns to leave. "See you around, Santana. Nice chatting with you." His tone is neither sarcastic nor resentful. Leave it to Mike to end the most uncomfortable conversation of Santana's life with a touch of courtesy.
"Hey, Chang!" Santana calls out after him. Mike turns back, and she looks at him with unease. "Thanks," she mutters, feeling more than a little on edge.
With an acknowledging nod, Mike jogs back to football practice across the field. Nearby, a few Cheerios have already started their warm-ups. Santana walks back to the bleachers and waits for Brittany to show.
As soon as she catches sight of Brittany, Santana's mouth goes dry, and shit. This whole thing has potential disaster written all over it. But Santana sucks it up. She has to. For Brittany. And well, for herself too, if she's being honest about it. Her palms get sweaty as she approaches, but she tries not to think about that. Or the fact that she hasn't so much as touched Brittany in any form except accidentally in almost three weeks. That's not exactly a lifetime or anything, but it's pretty much the longest she's ever been without Brittany, and the blonde is just standing there all skin and short Cheerios skirt, and damn it, Santana is in way over her head.
Santana catches up to Brittany before she's even figured out what to say. Brittany looks hesitantly at Santana with the bluest eyes, and Santana nearly word-vomits all over the place. But she holds it in and tries to play it cool.
"Britt, hey." And okay, so far so good.
Brittany's voice is small but sure. "Hi."
Santana wets her lips. Brittany slows to a stop halfway between the bleachers and where a small group of Cheerios have gathered and turns to Santana, as though waiting for something.
"I really need to talk to you," Santana broaches.
"About what?"
Santana's hand itches to hold Brittany's. She shakes it off. "Can we get out of here?"
Brittany motions toward the other Cheerios. "We have practice," she points out.
"After practice," Santana suggests. "My place?"
Brittany is still looking at the other cheerleaders when she says, "Santana, I can't do this anymore."
Santana's heart drops. "Do what? N-no sex, or anything like that," she says desperately, and Brittany immediately turns to stare intently at her. The look burns. "Britt, please," Santana tries again. "I just want to talk. Just talk, I promise."
Finally, Brittany nods. "Okay."
It is the longest Cheerios practice of Santana's entire existence. She is thrumming with anxiety, and she can barely concentrate on any of the routines. As she's being lifted to the top of the pyramid, her knees buckle, and she takes a hard tumble backwards into the arms of two spotters.
"Santana! Has your highly ambiguous sexuality caused you to spontaneously sprout horrifically oversized male genitalia, resulting in this pathetic excuse for a balancing act? Because I have one word for you: castration."
By the end of practice, Santana has been called every name under the sun, and she's pretty sure Coach is about to have a damn stroke, but she cannot even bring herself to be concerned about her position on the Cheerios because Brittany is walking up to her slowly, all long legs and cautiousness.
Brittany doesn't say anything, just follows Santana to the locker room to pick up their bags, and then to Santana's car, murmuring a quiet 'thanks' when Santana opens the door for her. Santana climbs into the driver's seat, snaps on her seatbelt, and pulls out of the student lot. She flicks on the radio - soft rock - to fill the stifling silence. The music is calming, and Santana loosens her grip around her steering wheel.
As she's turning into their street, the first notes of Aerosmith's I Don't Want to Miss a Thing drift through the speakers, and Santana very nearly gets into a wreck trying to change the station and turn at the same time.
Brittany's hand is gentle on Santana's, stopping her, and Santana's skin burns at the brief contact. She can't help it, even as she thinks it's pathetic pathetic pathetic. As quickly as the touch comes, it's gone, and Brittany's hand returns to her lap. Santana tosses Brittany a curious glance.
Brittany shrugs. "I like the song," she offers as an explanation. And then, quietly, "I liked it when you sang it to me."
"I can sing it to you again sometime?" Santana proposes. "Or another song, or-or anything."
Brittany looks out the window. "Okay."
Santana pulls into her own driveway and parks. She casts one brief glance at Brittany before she pushes open her door and steps out. She pulls both of their bags out from the backseat, tossing her own over shoulder, then rounds the trunk of her car to hand Brittany hers.
"I need a shower," Brittany says suddenly. A hard silence stretches between them, and Brittany adds, "I'm going to go home and shower, and I'll come by in an hour?"
The adrenaline coursing through Santana's bloodstream is unbearable, but she pulls it together and nods. An hour. She can wait an hour. Besides, after Cheerios practice, Brittany isn't the only one who needs a shower, and maybe Santana will manage to soothe her shot nerves. Probably not, but she's got to try before she does something stupid like shove Brittany against the side of her car and kiss her senseless, nosy neighbors be damned. Santana swallows hard.
Without another word, Brittany takes her backpack from Santana, slips it over her shoulders and heads down the street.
Santana clutches her keys tightly against her palm as she makes her way to her front door. As soon as she steps inside and closes her door, she leans back against it and shuts her eyes, breathing heavily. She'd almost forgotten how it'd felt to be around Brittany, to talk to her, even strained and through blankets of tension.
Santana tosses her bag aside and heads upstairs. After grabbing a change of clothes, she heads for the shower. The first spray of water hits her like a cool summer rain, and she shivers. As the water temp adjusts and evens out, Santana closes her eyes and just lets it beat down on her. And then Santana does something that both embarrasses and liberates her: she cries. Really cries with full-on snot and spit and it's so gross she almost laughs through her own tears. Santana has never been much of a crier. Sure, she tears up sometimes at those stupid chick flicks Brittany loves so much, and losing her tanning privileges had been a big deal, but she doesn't remember the last time she'd shed a tear over something that she'd legitimately been upset about, and she knows she owes that largely to one person. She cries harder at that thought, the sounds of her sobs muffled by the hammering of the water.
It's therapeutic though, because Santana's pretty sure she would've broken down in front of Brittany otherwise, and she would really prefer not to do that. So she lets herself cry herself out, and as mortified as it kind of makes her, it feels good. And when she's done, she's done. The water washes away any trace of weakness, she pulls back her shoulders and reaches for the shampoo.
By the time Santana is dried and dressed in sweatpants and a tee, she's ready for this. For Brittany. All of it. She stretches out across her bed and checks the time. Seventeen minutes to go.
Exactly nine minutes later, Santana hears familiar footsteps in the stairwell, and soon, a flash of blond hair appears at her doorway.
Brittany's hair is down, and she is dressed as casually as Santana - sweatpants and a tank top. Brittany smiles, a little uncertain. "I still had your key…"
Santana sits up and impulsively pats the free space beside her on the bed. Brittany though, she walks around the room in a large arc and slides onto Santana's desk, letting her legs dangle off the edge. The rejection stings a little.
"You look good," Santana acknowledges after a moment.
Brittany tilts her head. "You too."
Santana looks at Brittany, unsure where exactly she's going. She doesn't remember a time when it'd been this difficult to hold a conversation with Brittany. She just wants to reach across the room and pull Brittany into her bed and show the beautiful blonde everything she has so much trouble articulating. But Santana knows that she's past that point. That she needs to cement everything she feels with words.
Santana takes a breath. "I had this plan," she begins, and it's not perfect, but it's something. "To rock this school and get out of Ohio, I had this plan."
Brittany waits.
"The plan didn't involve you," Santana continues.
Brittany's eyes darken as she shuffles uncomfortably against Santana's desk.
Realizing what she'd said, Santana shakes her head. "No, I mean-" She slides to the edge of the bed closest to Brittany. "The plan wasn't about us. It was about how to be popular and get everyone at school to worship me."
"Looks like it worked," Brittany says impassively, picking at nothing on Santana's desk.
"Yeah, I guess, but-" Santana's shoulders rise in a short shrug. "I think I need to rewrite my plan."
Brittany remains unmoved. "Why?"
"Because," Santana replies softly, "I think you should be in my plans, Britt." Her cheeks are suddenly hot, and she quickly pushes on, "I mean, what happens after? We've got a little over two years, and then what? I want to get the hell out of this town, but-what are you doing after high school?"
Brittany shrugs. "I don't know. Dance, maybe. Mike's talking about eventually opening up a studio."
"Here in Lima?"
"Dunno." Brittany shrugs again. "Probably not. He wants to dance somewhere where it's okay to dance. Where it's cool to dance. Like Glee Club, except bigger."
"I don't want us to be on opposite coasts or something." Santana plays nervously with the hem of her shirt. "You know, apart."
"You were okay with it these past few weeks," Brittany says quietly.
Santana's chest tightens. "No, I wasn't." She rises from the bed and steps toward Brittany, feeling the words coming on, and she decides that, screw it. Keeping shit to herself hasn't exactly done her any favors. "I was miserable without you, Britt," she blurts out. "All I could think about was your smile and your laugh and your kisses and-and I missed you. I missed you so much I didn't even know what to do with myself. Everyone kept telling me to just talk to you, and that's exactly what I should've done three weeks ago, but I was so sure that was it. That we were just, I don't know. That it was over."
Brittany slides off the desk, and she's suddenly right there in front of Santana. Before Santana can even process what's happening, Brittany's hands slip fluidly around Santana's waist, pulling her close, and Santana presses her face into Brittany's hair and breathes her in.
"God, B," Santana murmurs, reaching up and wrapping her arms around Brittany's neck.
Brittany's grip tightens around Santana. "I missed you too, San."
Santana's hand splays across the nape of Brittany's neck, and she runs it back and forth gently. Brittany presses a kiss to Santana's shoulder. And then they just remain, breathing, absorbing, feeling, and Santana's lungs fill with the first breath of fresh air in weeks and weeks.
When they pull apart, a faint smile adorns Brittany's lips as she looks at Santana.
"You're crying."
Santana touches her own cheek and is surprised to find it wet. So much for not bawling in front of Brittany. Santana laughs a little. "I didn't know," she replies, wiping at her cheeks.
Brittany gently pulls Santana's hands away and leans closer, pressing her lips to Santana's still-moist cheeks. Brittany is meticulous in her work as she kisses across Santana's face, and Santana cannot help it; she tilts her head, meeting Brittany's lips with her own.
Brittany lets out a soft moan as she opens her mouth, ever-receptive. Santana feels a second onslaught of tears, and when the hell did she become such a goddamn sap? But the ache in her chest is a good kind of ache, like relief. She kisses Brittany slowly, trying to savor the moment, but the first brush of tongue has Santana pressing Brittany back against the edge of her desk, hips pushing urgently against hips, and the kiss turns frantic, all tongue and teeth and desperation.
"Santana," Brittany is trying to say through heavy breaths. "Wait, you said-"
Santana detaches herself from Brittany's lips and buries her face into Brittany's neck, and she knows what's coming. Brittany nudges Santana gently, and Santana backs up and sits down on her bed. This time, Brittany takes a seat next to her.
"I talked to Mike," Santana says, studying Brittany.
Panic flashes across Brittany's eyes. "Why would you do that?"
"He came to me," Santana explains. "He was worried about you."
Brittany looks down at her lap. "He's not like you, San."
Santana's heart flips. "How's that?"
"I can talk to him about you," Brittany answers quietly.
Santana turns to stare straight ahead, unsure how to take that. "And you can't do that with me?"
Beside her, Brittany shifts. "Not really. You always get upset."
"I can change," Santana offers. "I-let's talk about us, okay?"
"Okay," Brittany says with a nod, and she's waiting.
Santana draws a quick five-pointed star on Brittany's sweatpants without realizing she's doing it. She frowns at her hand as she pulls it away. She's not about to add fucking Tourette's to the long list of issues she's apparently got going on.
"I got scared," Santana admits without looking up. "And I know that's as shitty an excuse as they come, but that's exactly what happened. I got scared. I never wanted to hurt you, and I just thought-everyone loves you, you know. People are just drawn to you." She looks up, and Brittany is watching her, eyes unusually dark but as striking as Santana has ever seen them. "I thought you'd finally gotten sick of my shit," Santana continues, "that you were better off without me. I was so busy rolling around in my own self-pity that I never stopped to see it from your side. I'm so sorry, Britt. You deserve better than what I've given you."
Brittany neither confirms nor disputes that statement. She says quietly, "I didn't know how to tell you."
"Tell me what?" Santana prompts, matching Brittany's soft tone.
Brittany's eyes flash. "That I didn't want to share you anymore. I told you to go after Finn so you could be head Cheerio, and that's what you wanted, but I didn't like how it made me feel." She looks down. "I didn't know how to tell you," she repeats.
Santana runs an apologetic palm along Brittany's upper thigh. "I shouldn't have even put you in that position. I mean, something was happening and I just-I didn't know how to handle that." She takes in a shaky breath. "Chang set me straight though."
"What did Mike even say to you?"
"Basically, he told me I was being an idiot," Santana replies with a small smile. "He wasn't too far off."
The corners of Brittany's lips twitch. "Let me guess; you didn't take kindly to that."
Santana chuckles. "I'm pretty sure I should apologize to him the next time I see him."
Brittany just smiles. "He's a big boy. He can handle it. And anyway, he deserves everything he got for going to you without telling me."
Santana looks thoughtfully at Brittany. "I'm glad you have someone like him," she decides. "Someone who isn't like me."
Brittany appears confused, even a little disapproving. "Why do you say that?"
"Because I'm not any good at this," Santana explains with a short sigh. "Relationships, I guess. Mike seems like a nice guy, and he obviously cares a whole lot about you. I mean, I do too but-I'm not so good at showing it."
Again, Brittany doesn't qualify that with a response. "Were you jealous?" she asks instead.
Santana bites the inside of her cheek. "Did Quinn say that?"
"No, San, give me a little credit here." Brittany grins. "I've known you for ages."
Santana mirrors Brittany's smile. "Yeah, I guess I was, a little. Not because I thought anything was going on, just-he's such a good person, and I-"
"So are you," Brittany interrupts.
Santana laughs dryly. "Britt, seriously."
"You're different when you're with me. You notice that?" Brittany's fingertips brush Santana's jaw. "Actually, you're different when you're performing. Happier, I think."
"Yeah, well, I look hot," Santana deflects. "What's not to like?"
"You do," Brittany is quick to agree. "But that's not really what I mean."
Santana suppresses the sudden urge to push Brittany down and kiss her until neither of them can breathe. It'd be easier than this, she knows, but she forces herself to buckle down. "I just-I freaked out because I was so-" She trails off and exhales, trying to recollect her thoughts. "I wanted you everywhere."
Brittany's face knits up in confusion. "You had me, San. Everywhere."
Santana looks back down at her lap, running from Brittany's eyes like they could burn her. "I couldn't, not in this stupid town. You see what happens to that Kurt kid. Even now that he's a Cheerio."
"I don't care about that," Brittany says.
"But I did," Santana reveals, fighting tears, "and I feel like such an asshole for making that choice. Why would I give a shit about what people thought of me when those people aren't you? I had all these reasons why I couldn't be in love with you - because you were a girl, or because of this shit town, or because I suck at all this romantic stuff, and I just started making excuses. That it was just sex, that it was just high school, that everything I felt for you would go away with a little distance. But it wasn't, and it didn't." Santana finally lifts her head, turning to meet Brittany's gaze. Brittany's eyes are soft, and Santana's heart aches with apology. "I should've been focusing on the reasons why I should be in love with you," she finishes quietly.
Brittany's hand slides soothingly to Santana's knee, but she doesn't say anything.
Santana swallows hard. "The truth is," she continues, "I need you more than you need me."
Immediately, Brittany's eyes spark. "That's not true, San. You know that's not true."
And no, she hadn't, not until this very moment when Brittany's conviction rocks her. Santana takes another breath. "Remember how this started? It was just supposed to be a way to relieve some tension, and then it got so… real."
"Is that a bad thing?" Brittany asks in a guarded voice.
"No," Santana reassures her. "No, but I mean, we were both still hooking up with other people at the time. Right?"
Brittany nods solemnly.
"Right," Santana echoes. "I knew something was different. That something needed to change. I knew it, but I didn't know how to handle it. I just convinced myself that you weren't any different than anyone else, but you were. God, you were. You are."
Brittany picks Santana's hand off her lap and starts playing with her fingers. "I should've just told you that I wanted you to myself, instead of making it worse."
Santana leans over and presses her lips to Brittany's bare shoulder. "No, I would've flipped," she points out. "You're right, Britt; I don't react well to talking about us." Craning her neck, Santana reaches Brittany's jaw and plants another kiss there. "What did Mike think?"
"That I should move on and forget about you," Brittany replies with a small smile, her head falling to Santana's shoulder. "I said I couldn't."
Santana reaches up with her free hand to touch Brittany's cheek. "I love you."
Brittany's smile widens. "I love you too," she echoes, and Santana marvels at the way Brittany makes it sound so easy. Brittany squeezes Santana's hand. "What happens now?"
"Now we just…" Santana kisses the top of Brittany's head. "You want to give this a shot? Just you and me?"
Brittany nods against Santana's shoulder. "Yeah."
"Okay," Santana says softly. "Then that's what we'll do."
Brittany uses her weight to push Santana down onto the bed, and as soon as Santana is adjusted, Brittany moves to straddle Santana's hips but there's no intent for sex. Brittany leans down, and her hair falls around Santana's face. It makes Santana thinks of light rain, and she tucks Brittany's hair behind her ears, palms gentle against Brittany's cheeks.
"I don't even know how I managed to breathe without you," Santana says in a whisper.
Brittany plants a kiss on Santana's neck, near her pulse point, and Brittany keeps her head there, pressed against Santana's collarbone. Santana's hands slide to the small of Brittany's back. Brittany starts humming a familiar tune, and Santana can't help it. The song flows from her lips.
"I could stay awake just to hear you breathing…"
Brittany smiles, tilting her head to look at Santana as she sings.
"Watch you smile while you are sleeping, while you're far away and dreaming…"
It's not the best Santana's ever sounded, especially since she's lying down with Brittany's weight pressing against her chest, but Brittany doesn't seem to care, and so neither does Santana.
"I could spend my life in this sweet surrender, I could stay lost in this moment forever…"
Brittany reaches up to wipe at Santana's moist cheeks, and Santana laughs. She really needs to quit doing the whole crying without realizing it thing. Brittany just smiles and urges Santana on with a soft 'keep going'. Santana kisses Brittany's forehead and complies.
"Every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure…"
Part 6