Pink and Green (2/2)
Title: Pink and Green (2/2)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: Through S3, to be safe.
Summary: Nine moments when Brittany Pierce looks at Santana Lopez and just knows she’s holding on to something special.
5The sex without real attachment goes on until they’re seventeen, which is perfectly ridiculous in Brittany’s eyes. They shouldn’t have started down that slippery slope, sure, but regardless of the should part, they did. They started with that sleepover-or maybe long before, with Santana suggesting they “practice” on one another; Brittany never has been certain of when this all began-and the naked rolling around that ensued. They continued in the shower after practice, under the bleachers when they were meant to be fetching extra props for Coach’s lunatic vision, in Santana’s car until the gearshift slammed hard enough into Brittany’s spine to leave an near-indelible mark. For three years, it goes on: stealing kisses in inappropriate locations, stroking knees under tables, embracing for just a little too long while glances stray just a little too intensely. For three damn years.
And then, one day, Brittany snaps. She doesn’t know why she does it, why she opens her big mouth and changes the whole game plan; it seems to be her greatest talent. After all, she’s the one who initiated sex that night. She’s the one who let slip to half the Glee Club what they spend their free time doing. Why wouldn’t she be the one to finally question this thing out loud?
Santana doesn’t like that, she knows. Santana has been getting a little stranger with every passing year-a little less Green Ranger, a little more Bring It On with that popularity obsession. Santana is still her best friend, the most amazing, beautiful person Brittany has ever met, but sometimes, she makes truly terrible decisions.
Like telling Brittany she doesn’t love her.
Like running back to Puck, even when he doesn’t want her.
Like getting all pissy when Brittany retaliates by dating Artie (who can be sort of a jerk sometimes, maybe, but is genuinely sweet to her, and if Santana doesn’t like that, well, she can just deal with it).
That one little comment out of her big mouth, asking Santana to sing with her, ruins everything for a little while. And then, amazingly, it doesn’t. Because it convinces Santana to think about what they’ve been doing for so long. It convinces Santana to think about herself. And then, one day, Santana corners her by their lockers and delivers the biggest game changer of them all:
I don’t want Sam, or Finn, or any of those other guys. I just want you. Please say you love me back. Please.
Brittany can’t put into words how crazy in love she feels after that, how her heart expands and her throat closes up, because here is Santana standing before her with all the feelings in the world written across her beautiful face. And she wants to take her in, she really does-but Artie has been so kind to her, and Santana still has so much road ahead of her to travel, and even though it kills her to admit it…it just isn’t time.
So they wait.
And Santana grows.
And Artie fails her.
It takes such a long time, so many stretching, painful nights of waiting and dreaming of Santana, of forcing her thumb away from the send button on her phone, of failed Prom dates and struggles to work past the darkness she knows is raging inside of her best friend. It takes forever-
But they’re here now. At Breadstix, sitting across from one another in their favorite booth. Santana is wearing that cute leather jacket Brittany picked out at the mall two months ago, and Brittany’s dress is freshly ironed (thanks, Mom), and the waitress looks at them like she knows there’s something different about them now, something she can’t quite put her finger on…
Brittany’s heart swells when Santana hesitantly reaches across the table, her fingertips lightly brushing the inside of Brittany’s wrist. It keeps on swelling, puffing full of adrenaline and pure joy, until she’s certain she’s going to have a heart attack from loving too much, right here in their favorite restaurant.
Santana almost looks shy, the fingers of her free hand repeatedly combing back her hair. “Is this okay?” she says for the fourth time, gesturing at the breadsticks, at their plates, at the whole world around them. Brittany grins until her teeth hurt.
“This is perfect,” she repeats yet again, squeezing Santana’s hand, relishing the way their palms slip and stick together. “Perfect. A real date.”
“You can even order shrimp,” Santana drawls, referencing a somewhat awkward attempt at this same situation just last week. Brittany bursts into giggles, and Santana looks immensely proud of herself, like she doesn’t evoke that exact same reaction in Brittany every day of their lives.
“I love you,” Brittany blurts, and instinctively moves to sip her Diet Coke-because they were never supposed to say that before, not like this, not in public. Sometimes, she forgets that it’s okay now, that Santana is hers, the way the Green Ranger belonged to the Pink. Sometimes, she still expects Santana to lose it a little when she says things like love.
Except it’s different now; Santana is different now. A smile that could light the whole town bursts into being on Santana’s lips. Her leg is drumming under the table, Brittany can feel, all the excess energy sweeping down through the tile floor. She stretches out her own foot, wrapping around Santana’s ankle to still her, and waits.
“I love you too,” Santana says at last, the words trembling as if they’re newly born. Brittany squeezes her hand again.
It took forever to reach this point, but like Mom and Diana Ross always say-you can't hurry love.
6They have sex a lot-too much, Quinn snips when she walks in on them three times in one week-and Brittany loves it. She loves the feel of Santana beneath her palms, sultry skin and soft arches, curling and bending to her every whim. She loves the smell of Santana, the coconut in her hair, the sweat staining her skin, the musk between her legs as she bows to the motions of Brittany’s tongue. She loves the taste of Santana’s kiss, the sight of Santana’s mischievous smile as she drags Brittany down onto the bed, the endless array of sensations that come with having sex. She always has. Sex-in general, but especially with Santana-is amazing.
But that was then.
This is now.
And what’s happening now, after all the trials and the fighting and the no-I-can’ts-this blows everything out of the water.
Brittany is reasonably certain she’s in love with relationship sex.
There’s just something about it, about the subtle differences in Santana now that they’re dating, that makes everything that much more intense. Like how Santana can’t handle even the idea of Brittany looking at anybody else. She’s always been sort of jealous that way, but now? Eye contact with Rachel Berry last week ended in Santana plastering her against the bathroom sinks, dropping to her knees, and licking with such fervor that Brittany almost passed out on the spot.
It’s incredible.
More than the tiny changes, though, is the overall spark. Making love-which Santana still wrinkles her nose at and pronounces “wussy” (Brittany knows she secretly loves it)-has set a whole new bar for everything they do. Foreplay. Teasing. Orgasms. Everything.
Really, they should have gone down this road sooner.
Her muscles are trembling, her body strung tight; her fingertips scramble against the carpet, trying their best to grab hold. Santana is above her, gorgeously naked, perfectly positioned so that every motion of her hips brings them both that much closer to utter ecstasy. Scissoring seemed so stupid the first time Santana mentioned it, so impossibly awkward-the positioning so precarious, the likelihood of mutual orgasm so tiny-but Brittany has to admit they do it damn well. They could be professionals. Olympic gold medalists, even. She wonders if there’s a category for it, and if it would fall in the summer or winter games.
Summer, she decides, willing her hands to untangle from the carpet fibers and dig instead into Santana’s perfect hipbones. Definitely summer. Too hot for ski gear. Much too hot.
Santana’s back arches, her shoulders thrown back as her teeth sink into her bottom lip. Her hair is a mess, her face sweaty, and Brittany wants desperately to be kissing her. It’s the biggest problem with this position, she thinks: no kissing. Or, not enough kissing. Really, everything involving Santana should lead to kissing.
She settles for stretching up, her mouth closing around one pert nipple. Thrown slightly off balance, Santana yelps and tugs at her hair, her hips jerking at a slightly new angle. Brittany’s eyes roll back.
“Fuck,” she groans around Santana’s skin. The fingers in her hair yank harder in agreement.
It’s good, so amazingly good, but it isn’t enough-she needs to press her mouth against Santana’s, swallowing every pleasured sound that escapes her. She needs to be inside Santana, where everything is warm and tight and perfect. This is good, but it could be so much better.
She pushes until Santana is off her, back on the carpet, her chest heaving with exertion. Santana doesn’t look surprised, not anymore; it isn’t about being top dog anymore. Brittany doesn’t really believe it ever was.
She kisses Santana slowly, her tongue tracing patterns on soft lips, and lets her hands wander. Santana is already bucking, already desperate; she barely needs to touch wet skin, hot and soft, for Santana’s eyes to slam shut. She doesn’t need to tease, but she can’t help doing so-just a little. Just to remind Santana that there are two of them here, that she isn’t alone anymore, that Brittany can handle herself just fine. She can feel Santana trying to smile into the kiss and not quite succeeding, distracted by the gentle push and pull of Brittany’s tongue inside her mouth. Santana knows what she’s doing.
That’s the best part about sex with feelings: Santana always knows her.
She presses inside, forceful and quick, feeling Santana stretch to accommodate her. It’s so natural, thrusting and twisting, hitting all the right places until Santana’s mouth opens under her own in a silent cry of exultation. It’s so natural, and so perfect, her hips rocking against Santana’s thigh-and the friction mounts, the skin beneath hers slick-and Santana is writhing, turning her head to the side to moan Brittany name softly-and Brittany’s face buries in Santana’s neck, licking and sucking and whispering, I love you so much-
And then it’s Santana coming down slowly and Brittany reaching her plateau, her arm stilling as her legs shake and her voice leaves her entirely. It’s Santana’s arm wrapping around her, Santana’s hoarse voice whispering into her hair that she is loved, she is so fucking loved, and all Brittany can do is breathe. Serene. Happy. Still.
Sex was always good, she’ll never deny that-but this, the result of making love-this is perfection.
Ten minutes, she promises herself, and then they’ll start again.
7“Never thought we’d see this day, huh?” Santana says cheerfully, sidling up behind her in the bathroom and wrapping her arms around Brittany’s middle. Her silly red hat is tipped back on her head, her graduation robe pristine. Brittany remembers seeing Finn Hudson with an orange juice stain on his, and laughs.
“Thought you would,” she corrects, putting the finishing touches on her lip gloss. “Not me. I figured I’d be doing twirls for the New Directions until I was thirty.”
“No way, babe.” Santana snuggles into her neck and inhales. “Never would have let that happen. Schuester’s too big a sketch to leave you without back-up. Mm, you smell good.”
“Strawberry,” Brittany informs her, turning to press a sly kiss to Santana’s lips. “Rachel gave it to me.”
It’s still hilarious, even after all these years, to watch the tiny storm cloud fall across Santana’s features at that name. She beams.
“Kidding.”
They look so good together, she thinks, leaning back against Santana’s chest and staring at their reflection. They balance so well-the dark and light, the smart and quirky, the singer and the dancer. Santana’s beauty is so much more visible when she’s happy-truly happy, the real kind, not that show she put on for so many years before they got together-and Brittany is pretty damn hot herself. They’re so good together, and everyone knows it; it explains the dual Prom Queen wins a month ago.
(Well, that, or the part where Santana threatened to scalp everyone who didn’t vote for them. Hey, a win’s a win, right?)
“I love you,” Santana says reverently, chin digging into Brittany’s shoulder. “I love you, and you’re smokin’, and we are out of this hellhole in T-minus-“ She glances at her wrist. “Thirty-five minutes. God, that feels good.”
“You feel good,” Brittany teases, but underneath it all, she knows Santana is right. It does feel good to know she’s about to put all of this high school drama behind her. It feels amazing, to be free of teachers and homework and people who whisper about her test scores in the hallway. The fun parts of high school were great, but the school parts were absolutely awful-and she’s moments away from being free of that forever.
“Goodbye, McKinley bullshit,” Santana sing-songs, twirling her around. “Hello, University of Chicago!”
Brittany smiles into the kiss even as her heart threatens to sink into her strappy sandals. University of Chicago, right. Medical school. One more summer of partying and making love on every available surface, singing karaoke in Puck’s cramped apartment and pushing Quinn into the pool-and then college. Santana’s going off to follow in her father’s footsteps, to be a doctor. And Brittany…
Brittany is going to a community school in Cleveland.
It’s just for a few semesters, she tells herself-and Santana tells her, when the voice inside her head grows too loud to be drowned out without help. Just a few semesters with Santana just across state lines, and then she’ll transfer over to a Chicago school, and they’ll get an apartment together, and it’ll be just like it always has been. Pink and Green, light and dark, together forever.
Just a few semesters.
She swallows the misery she can feel clinging to the inside of her throat, forcing down the welling anxiety before Santana spots its glint in her eyes. It’s graduation day, the moment of blissful freedom that will spark the best summer of their lives. This isn’t the time for thinking sad thoughts. Not when everyone else is so happy.
She needs to be happy, too.
Santana’s forehead bumps against hers playfully, Santana’s lips peppering across her cheeks, and she forces herself to laugh. A whole summer, she reminds herself. A whole beautiful, wonderful summer. Long nights, naked swims, sunsets and beach volleyball. A whole summer.
And then just a few semesters.
She closes her eyes, sets her shoulders, and lets Santana’s hand pull her gently out the door.
8Her hands are shaking. This is the opposite of everything she’s ever wanted, the opposite of happiness as she has always defined it. This is wrong. This is so wrong.
And yet…she can’t think of another option.
Just a few semesters, she told herself over and over again, through June, July, half of August. Over and over, as Santana slammed in a run and slid into home while Puck cursed at the pitcher’s mound. Over and over, as she tossed back bright pink drinks at Kurt’s graduation party, bouncing on Santana’s lap. Over and over, as she pushed Santana into the sun-baked sand and kissed her like there was no tomorrow heading over that horizon.
Over and over, as they made love each night, the sheets wound loosely around their waists, whimpering the names of soulmates into the summer air.
Just a few semesters was good enough for a while, a believable enough lie that Brittany was sure it would be so. She could handle knocking a few simple courses out of the park without Santana sitting on the bed beside her, checking her answers. She could listen to Santana’s excitement drifting over the phone lines as she outlined each impossible-sounding class on her list. She could wait at home for Santana to finish partying, never wondering who Santana was meeting, always trusting that there would still be a place for her in Santana’s life next spring…
She could.
Or.
“Are you-are you kidding me?” Santana rasps. Brittany’s head shakes. Her face feels numb, her tongue heavy in her mouth. Her feet seem to slip against the carpet, and she has to remind herself forcefully that she is already sitting down.
“I just think it would be a good idea.”
“Bullshit, you do,” Santana fires back. “Explain to me why this is a good idea, Britt. Fucking spell it out for me.”
“It’s just…” Strong. Hard and fast, like a band-aid. Like-like you’re fighting evil. “We need to.”
“We don’t need to,” Santana explodes. “How the fuck could you say that to me? Need to, fuck that! And fuck you for saying so. Goddammit, Britt, after all the fucking time it took to find you, you’re asking me to lose you?”
“Not lose me. Just. Let me go.”
“Failing to see the difference,” Santana replies icily. Her hands are stiff against her jean shorts, not even picking at the strings dangling against her legs. It’s a bad sign, to say the least.
“There is a difference,” Brittany says, trying not to hear the tremor in her own voice. “A big one. I’m not going anywhere, Santana. You are.”
“Do you want me to stay?” Santana demands. “Because I will. I fucking will. I’ll call them right up, right now, tell them to give my dorm to somebody else, and I’ll-I’ll get a job with you, I’ll work as a cashier or something, I’ll commute to Cleveland-“
Brittany folds a hand over Santana’s fist, shaking her head again. “You’ll go,” she says firmly. “You’ll go, because you have to. And you’ll learn, and you’ll get even smarter than you are now. And I’ll be here.”
“Without me.” Santana’s voice is dull, chipped around the edges like an old stone. Brittany fights not to close her eyes.
“Yes.”
“I love you,” Santana insists, helplessly. Brittany smiles.
“And I love you. Which is why we’re doing this.”
“We’re breaking up because you love me,” Santana repeats dumbly. “All the fucking sense in the world, Britt. You’re a goddamn rocket scientist of your own making, with logic no one else can fucking touch.”
“I’ll be here,” Brittany repeats.
“Waiting?” Santana asks, and there’s something in her voice-something so lost, so little-girl terrified-that nearly breaks Brittany in half. She swallows.
“If you want me to. Yes.”
“But we won’t be together.”
“No.”
“And you won’t want to hear from me?” Santana says, breathless, like she can’t believe the words that are tumbling from her own lips. “No texts? No emails? No visits? You won’t want anything to do with me?”
“Of course I want to hear from you!” Brittany exclaims. “Always. I want to hear-“ She chokes a little, forces herself to go on. “I want to hear everything.”
They sit for a moment, Brittany’s hand still covering Santana’s, and for just that one idle moment, Brittany thinks it’ll be okay. That they can walk away from this. Like the wound under a band-aid, this will heal.
And then Santana’s head begins to shake. Her hand pulls free, her legs springing her off the bed and halfway to the door in one graceless motion. Brittany’s mouth goes hopelessly dry.
“No,” Santana says gruffly. “No way. You don’t get to hear from me. Fuck that. You’re fucking breaking up with me, Brittany. You’re fucking breaking my goddamn heart. You don’t get to hear about my fucking day after something like that.”
The tears are coming, Brittany knows, for both of them. The difference is, Santana will never let her see hers.
“You’re my best friend,” Brittany croaks, struggling to hold the sobs at bay. “My best friend. I love you.”
Santana’s head gives one more violent shake, hard enough to send her teeth clacking together. “Best friends don’t do shit like this to one another, Brittany. Absolutely fucking not.”
And just like that, she’s gone-out the door, down the stairs, each step rattling the windowpane in Brittany’s bedroom. She can hear the front door plow back into its frame, the rattle of Santana’s not-all-there bike chain as she pedals furiously away. She can hear it all, but it’s so far away, she barely believes it’s real.
Just like a band-aid, she thinks, sinking back against the pillows. Fast and hard. Just like a damn band-aid.
People who throw that phrase around always seem to forget just how much band-aids hurt.
9It’s an elementary school flashback, trying to wade through this crap. Brittany is in her room, struggling to make sense of Chaucer, and all she can think is, This isn’t worth anything. If they would just let me dance the final, I’d get an A every time. Who needs this, anyway?
She certainly doesn’t, except for the part where you can’t get a decent job anymore without a degree-even the useless one she’s slowly crawling her way toward. Unless she joins the army, like Finn did, this is her only option.
Which sucks, because Chaucer is stupid.
The footsteps on her landing are a god-send; it means her mother is here with cookies, or lugging Lord Tubbington, or some revelation about where aliens last landed in Europe. A break, at least, from all this crap she’s been dragging through. She’ll take anything at this point.
She rolls from the mattress and swings the door open, fully prepared to meet her mother before she even knocks-but there’s no one there. The landing is utterly empty, without even a wayward kitty tail to announce that anyone was there at all. Brittany frowns.
She’s going crazy; it’s the only explanation. This Old English nonsense is actually melting her brain. She wonders if she could get a doctor’s note explaining that to the professor and still pass the course.
The door shuts softly, and she pads her way back to the bed. So much for the break. She supposes she could just fake falling asleep on the book and pretend to be sick in the morning; if nothing else, it would get her a day of peace and relaxation. There haven’t been many of those lately, between her job and trying to handle this ridiculous college thing.
And now she’s hallucinating noises. Which is just the best sign ever, really.
Lots of noises, apparently, because what she’s hearing now isn’t the door-it’s the window. The sound of scraping, like someone trying to tug the thing open despite its lock. She shakes her head, pressing her face against the pages and inhaling. Homework is just not her scene tonight.
Seriously, though; hallucinations mean cancer, or alien abductions or something. Right?
The noise is still coming, buffered by what sort of sound like colorful swear words-which is incredibly insane, because Brittany doesn’t even curse that much, so why would the little voice in her head do so? Unless the little voice happened to belong to Santana, which would just be cruel after all this time, and-
Hang on.
She raises her head, not daring to believe-and there, at the window, is a girl in a tree. A girl wearing a University of Chicago hoodie. A girl with leaves in her hair and a string of Spanish curses slinking out of her mouth.
Santana Lopez is in her fucking tree.
It’s a terrible idea, letting Santana in-the last time they saw each other, Santana was so mad she couldn’t see straight, after all-but it’s an even worse option, letting her plummet to her death. Brittany chooses the former, her fingers trembling against the latch, not even realizing she’s holding her breath until Santana all but falls onto her carpet.
“What the hell?” she snaps, hands on her hips. Sheepishly, Santana stumbles to her feet and picks a leaf out of her hair. She tosses it towards the window.
“Hi,” she says, and Brittany nearly cries from mixed relief and shock. A year of complete silence, a year of assuming Santana was sleeping her way through Chicago while learning how to slice into organs or whatever, and suddenly she’s faced with Hi?
“What-“
“The hell, yeah, I know.” Santana brushes at her hair again, frowning. “Did I get it all? I feel like there’s a bird or something lodged in there.”
Wordlessly, Brittany stretches to retrieve the last twig from behind Santana’s ear. The sigh of relief she receives in return threatens to floor her completely.
“Thanks. I didn’t want to look like a refugee from Hair while I did this.”
“Did what?” Brittany can’t help asking, because Santana is so infuriatingly charming, standing there on her carpet with a tiny tear in the knee of her jeans and a wayward berry stain on her sleeve. Insane, probably, and kind of uncalled for-a year of silence is a hell of a long time, for God’s sake-but still charming. And beautiful. And-
“What are you doing here?” Brittany hisses. “And why couldn’t you just come in through the door? You could’ve gotten seriously hurt.”
“Eh,” Santana waves her off, “it’s just like climbing the treehouse. Except without the house part. And the ladder. Did have your mom watching me, though. I think she thought I was a burglar or something, ‘cuz she was halfway through dialing the cops before she saw my face-“
“Santana,” Brittany snaps. “What is going on?”
“I’m sorry,” Santana blurts with such sudden emotion that Brittany takes a step back. “For. Well. Everything, I guess. For not calling. For how I left. For not understanding why you did what you did. I mean, what you did was stupid. Totally stupid. Like, Hall of Fame stupidity levels, Britt, I mean, Jesus.”
“Thanks,” Brittany grumbles. Santana has the grace to look embarrassed.
“I get it, though. Now. I actually got it pretty quickly after it happened, but you know me. Always taking my sweet-ass time to work through shit, right?”
Grudgingly, Brittany nods. She’s not really sure if she’s angry, or if she’s just too surprised to form words that don’t sound infuriated-but either way, Santana seems to be working off of a clumsy sort of script in her head, and she doesn’t think much good can come of interrupting.
Santana has always liked to take charge, after all.
“I just wanted to say,” Santana blusters on, “that I love you. Still. Always. I can’t get over you, Britt. I get that you wanted me to, at least for a little while, so you wouldn’t feel so alone here-or like you were trapping me, or whatever it was that your weird rocket science logic worked out. I get that. But I can’t. Without you, I’m…well, I’m just bad news. I don’t feel like my head’s on straight, you know? Without you, I just feel weird. Empty. I still love the shit out of you, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to keep loving you until we’re old and wrinkly and the proud owner of twenty-seven identical cats.”
Brittany snickers, unable to remain composed at the image. Santana grins.
“I love you,” she repeats, softly. “Do you-I mean, you didn’t get back together with Wheels or something, did you?”
The least she can do is leave Santana there to stew for a moment, anxiety flashing across her face as the worst possible scenarios race through her mind. She could say she slept with Quinn, or Finn, or that she’s currently engaged to Rachel Berry. She could say anything in this moment.
But Santana is staring at her, wide-eyed and beautiful as ever, so Brittany simply sucks in a breath and whispers, “I love you too.”
The combination of Santana’s heartbreaking smile and suddenly teary eyes genuinely hurts her heart. She breathes again, her head swimming with a year’s worth of miserable nights, endless classes spent composing texts she never sent, memories triggered everywhere she went. And now Santana is here, in her bedroom-and of course she still loves her, because how could she ever love anyone else?
“Good,” Santana says, and immediately drops to one knee. “Because I have this shiny thing I’ve been carrying around for a while, and if my memory’s any good, you’ve always sort of liked shiny things.”
The box in her hand is blue, and Brittany she should care more about what’s inside, but her eyes are rooted to the lid. Two helmet-shaped stickers, one pink, one green, face each other, held down with a strip of Scotch tape.
She doesn’t even have to see the ring to know what her answer is going to be.
The Pink Ranger was always meant to marry the Green.