fic: (The Sun'll Still Shine) But The Night Is On My Mind (2/3)
Title: (The Sun'll Still Shine) But The Night Is On My Mind
Pairing: Santana Lopez / Brittany Pierce. Side Puck/Santana + Quinn/Santana friendship.
Words: 5600 - [15,600 overall]
Rating: R.
Disclaimer: I don't owns the Glee.
Summary: What Santana wants is a summer to feign blind to the life that’s in shambles around her. If she can avoid Britt (and those damn glee kids), stay inside and occasionally pass and puff with Puck, things’ll be perfect. The summer, of course, has different plans. Title from ATCQ’s “Midnight.”
Read: 1 | 2 | 3 | Epilogue.
“Hey!” Santana shouts from the perch of her lifeguard chair. Her parents were actually serious about the summer job so she spends four days a week in various bikinis (and that one too-hot for the public pool monokini), with Ray-Bans covering her eyes as she reads books and completely ignores intolerable brats splashing under her in the pool.
She seriously hopes nothing bad happens because her give-a-fuck is broken and she doesn’t want someone’s floating child on her conscience. She tries to pay attention but when she does she just ends up yelling at an insufferable excuse for cute who doesn’t understand that running on wet tile can get you fucking killed.
“You! Get out!” She shouts from her perch in the lifeguard chair. The world’s most obnoxious ten year-old has been pissing her off for the better part of an hour since at least six other obnoxious twerps have tugged at her ankle or tapped at her thigh to get her attention about how he’s been trying to drown all of them.
(There was, of course, that fourteen year-old who just wanted to touch her thigh which resulted in a Squints-style ejection.)
The demon child narrows his eyes at her and flips her the bird. It takes everything in her not to climb down and shove his ass back into the pool he’s just climbed out of. She stares him down instead and he crumbles because she’s Santana Lopez and making people squirm with a look is something she was born to do.
“Don’t come back,” she calls after him. “If you do, I have no problem dropping you in the deep end.”
She shrugs her shoulders, watches him go with a scowl on his face and slides her sunglasses back on. She looks at the kids in the pool staring at her-- slack jawed with a mix of wonder and fear in their eyes -- and bucks at them. “You want some too?”
*
She hasn’t seen Brittany in three days and before the hour they hung out three days ago it had been a week. She doesn’t want to admit that she’s not sure if its driving her crazy because she can’t stop thinking about wanting to kissing her or the fact that she’s promised to read Deathly Hallows to her before the premiere.
She goes with the reading thing because they haven’t kissed in four months and she refuses to let that be the problem until she’s shaking a sheet in the air to knock out the wrinkles and fold it when a flood of memories knocks her square in the chest.
*
She can’t help but think about folding up her sleeping bag the morning after she first kissed Brittany in front of a humming television in her family room with way too many relatives in her house to get to sleep in her own bed.
They had sleepovers every Friday and she really could care less that her mom was housing six additional Lopez’s. Brittany was going to spend the night. She always did and it was Santana’s turn to host. She was the one with the Playstation and they had scores to beat.
Her argument seemed strong enough because her mother just shrugged her shoulders, told her they better be on their best behavior and they were stuck on the floor in the den. She didn’t really care where they slept so long as they got to be together.
Sleepovers were their thing. Brittany was leaving for Colorado with her family in two days and they’d be gone for two weeks. She wanted to at least be a little happy before she had to be miserable.
They did the usual: painting each others nails, practicing fish braids, watching movies and stuffing themselves into one sleeping bag. The excuse was that Santana always got cold and Brittany made her warm but they really just liked being near each other.
Neither one of them wanted to get up to shut off the movie and one of Santana’s cousins had lost the remote so a humming blue screen cast light on the den. Everyone else had been sleep for hours, but they always fought to see just how long they could stay up.
Brittany was losing the battle, her eyes half shut but trained on Santana who was looking everywhere but at her. Their bodies were pressed closely together, legs wound like gimp and she took a moment to think that maybe they were getting too big to share a sleeping bag. Brittany had already grown a good three inches that summer.
“Hey,” Brittany whispered, she was so close her breath tickled Santana’s forehead.
“What?”
“You’re pretty,” Brittany said with a grin. She always got silly when she was sleepy and Santana knew that in a few moments she was going to doze off and sleep hard until morning like always.
She felt her cheeks tinge red with warmth and embarrassment. Brittany always complimented her on something: her hair, her skin, her new shoes, but she’d never said she was pretty. That was all encompassing.
She felt herself smile and then her mouth was saying thanks without words. Her hand resting on Brittany’s cheek. She pulled back after a moment, more red than before and dropped her head into the crook of her arm. Brittany smiled softly, kissed her back just as earnest and then nestled her head against her chest to fall asleep.
*
When she tucks the sheet into the linen closet she thinks about just how innocent it had all started; how the kiss had really been her way of saying the thanks she couldn’t put into words. But mostly she thinks about the fact that the second time she kissed Brittany had been because she wanted it. Because she needed to know what it would feel like to kiss her the way she’d seen it done in movies.
That feeling had landed her here: in love.
*
As if people who share her blood aren’t driving her crazy enough (this summer job shit really fucking sucks), her mom won’t stop badgering her about finding a dress for her cousin Luisa’s wedding at the end of the summer. She’s just glad she skirted out of being apart of the bridal party, but now she has to find a dress that her mother won’t blow a gasket over (which dismisses every dress she already owns.)
She doesn’t have to work and she can’t stand being in the house any longer with her mom “tsssing” every time she comes into the den. She drops her Macbook into her laptop sleeve and grabs her purse before heading to the Lima Bean. She can scam on their free Internet, air conditioning and continue her dress search online.
She grabs a too-big caramel iced coffee and a donut (she’s so glad to be off the Cheerios diet, its the only thing she doesn’t miss). She almost shoots a text to Quinn when she slides into a chair at a table in the corner, but she changes her mind. She’s very actively ignoring the Where are you? text Britt sent her a few minutes ago. Her heart is thudding and they’re not even sharing the same space.
*
She’s got fourteen tabs open across Asos, Betsey Johnson, American Apparel and Top Shop when she spots him. He gives her a little nod and she’s considering just returning a smile when she realizes he can actually be of some help.
“Kurt,” she says with a little more emphasis than she intends. A few heads turn her way and her eyebrows furrow in annoyance, but she focuses her attention on him. His eyebrows lift in confusion with an expression that obviously says ‘You’re not talking to me, right?’ She rolls her eyes. “Come sit.”
He shrugs and it’s so diva that she has to roll her eyes.
Kurt slides into the seat across from her nestling something steamy and she shakes her head because it’s hot as balls outside. There’s no way she’s drinking anything without ice until September. It makes her think of Britt, whose undying love for hot cocoa, is strong enough for summer consumption.
“So...?” Kurt asks. She’s waiting for his eyebrow to jump right off his face because it’s aimed that high. She nearly asks where he gets them arched, but she’s pretty sure that’s rude and she wants his help; instead, she settles on a simple, “Hey,” and he looks three seconds from getting up.
“I, um,” she starts, “Well, I’m looking for a dress.” His eyes light up and she smirks, “For my cousin’s wedding and it has to be a little outside of my comfort zone.”
“Not slutty. Okay. Where do I factor into this?” She rolls her eyes and spins her laptop around, the satiny red cover makes a noise against the table. “Oh, I see.”
“Yeah. I mean, you don’t have to help. I just fig--”
“Shh,” he says, “I need quiet so I can think straight. Would you mind standing?”
“What?”
“Stand up,” she frowns, “So I can get a good look at your body. I’m obviously not scamming on you and you’ve definitely heeded worse requests.”
She shoots him a look, but stands, because, seriously, she needs to get this out of the way. She can’t take another conversation with her mom weaving in and out of Spanish and English expressing disappointment for her procrastination and “loose” dressing. She stands, drops her arms to her sides like they weigh a ton and frowns as his eyes scan up and down her body.
“We’re definitely going strapless. Your chest is lovely,” he notes and then his finger is zooming over the trackpad and he’s tapping out instructions to Google.
“Can I sit down?”
*
Another iced coffee and a sandwich later, they’ve finally found something. Strapless with the perfect neckline; soft yellow, that she not sure will work with her skintone. Kurt reminds her that it’s summer and she’s tanned quite a bit. He managed to make Berry look hot that one time, so, she trusts his judgment.
There’s an awkward silence hanging between them as she types her credit card information into the the checkout from memory -- she may or may not have an online shopping problem.
It’s weird sitting with Kurt but it’s somehow comfortable too. She feels like the biggest bitch in the world, because maybe if she’d been brave enough to be his friend she could have protected him like she’s always protected Britt against people who didn’t understand her. Maybe she could be brave for herself.
He looks at her from across the table and there’s way more cognizance than politeness in the way his lips turn up and it makes her chest tight. She can practically see gears turning in his head like he’s been waiting for this moment to pounce on her with a big, “I knew it!” She hasn’t been blind to the looks of pity he’s been shooting her way and she wonders if Brittany’s said anything to him.
“Look,” she starts because she wants to halt this conversation before it begins. The corners of his mouth twitch until his lips form a straight line but he holds her gaze with confidence.
“Don’t,” he says finally. Confusion drenches her features and he shakes his head. “You don’t have to say anything, Santana. I’m not going to say anything either. But,” he straightens his shoulders and leans forward, “If you ever want to. I’m available. I don’t really understand why you prefer to suffer alone, but I think I get it. I’ve talked to Dave.”
She wants to yell or kick him for laying everything out like that, for knowing but she can’t. She slumps in her chair, instead, and taps a finger against the table. He gives her a quick warm smile and covers her hand with his own. The way he smiles at her says he gets it, really understands, but the way his hand fits on top of hers, warm and buzzing with some unidentifiable electricity assures her that things might really be okay.
“I have to go,” she says after a long moment of silence. He nods and mutters about needing to go too. They collect their things in silence. She should say thanks, but she can’t make the word lift from the dry feeling in her mouth. She hopes there’s enough thanks in the hand that she wraps around his with a squeeze before she’s out the door.
*
The last thing Santana expects to find when she slides her bag off her arm and steps into her room is Brittany. She’s in the center of her bed sitting Indian-style, head bowed over the book in her lap. She looks up at Santana with a smile but doesn’t move.
“You took forever to get home, silly,” Brittany says. She drops the book beside her and angles her body to face Santana.
“Hey.”
“You don’t look happy.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“Have not.”
“You have but I forgive you,” Brittany smiles easily and shrugs her shoulders.
“You forgive me?” Santana bites down on her tongue, frowning. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t need to be forgiven.”
“Okay,” Brittany says softly. Santana hears her sigh. “Well, since I haven’t seen you I’ve been reading it on my own,” she lifts up the book and Santana recognizes it immediately. A little part of her feels bad, the other part is still angry that Brittany’s here. “I have two more chapters.”
“You’ve been fine on your own.”
She drops her bag into her desk chair and sets her laptop on her desk without bothering to remove it from it’s sleeve. Brittany frowns and Santana’s sure she really doesn’t know what she’s done to be avoided. She looks away and crosses the room to her dresser. Brittany’s quiet, watching.
“Look. I’m gonna take a shower because it’s hot and I’m like criminally gross, but I’ll read it to you when I get out.”
Brittany fucking seal claps, which is obnoxiously cute, and Santana bites back a smile.
This is why she avoids her. The normal anxiety in her chest is quelled by the one thing she thinks is its source. It hurts her head to make sense of it.
She snatches up a pair of boxers and a beater from her top drawer then heads to the bathroom connected to her room. When she emerges, clothed and feeling human again, Brittany is waiting for her; lying on her side, head resting in her palm.
She takes a seat next to her and Brittany immediately scoots closer and drops her head into her lap. Brittany can get her to do nearly anything she’d be embarrassed about if people knew; reading her Harry Potter is one of them. Just like that, things are back to normal and she’s comfortable again.
She sort of gets choked up toward the end and Brittany reflexively thumbs at her side. She jerks away and lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Can you stop that?” Brittany says with as much annoyance as she can muster. It’s not much because she’s almost always stuck on happy, but its enough to snap Santana out of whatever mood she’s locked in.
“Stop what?”
“Making that noise,” she says reenacting Santana’s sigh, “like I made you gay.”
“What the fuck, Britt? Seriously?”
“I’ve let you avoid me, shove me off of you in front of everyone and act like I don’t exist whenever it’s convenient for you,” she says and the look on her face is enough to make Santana feel like shit. “It really sucks putting up with it. You don’t have to grimace when I touch you. I’m not a predator. That’s that Ryerson guy.”
“I’m not avoiding you.”
“You are. And it’s dumb. So stop it. I know you’re like going through stuff and having a hard time, but I didn’t do anything to you. Every time you push me away I keep coming back but...”
“But what?”
“I can only be pushed so much,” she says scooting away from Santana and off the bed. She’s looking for her shoes with a frown on her face and all Santana can do is gape.
“Are you being serious? You friend zoned me. After you told me you’d rather be with Artie. After you pushed me to fucking express my feelings. After I told you I loved you. You pushed me away.”
Brittany just stares like Santana’s grown two more heads around the one that’s still rambling about hurt feelings and all the time she’s said “I love you.”
“I told you I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in this world. I didn’t friend zone you, but I’m not going to sleep around with you like before if you can’t be with me. I can’t do that. I love you too much to let you keep hurting yourself but maybe you don’t love me like you think you do.” Her shoes are on and she’s snatching her bag off the floor. “Maybe you should keep avoiding me,” she says and then she’s gone.
Santana can hear her footsteps rapidly tap tapping down the stairs. She hears her mom tell Brittany goodbye but she doesn’t hear her response. She assumes it was whispered in the tone Brittany uses when she’s upset, but she can’t even make herself care because she feels like she’s sinking.
When she’s calmed down she considers calling Britt or going to her house, but the prospect of hearing her say something else that hits right in the gut is enough to make drop her phone onto her dresser and curl into her sheets.
*
She’s pretty fucking pathetic; even by her recent standards. She actually took playlists from her mom’s laptop and put them on her iPod. She’s been listening to super emotional oldies by The Isley Brother’s and whoever else her mom digs. It’s sad, actually, that every lyric seems to mean something to what’s going on with her and Britt.
It’s really stupid that she’s been such an idiot, but she hasn’t built up the energy to make herself apologize and Brittany doesn’t seem to have any intentions of making the first step (honestly she shouldn’t have to).
Everything is too much. She’s had way too many conversations with people who seem to know. And, fuck, she’s just waiting for the pressure in her head to make it cave in.
*
“Lopez!” Santana jerks and sits up in her lifeguard chair. She frowns when she sees the source of the voice. She was getting in a pretty nice tan and having an excellent daydream about--
“Are you going to speak?”
“What? No. You fucking--” she stops and looks at the kids below her who all push out a round of Ooooh’s, “You harpy. I was daydreaming. God. Why are you here? You sunburn like a fucking ginger.”
“It’s nice to see you too,” Quinn says. “Do you get a break or something?”
Santana raises her wrist only to realize she’s not wearing a watch. “What time is it?”
“Five.”
“Yes. A break called ‘off’.” She says smirking. She rolls her towel up before climbing down from her post then pulls out a whistle and blows hard. “Alright munchkins get the hell out. I’m going home.”
“I wanted to swim.”
“Well, Fabray, maybe you should’ve checked the pool hours -- Hey! Seriously, get out.” The few remaining kids scramble out and she wonders where the hell their parents are for a moment before deciding she doesn’t actually care. She glances at Quinn who’s stuffing her own towel into her bag with a scowl.
“You look like someone stole your puppy.”
“I seriously wanted to swim.”
“You wanted to see me being hot. It’s fine. Most people do.”
Quinn rolls her eyes and her mouth curls into the smirk she usually wears before saying something to piss Santana off, but the fight leaves her mouth after a moment passes. Santana grimaces in confusion.
“Please don’t go light on me, Q.”
“Some things are better left unsaid.” She smiles and Santana wants to push her in the pool.
“So, other than being obnoxiously inept at understanding closing times, what did you want?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Then let’s eat. I think I’ll be able to digest with you in close proximity.”
“At least you’re keeping your food down these days.” Santana smirks, because, it was a low blow, but it’s the Quinn she’s comfortable with, which is better than whatever she was dishing five minutes ago.
“Sadly, I couldn’t excuse it with morning sickness.”
“Bitch.”
“Takes a bigger one to know one.”
“Not your best.”
“That’s fine. You’re still a bitch so the point wasn’t missed.”
*
It almost doesn’t feel weird sitting in Breadstix with Quinn except there’s an empty space beside her that should be occupied by Brittany and she and Quinn haven’t been this close in proximity since the party. That interaction was cloaked mostly in silence, but this, this is something different all together.
They’re talking (small talk) but it’s more than they’ve done in a long time and Santana starts to think she was wrong about a lot of things. Brittany’s blow up sent her head into a space of doubt. Not doubt in them, but in her own understanding; of herself, of Brittany.
Her and Quinn end up back at her place. She’s busy swiping off her nail polish (one nail chipped and she really just can’t deal with chipped polish) and Quinn’s fingering through her bookshelf.
“So,” Quinn starts, grabbing a book off her shelf, her eyebrows furrowing. “You read Sarah Dessen?”
“Yes. Your point?”
“It’s a little sappy. I just … I didn’t expect that you’d read stuff like that.”
“Well, I’m full of surprises.”
“Not really. You’re pretty easy to read.”
“Fuck you.”
“So are you ready to talk about this or …?”
“About what,” Santana asks even though she knows where this is going.
“Pretending this doesn’t exist isn’t going to help you.”
“Who says I want your help?”
“I know that you don’t, but I’m offering it anyway.”
She doesn’t say anything, just props the bottle of polish against her thigh (OPI I’m Not Really A Waitress) and flattens the small dot of polish against her thumbnail. She drags it slow and deliberate to the tip and pats the brush against the end of her nail to wrap the polish around. It’s a technique she’s been perfecting since twelve and she can probably do it without looking, but it gives her a reason to completely ignore Quinn.
“Whatever,” Quinn says after Santana’s finished painting all the nails on her right hand. She suggests they watch a movie five minutes later and even though Santana knows she’s pissed at her, she’d much rather be around Santana than at home with her mother smelling like scotch.
*
“Do you want me to go down on you?”
“No.”
“C’mon. Let me.”
“Dude, why are you so determined to give me head?”
“Because you’re super bitchy and I know you’re not doing anyone else.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Uh. Yeah I do. When’s the last time you busted one?”
“I’m a girl. I don’t bust nuts, Puckerman.”
“Whatever. When’s the last time you let one go?”
“Shut up.” She frowns trying to remember the last time, which already makes it too long ago. She shrugs and mumbles something about the last time she let him. A month ago.
“A month? What the fuck, Lo?”
“Can you not be the archetype for douchehood?”
He’s pissing her off but he’s right. She is super bitchy and it is (at least partly) because of her lack of action. She shouldn’t let him do it because it just opens another can of worms. She’d rather be bothered over a not-so-smart decision that results in an orgasm than deal with everything else.
After an unnecessary long argument about not being bitchy (when she so is) she still ends up pressed against the wall, her skirt bunched up around her waist with her legs draped over his shoulders. And it’s as good as it always is but she can’t shake the feeling of being wrong when its over.
“Stop frowning,” he says as she pulls her panties up and tugs her skirt back down. “I know it wasn’t bad. You’re pretty vocal.”
“Shut up.”
“Don’t think too much on it. We’re just friends helping each other out.”
“Shut up. We’re just … we can’t do this anymore okay?”
“Fine, but let’s go smoke this,” he says holding up a blunt. She concedes with a shrug and an hour later they’re zooted and stuffing themselves with the two twenty-piece nuggets they ordered in between laughing and smacking each other in the drive-thru of McDonald’s.
“I hope you know you’re being a dumb ass about this.”
“Fuck are you talking about?” Santana says frowning.
“If you’re going to play dumb then I can too.”
“Just stop.” Her lungs squeeze and her mouth gets dryer than it already was.
“Fine. There’s some Jack under the seat. You wanna get wasted and prank call Berry?”
“What are you twelve?”
Apparently she’s twelve too because they spend the next two hours trading shots of Jack and pretending to be everyone from Patti LuPone to Dr. Frankenstein as they roll through the phone numbers of the New Directions.
(Santana has the most fun perfecting her accent as a Chinese food delivery man. She yells about fried rice being outside for ten minutes while a flustered Quinn argues that she never ordered any, but never hangs up.)
*
She’s moping in bed mulling over lyrics that hurt a little too much. Someone crooning: “If I go on my way without you, where would I go?” wraps that rope around her chest again, because she doesn’t know where she’d go. It’s always been about them. She’s been a selfish idiot about everything but even in thinking of herself Brittany’s tied into it. She can’t imagine a life that doesn’t include her.
She can’t keep avoiding her and she’s sure three days of silence isn’t sending the right message to: “Maybe you don’t love me as much as you think you do … keep avoiding me.” So, she cracks; showers and washes her face and throws on a pair of shorts and a tank to go apologize.
She’s not ready to throw herself into a relationship and dance out of her closet, but she needs Brittany to understand that she’s working on it and she needs her friendship more than anything. It’s exactly what she tells her on the Pierce doorstep after getting over the pleasant shock of seeing her in a flowy sundress with her hair all curly around her face (shock that goes straight to her lower half.)
She toes at the concrete beneath her to keep her composure and in the end a quick hug and a, “My mom is making kabobs,” is enough to right their friendship. She’s not sure about the other stuff (where they’ll take things, if anywhere), but hanging in the Pierce backyard with people she considers family is good enough.
*
She’s positive she’s living in Rachel Berry’s wet dream. Somehow (with booze) Puck’s convinced her to show up. The state fair is two towns over for the next two weeks and Rachel suggested “New Directions bonding time”, which, seriously, she’s already had too much of.
She doesn’t know when they decided she was their friend, but aside from dicking around with Puck and playing the I’m-trying-not-to-strangle-you game with Quinn she’s also spent some time with Tina and Mercedes (Brittany dragged her along) and Mike, who is really awesome at Mario Kart (way better than Puck who makes her wins feel unfair, almost.)
“Here woman,” Puck says shoving a large cloud of pink and yellow cotton candy toward her mouth as Rachel gives the second speech of the night. She slugs him in the shoulder and he winces before swallowing the puff himself and licking his lips. His tongue is covered in colorful sugar crystals. Gross.
“Keep your hands away from my mouth.” He looks like he has something smug and totally gross to say but she shoots him a look that makes him shut his mouth and turn back to Rachel.
“Let’s ditch them,” Brittany says leaning close to Santana’s ear. She may be all “Glee is family” but she recognizes a disaster when she sees one and Rachel’s “Five-Point State Fair Doctrine” is brimming with it.
Santana nods a confirmation and Brittany snakes their pinkies together and tugs her to the left. They dip behind Puck who is way too busy stuffing himself with alternating handfuls of cotton candy and popcorn to notice them get away. She almost tugs Quinn along but decides against it at the last moment.
“Where to?” She asks when they’re a safe distance away, tucked behind a colorful food stand emblazoned with spray painted stamps of their options. Her stomach grumbles as the words cross her mind and she wishes she’d taken that puff of cotton candy Puck tried to stuff in her mouth.
“We can get food,” Brittany says poking her stomach knowingly. A smile eases onto her face and they hop in line. They end up stuffed with corn dogs, sharing a funnel cake and splitting a lemonade on a bench. It’s easy and really familiar which has had the tendency to make her anxious lately. But for once, she’s calm; relaxed even.
She’s thankful that Rachel’s near-OCD planning skills means that they already have tickets (and have had them since last week when Rachel came early to purchase them). She feels young for the first time in ages as she and Britt work on riding everything and simultaneously avoiding the rest of the glee club.
She’s actually having fun and her breathing’s regular. Even when Brittany reaches for her hand, tugs her close, pulls her into the Ferris wheel line and nuzzles her head into the crook of her neck there’s no panic. It feels almost freakishly normal. Her eyes aren’t darting around to see who might be watching -- though no one is anyway.
*
The Ferris wheels gentle cycling comes to a stop when their car reaches the highest point. The sun is still setting; the sky’s palette a darkened mix of pink, purple and blue. Zooming lights of the fast-moving rides below make her eyes cross and the twinkle of bulbs on colorful concession stands brighten them.
It’s sort of perfect up here. A breeze sweeps in and feathers Brittany’s hair. She swings her legs up into Santana’s lap and curls her knees like a bridge over her thighs. Instinctively, Santana’s hand moves to rest on them; one hand palms a knee and the other presses into a warm, bare thigh.
“What do you want from me?” She asks after a moment. They’ve been silent; Brittany smiling at the view and Santana trying not to stare.
Brittany’s thumb kneads circles into the top of her hand and her nose crinkles in a way that brings a welcome lightness to Santana’s chest, “Oh honey, I just want you.”
“And I want you to be happy -- you scowl more than Tubbs these days,” she continues, “I want you to be comfortable with yourself and I want you to realize that you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Santana’s tongue flecks out to moisten her lips and she tries to swallow the lump in her throat.
“I want that too,” she wants to say, but instead, “I don’t know if I can give you what you want,” comes out.
“Shh,” Brittany says, sweeping a piece of hair out of Santana’s line of sight. “I know it’s hard, but one day you’ll be able to. And I’m okay with that; I’ll wait.”
She can’t wrap her mind around a string of words that express all that she’s feeling, but she tilts Brittany’s chin up and presses their lips together, slowly at first, and hopes she can feel the warmth that’s spread from her chest to her fingertips.
She feels incredibly light when their mouths move in tandem. A fleeting thought of literally floating away makes her smile into the kiss, but it’s the way Brittany’s “I love you” feels against her lips that makes the tear roll down her cheek.
Brittany’s thumb is there flicking it away easily. She leans back, grinning. “I’ve been waiting for that all summer,” she says and then their mouths are together again and being this high up and feeling like she can float higher feels like the most comfortable thing in the world.
It’s the breathy noise Brittany makes when their mouths finally disconnect with a soft pop that makes her return the sentiment without bursting into tears.
*
“Did you know you could get married in New York?” Brittany says hours later. They’re cloaked in darkness, sheets and pajamas, the hum of a breeze in the air. Anyone else would interpret her question as Brittany speaking absently but Santana’s known her long enough to separate lack of cognizance from gentle prodding.
“Yeah,” she says after a while because she might be living under ugly Christmas sweaters in her closet, but she’s done research and she pays attention to what’s going on around her. She tells Brittany of all the other places it’s possible.
“I think that’s awesome.” Brittany says, toying with the hem of Santana’s t-shirt. Her right leg draped over Santana’s torso; the fingers of her free hand stroking patterns into Santana’s scalp.
“Me too.”
Part 3.
Pairing: Santana Lopez / Brittany Pierce. Side Puck/Santana + Quinn/Santana friendship.
Words: 5600 - [15,600 overall]
Rating: R.
Disclaimer: I don't owns the Glee.
Summary: What Santana wants is a summer to feign blind to the life that’s in shambles around her. If she can avoid Britt (and those damn glee kids), stay inside and occasionally pass and puff with Puck, things’ll be perfect. The summer, of course, has different plans. Title from ATCQ’s “Midnight.”
Read: 1 | 2 | 3 | Epilogue.
“Hey!” Santana shouts from the perch of her lifeguard chair. Her parents were actually serious about the summer job so she spends four days a week in various bikinis (and that one too-hot for the public pool monokini), with Ray-Bans covering her eyes as she reads books and completely ignores intolerable brats splashing under her in the pool.
She seriously hopes nothing bad happens because her give-a-fuck is broken and she doesn’t want someone’s floating child on her conscience. She tries to pay attention but when she does she just ends up yelling at an insufferable excuse for cute who doesn’t understand that running on wet tile can get you fucking killed.
“You! Get out!” She shouts from her perch in the lifeguard chair. The world’s most obnoxious ten year-old has been pissing her off for the better part of an hour since at least six other obnoxious twerps have tugged at her ankle or tapped at her thigh to get her attention about how he’s been trying to drown all of them.
(There was, of course, that fourteen year-old who just wanted to touch her thigh which resulted in a Squints-style ejection.)
The demon child narrows his eyes at her and flips her the bird. It takes everything in her not to climb down and shove his ass back into the pool he’s just climbed out of. She stares him down instead and he crumbles because she’s Santana Lopez and making people squirm with a look is something she was born to do.
“Don’t come back,” she calls after him. “If you do, I have no problem dropping you in the deep end.”
She shrugs her shoulders, watches him go with a scowl on his face and slides her sunglasses back on. She looks at the kids in the pool staring at her-- slack jawed with a mix of wonder and fear in their eyes -- and bucks at them. “You want some too?”
*
She hasn’t seen Brittany in three days and before the hour they hung out three days ago it had been a week. She doesn’t want to admit that she’s not sure if its driving her crazy because she can’t stop thinking about wanting to kissing her or the fact that she’s promised to read Deathly Hallows to her before the premiere.
She goes with the reading thing because they haven’t kissed in four months and she refuses to let that be the problem until she’s shaking a sheet in the air to knock out the wrinkles and fold it when a flood of memories knocks her square in the chest.
*
She can’t help but think about folding up her sleeping bag the morning after she first kissed Brittany in front of a humming television in her family room with way too many relatives in her house to get to sleep in her own bed.
They had sleepovers every Friday and she really could care less that her mom was housing six additional Lopez’s. Brittany was going to spend the night. She always did and it was Santana’s turn to host. She was the one with the Playstation and they had scores to beat.
Her argument seemed strong enough because her mother just shrugged her shoulders, told her they better be on their best behavior and they were stuck on the floor in the den. She didn’t really care where they slept so long as they got to be together.
Sleepovers were their thing. Brittany was leaving for Colorado with her family in two days and they’d be gone for two weeks. She wanted to at least be a little happy before she had to be miserable.
They did the usual: painting each others nails, practicing fish braids, watching movies and stuffing themselves into one sleeping bag. The excuse was that Santana always got cold and Brittany made her warm but they really just liked being near each other.
Neither one of them wanted to get up to shut off the movie and one of Santana’s cousins had lost the remote so a humming blue screen cast light on the den. Everyone else had been sleep for hours, but they always fought to see just how long they could stay up.
Brittany was losing the battle, her eyes half shut but trained on Santana who was looking everywhere but at her. Their bodies were pressed closely together, legs wound like gimp and she took a moment to think that maybe they were getting too big to share a sleeping bag. Brittany had already grown a good three inches that summer.
“Hey,” Brittany whispered, she was so close her breath tickled Santana’s forehead.
“What?”
“You’re pretty,” Brittany said with a grin. She always got silly when she was sleepy and Santana knew that in a few moments she was going to doze off and sleep hard until morning like always.
She felt her cheeks tinge red with warmth and embarrassment. Brittany always complimented her on something: her hair, her skin, her new shoes, but she’d never said she was pretty. That was all encompassing.
She felt herself smile and then her mouth was saying thanks without words. Her hand resting on Brittany’s cheek. She pulled back after a moment, more red than before and dropped her head into the crook of her arm. Brittany smiled softly, kissed her back just as earnest and then nestled her head against her chest to fall asleep.
*
When she tucks the sheet into the linen closet she thinks about just how innocent it had all started; how the kiss had really been her way of saying the thanks she couldn’t put into words. But mostly she thinks about the fact that the second time she kissed Brittany had been because she wanted it. Because she needed to know what it would feel like to kiss her the way she’d seen it done in movies.
That feeling had landed her here: in love.
*
As if people who share her blood aren’t driving her crazy enough (this summer job shit really fucking sucks), her mom won’t stop badgering her about finding a dress for her cousin Luisa’s wedding at the end of the summer. She’s just glad she skirted out of being apart of the bridal party, but now she has to find a dress that her mother won’t blow a gasket over (which dismisses every dress she already owns.)
She doesn’t have to work and she can’t stand being in the house any longer with her mom “tsssing” every time she comes into the den. She drops her Macbook into her laptop sleeve and grabs her purse before heading to the Lima Bean. She can scam on their free Internet, air conditioning and continue her dress search online.
She grabs a too-big caramel iced coffee and a donut (she’s so glad to be off the Cheerios diet, its the only thing she doesn’t miss). She almost shoots a text to Quinn when she slides into a chair at a table in the corner, but she changes her mind. She’s very actively ignoring the Where are you? text Britt sent her a few minutes ago. Her heart is thudding and they’re not even sharing the same space.
*
She’s got fourteen tabs open across Asos, Betsey Johnson, American Apparel and Top Shop when she spots him. He gives her a little nod and she’s considering just returning a smile when she realizes he can actually be of some help.
“Kurt,” she says with a little more emphasis than she intends. A few heads turn her way and her eyebrows furrow in annoyance, but she focuses her attention on him. His eyebrows lift in confusion with an expression that obviously says ‘You’re not talking to me, right?’ She rolls her eyes. “Come sit.”
He shrugs and it’s so diva that she has to roll her eyes.
Kurt slides into the seat across from her nestling something steamy and she shakes her head because it’s hot as balls outside. There’s no way she’s drinking anything without ice until September. It makes her think of Britt, whose undying love for hot cocoa, is strong enough for summer consumption.
“So...?” Kurt asks. She’s waiting for his eyebrow to jump right off his face because it’s aimed that high. She nearly asks where he gets them arched, but she’s pretty sure that’s rude and she wants his help; instead, she settles on a simple, “Hey,” and he looks three seconds from getting up.
“I, um,” she starts, “Well, I’m looking for a dress.” His eyes light up and she smirks, “For my cousin’s wedding and it has to be a little outside of my comfort zone.”
“Not slutty. Okay. Where do I factor into this?” She rolls her eyes and spins her laptop around, the satiny red cover makes a noise against the table. “Oh, I see.”
“Yeah. I mean, you don’t have to help. I just fig--”
“Shh,” he says, “I need quiet so I can think straight. Would you mind standing?”
“What?”
“Stand up,” she frowns, “So I can get a good look at your body. I’m obviously not scamming on you and you’ve definitely heeded worse requests.”
She shoots him a look, but stands, because, seriously, she needs to get this out of the way. She can’t take another conversation with her mom weaving in and out of Spanish and English expressing disappointment for her procrastination and “loose” dressing. She stands, drops her arms to her sides like they weigh a ton and frowns as his eyes scan up and down her body.
“We’re definitely going strapless. Your chest is lovely,” he notes and then his finger is zooming over the trackpad and he’s tapping out instructions to Google.
“Can I sit down?”
*
Another iced coffee and a sandwich later, they’ve finally found something. Strapless with the perfect neckline; soft yellow, that she not sure will work with her skintone. Kurt reminds her that it’s summer and she’s tanned quite a bit. He managed to make Berry look hot that one time, so, she trusts his judgment.
There’s an awkward silence hanging between them as she types her credit card information into the the checkout from memory -- she may or may not have an online shopping problem.
It’s weird sitting with Kurt but it’s somehow comfortable too. She feels like the biggest bitch in the world, because maybe if she’d been brave enough to be his friend she could have protected him like she’s always protected Britt against people who didn’t understand her. Maybe she could be brave for herself.
He looks at her from across the table and there’s way more cognizance than politeness in the way his lips turn up and it makes her chest tight. She can practically see gears turning in his head like he’s been waiting for this moment to pounce on her with a big, “I knew it!” She hasn’t been blind to the looks of pity he’s been shooting her way and she wonders if Brittany’s said anything to him.
“Look,” she starts because she wants to halt this conversation before it begins. The corners of his mouth twitch until his lips form a straight line but he holds her gaze with confidence.
“Don’t,” he says finally. Confusion drenches her features and he shakes his head. “You don’t have to say anything, Santana. I’m not going to say anything either. But,” he straightens his shoulders and leans forward, “If you ever want to. I’m available. I don’t really understand why you prefer to suffer alone, but I think I get it. I’ve talked to Dave.”
She wants to yell or kick him for laying everything out like that, for knowing but she can’t. She slumps in her chair, instead, and taps a finger against the table. He gives her a quick warm smile and covers her hand with his own. The way he smiles at her says he gets it, really understands, but the way his hand fits on top of hers, warm and buzzing with some unidentifiable electricity assures her that things might really be okay.
“I have to go,” she says after a long moment of silence. He nods and mutters about needing to go too. They collect their things in silence. She should say thanks, but she can’t make the word lift from the dry feeling in her mouth. She hopes there’s enough thanks in the hand that she wraps around his with a squeeze before she’s out the door.
*
The last thing Santana expects to find when she slides her bag off her arm and steps into her room is Brittany. She’s in the center of her bed sitting Indian-style, head bowed over the book in her lap. She looks up at Santana with a smile but doesn’t move.
“You took forever to get home, silly,” Brittany says. She drops the book beside her and angles her body to face Santana.
“Hey.”
“You don’t look happy.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“Have not.”
“You have but I forgive you,” Brittany smiles easily and shrugs her shoulders.
“You forgive me?” Santana bites down on her tongue, frowning. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t need to be forgiven.”
“Okay,” Brittany says softly. Santana hears her sigh. “Well, since I haven’t seen you I’ve been reading it on my own,” she lifts up the book and Santana recognizes it immediately. A little part of her feels bad, the other part is still angry that Brittany’s here. “I have two more chapters.”
“You’ve been fine on your own.”
She drops her bag into her desk chair and sets her laptop on her desk without bothering to remove it from it’s sleeve. Brittany frowns and Santana’s sure she really doesn’t know what she’s done to be avoided. She looks away and crosses the room to her dresser. Brittany’s quiet, watching.
“Look. I’m gonna take a shower because it’s hot and I’m like criminally gross, but I’ll read it to you when I get out.”
Brittany fucking seal claps, which is obnoxiously cute, and Santana bites back a smile.
This is why she avoids her. The normal anxiety in her chest is quelled by the one thing she thinks is its source. It hurts her head to make sense of it.
She snatches up a pair of boxers and a beater from her top drawer then heads to the bathroom connected to her room. When she emerges, clothed and feeling human again, Brittany is waiting for her; lying on her side, head resting in her palm.
She takes a seat next to her and Brittany immediately scoots closer and drops her head into her lap. Brittany can get her to do nearly anything she’d be embarrassed about if people knew; reading her Harry Potter is one of them. Just like that, things are back to normal and she’s comfortable again.
She sort of gets choked up toward the end and Brittany reflexively thumbs at her side. She jerks away and lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Can you stop that?” Brittany says with as much annoyance as she can muster. It’s not much because she’s almost always stuck on happy, but its enough to snap Santana out of whatever mood she’s locked in.
“Stop what?”
“Making that noise,” she says reenacting Santana’s sigh, “like I made you gay.”
“What the fuck, Britt? Seriously?”
“I’ve let you avoid me, shove me off of you in front of everyone and act like I don’t exist whenever it’s convenient for you,” she says and the look on her face is enough to make Santana feel like shit. “It really sucks putting up with it. You don’t have to grimace when I touch you. I’m not a predator. That’s that Ryerson guy.”
“I’m not avoiding you.”
“You are. And it’s dumb. So stop it. I know you’re like going through stuff and having a hard time, but I didn’t do anything to you. Every time you push me away I keep coming back but...”
“But what?”
“I can only be pushed so much,” she says scooting away from Santana and off the bed. She’s looking for her shoes with a frown on her face and all Santana can do is gape.
“Are you being serious? You friend zoned me. After you told me you’d rather be with Artie. After you pushed me to fucking express my feelings. After I told you I loved you. You pushed me away.”
Brittany just stares like Santana’s grown two more heads around the one that’s still rambling about hurt feelings and all the time she’s said “I love you.”
“I told you I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in this world. I didn’t friend zone you, but I’m not going to sleep around with you like before if you can’t be with me. I can’t do that. I love you too much to let you keep hurting yourself but maybe you don’t love me like you think you do.” Her shoes are on and she’s snatching her bag off the floor. “Maybe you should keep avoiding me,” she says and then she’s gone.
Santana can hear her footsteps rapidly tap tapping down the stairs. She hears her mom tell Brittany goodbye but she doesn’t hear her response. She assumes it was whispered in the tone Brittany uses when she’s upset, but she can’t even make herself care because she feels like she’s sinking.
When she’s calmed down she considers calling Britt or going to her house, but the prospect of hearing her say something else that hits right in the gut is enough to make drop her phone onto her dresser and curl into her sheets.
*
She’s pretty fucking pathetic; even by her recent standards. She actually took playlists from her mom’s laptop and put them on her iPod. She’s been listening to super emotional oldies by The Isley Brother’s and whoever else her mom digs. It’s sad, actually, that every lyric seems to mean something to what’s going on with her and Britt.
It’s really stupid that she’s been such an idiot, but she hasn’t built up the energy to make herself apologize and Brittany doesn’t seem to have any intentions of making the first step (honestly she shouldn’t have to).
Everything is too much. She’s had way too many conversations with people who seem to know. And, fuck, she’s just waiting for the pressure in her head to make it cave in.
*
“Lopez!” Santana jerks and sits up in her lifeguard chair. She frowns when she sees the source of the voice. She was getting in a pretty nice tan and having an excellent daydream about--
“Are you going to speak?”
“What? No. You fucking--” she stops and looks at the kids below her who all push out a round of Ooooh’s, “You harpy. I was daydreaming. God. Why are you here? You sunburn like a fucking ginger.”
“It’s nice to see you too,” Quinn says. “Do you get a break or something?”
Santana raises her wrist only to realize she’s not wearing a watch. “What time is it?”
“Five.”
“Yes. A break called ‘off’.” She says smirking. She rolls her towel up before climbing down from her post then pulls out a whistle and blows hard. “Alright munchkins get the hell out. I’m going home.”
“I wanted to swim.”
“Well, Fabray, maybe you should’ve checked the pool hours -- Hey! Seriously, get out.” The few remaining kids scramble out and she wonders where the hell their parents are for a moment before deciding she doesn’t actually care. She glances at Quinn who’s stuffing her own towel into her bag with a scowl.
“You look like someone stole your puppy.”
“I seriously wanted to swim.”
“You wanted to see me being hot. It’s fine. Most people do.”
Quinn rolls her eyes and her mouth curls into the smirk she usually wears before saying something to piss Santana off, but the fight leaves her mouth after a moment passes. Santana grimaces in confusion.
“Please don’t go light on me, Q.”
“Some things are better left unsaid.” She smiles and Santana wants to push her in the pool.
“So, other than being obnoxiously inept at understanding closing times, what did you want?”
“I’m hungry.”
“Then let’s eat. I think I’ll be able to digest with you in close proximity.”
“At least you’re keeping your food down these days.” Santana smirks, because, it was a low blow, but it’s the Quinn she’s comfortable with, which is better than whatever she was dishing five minutes ago.
“Sadly, I couldn’t excuse it with morning sickness.”
“Bitch.”
“Takes a bigger one to know one.”
“Not your best.”
“That’s fine. You’re still a bitch so the point wasn’t missed.”
*
It almost doesn’t feel weird sitting in Breadstix with Quinn except there’s an empty space beside her that should be occupied by Brittany and she and Quinn haven’t been this close in proximity since the party. That interaction was cloaked mostly in silence, but this, this is something different all together.
They’re talking (small talk) but it’s more than they’ve done in a long time and Santana starts to think she was wrong about a lot of things. Brittany’s blow up sent her head into a space of doubt. Not doubt in them, but in her own understanding; of herself, of Brittany.
Her and Quinn end up back at her place. She’s busy swiping off her nail polish (one nail chipped and she really just can’t deal with chipped polish) and Quinn’s fingering through her bookshelf.
“So,” Quinn starts, grabbing a book off her shelf, her eyebrows furrowing. “You read Sarah Dessen?”
“Yes. Your point?”
“It’s a little sappy. I just … I didn’t expect that you’d read stuff like that.”
“Well, I’m full of surprises.”
“Not really. You’re pretty easy to read.”
“Fuck you.”
“So are you ready to talk about this or …?”
“About what,” Santana asks even though she knows where this is going.
“Pretending this doesn’t exist isn’t going to help you.”
“Who says I want your help?”
“I know that you don’t, but I’m offering it anyway.”
She doesn’t say anything, just props the bottle of polish against her thigh (OPI I’m Not Really A Waitress) and flattens the small dot of polish against her thumbnail. She drags it slow and deliberate to the tip and pats the brush against the end of her nail to wrap the polish around. It’s a technique she’s been perfecting since twelve and she can probably do it without looking, but it gives her a reason to completely ignore Quinn.
“Whatever,” Quinn says after Santana’s finished painting all the nails on her right hand. She suggests they watch a movie five minutes later and even though Santana knows she’s pissed at her, she’d much rather be around Santana than at home with her mother smelling like scotch.
*
“Do you want me to go down on you?”
“No.”
“C’mon. Let me.”
“Dude, why are you so determined to give me head?”
“Because you’re super bitchy and I know you’re not doing anyone else.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Uh. Yeah I do. When’s the last time you busted one?”
“I’m a girl. I don’t bust nuts, Puckerman.”
“Whatever. When’s the last time you let one go?”
“Shut up.” She frowns trying to remember the last time, which already makes it too long ago. She shrugs and mumbles something about the last time she let him. A month ago.
“A month? What the fuck, Lo?”
“Can you not be the archetype for douchehood?”
He’s pissing her off but he’s right. She is super bitchy and it is (at least partly) because of her lack of action. She shouldn’t let him do it because it just opens another can of worms. She’d rather be bothered over a not-so-smart decision that results in an orgasm than deal with everything else.
After an unnecessary long argument about not being bitchy (when she so is) she still ends up pressed against the wall, her skirt bunched up around her waist with her legs draped over his shoulders. And it’s as good as it always is but she can’t shake the feeling of being wrong when its over.
“Stop frowning,” he says as she pulls her panties up and tugs her skirt back down. “I know it wasn’t bad. You’re pretty vocal.”
“Shut up.”
“Don’t think too much on it. We’re just friends helping each other out.”
“Shut up. We’re just … we can’t do this anymore okay?”
“Fine, but let’s go smoke this,” he says holding up a blunt. She concedes with a shrug and an hour later they’re zooted and stuffing themselves with the two twenty-piece nuggets they ordered in between laughing and smacking each other in the drive-thru of McDonald’s.
“I hope you know you’re being a dumb ass about this.”
“Fuck are you talking about?” Santana says frowning.
“If you’re going to play dumb then I can too.”
“Just stop.” Her lungs squeeze and her mouth gets dryer than it already was.
“Fine. There’s some Jack under the seat. You wanna get wasted and prank call Berry?”
“What are you twelve?”
Apparently she’s twelve too because they spend the next two hours trading shots of Jack and pretending to be everyone from Patti LuPone to Dr. Frankenstein as they roll through the phone numbers of the New Directions.
(Santana has the most fun perfecting her accent as a Chinese food delivery man. She yells about fried rice being outside for ten minutes while a flustered Quinn argues that she never ordered any, but never hangs up.)
*
She’s moping in bed mulling over lyrics that hurt a little too much. Someone crooning: “If I go on my way without you, where would I go?” wraps that rope around her chest again, because she doesn’t know where she’d go. It’s always been about them. She’s been a selfish idiot about everything but even in thinking of herself Brittany’s tied into it. She can’t imagine a life that doesn’t include her.
She can’t keep avoiding her and she’s sure three days of silence isn’t sending the right message to: “Maybe you don’t love me as much as you think you do … keep avoiding me.” So, she cracks; showers and washes her face and throws on a pair of shorts and a tank to go apologize.
She’s not ready to throw herself into a relationship and dance out of her closet, but she needs Brittany to understand that she’s working on it and she needs her friendship more than anything. It’s exactly what she tells her on the Pierce doorstep after getting over the pleasant shock of seeing her in a flowy sundress with her hair all curly around her face (shock that goes straight to her lower half.)
She toes at the concrete beneath her to keep her composure and in the end a quick hug and a, “My mom is making kabobs,” is enough to right their friendship. She’s not sure about the other stuff (where they’ll take things, if anywhere), but hanging in the Pierce backyard with people she considers family is good enough.
*
She’s positive she’s living in Rachel Berry’s wet dream. Somehow (with booze) Puck’s convinced her to show up. The state fair is two towns over for the next two weeks and Rachel suggested “New Directions bonding time”, which, seriously, she’s already had too much of.
She doesn’t know when they decided she was their friend, but aside from dicking around with Puck and playing the I’m-trying-not-to-strangle-you game with Quinn she’s also spent some time with Tina and Mercedes (Brittany dragged her along) and Mike, who is really awesome at Mario Kart (way better than Puck who makes her wins feel unfair, almost.)
“Here woman,” Puck says shoving a large cloud of pink and yellow cotton candy toward her mouth as Rachel gives the second speech of the night. She slugs him in the shoulder and he winces before swallowing the puff himself and licking his lips. His tongue is covered in colorful sugar crystals. Gross.
“Keep your hands away from my mouth.” He looks like he has something smug and totally gross to say but she shoots him a look that makes him shut his mouth and turn back to Rachel.
“Let’s ditch them,” Brittany says leaning close to Santana’s ear. She may be all “Glee is family” but she recognizes a disaster when she sees one and Rachel’s “Five-Point State Fair Doctrine” is brimming with it.
Santana nods a confirmation and Brittany snakes their pinkies together and tugs her to the left. They dip behind Puck who is way too busy stuffing himself with alternating handfuls of cotton candy and popcorn to notice them get away. She almost tugs Quinn along but decides against it at the last moment.
“Where to?” She asks when they’re a safe distance away, tucked behind a colorful food stand emblazoned with spray painted stamps of their options. Her stomach grumbles as the words cross her mind and she wishes she’d taken that puff of cotton candy Puck tried to stuff in her mouth.
“We can get food,” Brittany says poking her stomach knowingly. A smile eases onto her face and they hop in line. They end up stuffed with corn dogs, sharing a funnel cake and splitting a lemonade on a bench. It’s easy and really familiar which has had the tendency to make her anxious lately. But for once, she’s calm; relaxed even.
She’s thankful that Rachel’s near-OCD planning skills means that they already have tickets (and have had them since last week when Rachel came early to purchase them). She feels young for the first time in ages as she and Britt work on riding everything and simultaneously avoiding the rest of the glee club.
She’s actually having fun and her breathing’s regular. Even when Brittany reaches for her hand, tugs her close, pulls her into the Ferris wheel line and nuzzles her head into the crook of her neck there’s no panic. It feels almost freakishly normal. Her eyes aren’t darting around to see who might be watching -- though no one is anyway.
*
The Ferris wheels gentle cycling comes to a stop when their car reaches the highest point. The sun is still setting; the sky’s palette a darkened mix of pink, purple and blue. Zooming lights of the fast-moving rides below make her eyes cross and the twinkle of bulbs on colorful concession stands brighten them.
It’s sort of perfect up here. A breeze sweeps in and feathers Brittany’s hair. She swings her legs up into Santana’s lap and curls her knees like a bridge over her thighs. Instinctively, Santana’s hand moves to rest on them; one hand palms a knee and the other presses into a warm, bare thigh.
“What do you want from me?” She asks after a moment. They’ve been silent; Brittany smiling at the view and Santana trying not to stare.
Brittany’s thumb kneads circles into the top of her hand and her nose crinkles in a way that brings a welcome lightness to Santana’s chest, “Oh honey, I just want you.”
“And I want you to be happy -- you scowl more than Tubbs these days,” she continues, “I want you to be comfortable with yourself and I want you to realize that you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
Santana’s tongue flecks out to moisten her lips and she tries to swallow the lump in her throat.
“I want that too,” she wants to say, but instead, “I don’t know if I can give you what you want,” comes out.
“Shh,” Brittany says, sweeping a piece of hair out of Santana’s line of sight. “I know it’s hard, but one day you’ll be able to. And I’m okay with that; I’ll wait.”
She can’t wrap her mind around a string of words that express all that she’s feeling, but she tilts Brittany’s chin up and presses their lips together, slowly at first, and hopes she can feel the warmth that’s spread from her chest to her fingertips.
She feels incredibly light when their mouths move in tandem. A fleeting thought of literally floating away makes her smile into the kiss, but it’s the way Brittany’s “I love you” feels against her lips that makes the tear roll down her cheek.
Brittany’s thumb is there flicking it away easily. She leans back, grinning. “I’ve been waiting for that all summer,” she says and then their mouths are together again and being this high up and feeling like she can float higher feels like the most comfortable thing in the world.
It’s the breathy noise Brittany makes when their mouths finally disconnect with a soft pop that makes her return the sentiment without bursting into tears.
*
“Did you know you could get married in New York?” Brittany says hours later. They’re cloaked in darkness, sheets and pajamas, the hum of a breeze in the air. Anyone else would interpret her question as Brittany speaking absently but Santana’s known her long enough to separate lack of cognizance from gentle prodding.
“Yeah,” she says after a while because she might be living under ugly Christmas sweaters in her closet, but she’s done research and she pays attention to what’s going on around her. She tells Brittany of all the other places it’s possible.
“I think that’s awesome.” Brittany says, toying with the hem of Santana’s t-shirt. Her right leg draped over Santana’s torso; the fingers of her free hand stroking patterns into Santana’s scalp.
“Me too.”
Part 3.