Title: What you're willing to lie for
Author: emmaliefje
Pairings: Brittany/Santana
Spoilers: Spoilers concerning Santana's date for prom.
Summary: Even the simplest things, like getting ready for prom with Brittany, are difficult when every other word is a lie.
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did, Glee might just become The Brittana Show.

Deep breath, you tell yourself as you press the doorbell and bounce nervously on your heels, tightening your hold on the hanger with your dress draped over your arm. You fidget with the box containing the corsage and accidentally bend the plastic wrapping before you catch yourself and stop so you don't completely wreck the pretty box and flowers. You take another steadying breath. Just another dance. No big deal.

The door swings open, and your carefully constructed three-point plan for tonight (1. Breathe; 2. Party like you don't care; 3. Make Brittany happy) doesn't seem all that logical anymore.

Breathing? Impossible when the girl you love greets you wearing only light blue lace underwear and a beaming smile, both of which make you melt, and her hair is pulled up in elegant curls that tumble perfectly over her neck, like spirals of sunlight that managed to escape the shadows of the darkening evening.

Partying like you don't care? A lie, when caring is all you really feel, and you let yourself, for even a moment, and find the way back is blocked. A lie, when tonight you'll dance with the one you're settling for but catch her eye from the dancefloor and miss a step again. A lie, when your heart is beating in your throat and the pulse of it drowns out everyone else's judging chatter or passing remarks because you don't even care if they see the way you look at her.

And making Brittany happy? Excruciating, when your heart is beating in terror in what you might do; run again, or kiss her breathless. If you run, you'll avoid seeing the familiar broken look on her face as you turn your back again, but you know it'll be there. And kissing her breathless? Well, there's a loaded idea, when you know that cheating in empty classrooms, sneaking out under cover of darkness when he comes by unexpectedly, and leaving passionate hickeys on her neck will ultimately make her cry for the loss of the one she loves more than you.

You shake your head to clear the thoughts and jumpstart the barricade between heart and brain you spent so long fabricating today. Just a dance, you think again, but know it's more than that.

"Hey!" Brittany says cheerfully, hooking an earring into a waiting earlobe. She brushes back a curl of sunlight, and you want to reach out and catch it, and touch the curve of her skin that it just illuminated. You tense your arm.

"Hi," you answer plainly, stepping inside because you know she expects it. You're not her date; best friends don't need invitations.

"So I'm almost done, just have to get on my dress and shoes, and do my makeup." She leads you upstairs. You want to say you're not following, that it's your own path you're setting and she has nothing to do with it, but you know that's a lie as well.

As you enter, she takes her dress from the hanger and drapes it over herself. It's a light blue strapless cut, with dark gems around the edges. "Do you like it?"

"Yes, it's gorgeous," you answer, and you're surprised that you're being honest. It's almost as if you know it'll be the last time tonight, because the hopeful feeling in your chest dies down miserably quickly when she continues talking.

"Artie picked it with me. He went shopping and everything. I think he was kind of bored," she adds with a giggle as she steps into the dress. You give yourself a moment's relief from your self-repression and let your eyes flow across her figure, the familiar curves and lines of it tattooed in your memory so that you could close your eyes and still see her movements. Your eyes just make it to her face when she looks at you, turns slightly, and asks, "Could you zip me up?"

You nod numbly, and step closer.

"Is that your corsage?" she asks with a nod to the box on the bed as you grab the zipper at her lower back.

It's for you. You're thinking in a fantasy again. "Yeah." You pull at the lip of the zipper, sliding it gently up along her back as her muscles flex beneath her skin.

"It's pretty." You conspicuously let your hands slide along her skin, and shiver with memories of a time when this touch meant a lot more. You want to kiss the back of her neck, but resist. The zipper ends, and you pull away.

"So how come Dave couldn't bring you to the dance tonight?" Brittany asks as she sits down in front of the mirror and inspects herself, pulling up a curl and pushing a bobby pin into her hair to hold it up.

Because I blew him off to be with you. "He had other stuff," you answer simply, and sit down on the bed. She turns to you and waves you over.

"Do my makeup?"

I'd do anything for you. "Sure." It's nonchalant; the barricade is holding.

You sit in front of her, and she scoots her chair closer. Her thigh inserts between yours, and holds there, brushing with an idle fire as she bounces her knee absent-mindedly. You hold back a shiver. So much for the barricade.

"So how come he asked you out?" Brittany asks as you take hold of the eyelash curler.

He needed a beard and Kurt's blackmailing me. "He apologized for the slushie and said he only did it because he liked me."

"Oh, boys do that, don't they? Like pulling your hair in kindergarten. And you said yes?"

Only because I couldn't have you. You simply nod, and lean forward with the eyelash curler, gently closing it around her full lashes. She leans with you, and places a hand on your thigh. Your steady hold wavers, and you tug accidentally.

"Ouch!" she rubs her eyes with a pouty expression. "That hurt!"

What doesn't? "Sorry. Accident."

"I know, silly," she says with a smile, and amiably pats your thigh.

You lift the eyelash curler, and she leans forward again. It breaks your heart that she trusts you so much not to hurt her again. You used to trust her that way.

"So, do you think tonight will be fun?"

No. "Of course. We always have fun." There's a light sound to your voice that you barely recognize among the layers of lies.

"Will you dance with Dave?"

Not if he were the last guy on earth. You smirk wryly. Especially if he were the last guy on earth. Brittany misinterprets your smile, and shares it. You pick up the mascara, and tenderly place your hand on her cheek to steady her face as you brush on the make-up. She doesn't flinch at the touch. You hope she didn't see the way you did. You avert your eyes as she continues to talk.

"Does he dance?"

Not like you. "Sure. I'll make him."

"I wish I could dance with Artie."

I'll dance with you. The thought freezes your gut as you imagine it. The two of you, slow dancing in the center of the dancefloor, as the judging, hard eyes bore into you from every corner. But Brittany smiles at the intimacy, and your skin grows tougher as your heart beats stronger and melts the icicles of terror. Things are okay for a second. It's just a dance. It doesn't have to mean anything, especially to the rest of the world (let them try to label you), but it means so much to you and Brittany.

You come back to reality, and see Brittany studying you with a dejected expression, and the dream fades.

"You can. You can dance with anyone. You make anyone look good, even Wheels."

"Hey!" she says, tapping you on your thigh again.

You pick up the lipstick and turn it to show the blushing pink. You used to wear the same lipstick, so when you kissed between classes, hidden behind a door and your own blissful ignorance that this would never change, you wouldn't leave a trace on each other; just the memories and the hint of vanilla on your lips, and a blush as you pulled away and linked your pinkies. She's changed the color, and you know you won't be kissing her lips any time soon.

"Artie will dance one day. He told me he would," she says cheerfully. It seems you're not the only one who lies to her.

You move your hand to her chin, and inadvertently brush your thumb over her lower lip. The small brush of skin on skin freezes you stock still, but she's unfazed by the touch. Her lips merely pull up in a cheeky smile. She's not remembering the kisses, the lingering touches, the way her lips worked over your body time and time again until she came know you better than you know yourself; she's not remembering, like you are.

You scrape your throat. "Loosen your lips." She complies. Let me kiss you. She won't.

You brush the lipstick over her lips, running along the tiny imperfections and smooth, sensitive skin with more than color; you're brushing on the memories, and hoping she tastes them. When you finish, she licks her lips, and doesn't change, merely smiling and turning sideways to flaunt her careless smile.

"Good?"

"Perfect."

"I'm glad we both have dates tonight, aren't you?"

"Yeah. It's great," you answer, your voice dripping with sarcasm without meaning to. Shit. You slipped up, and you hold your breath, waiting for the questioning look and understanding of your true feelings, but she doesn't catch it, and just smiles at your perceived enthusiasm.

You pick up the eyeliner, and she lifts her eyes as you line below her eyelashes. You take the chance to study her face; her laugh lines, worn by use and indescribably adorable; the curve of her cheek beneath your hand as you brush your thumb over a dimple when a piece of mascara falls; her bright blue eyes catching the light as she looks up innocently, angelically. You swallow deeply, and focus your thoughts on the movement of your hand with the pencil instead of the way you want to pepper kisses all over her body and spend the rest of your life following her, catching sunshine from her hair, and promising to tell her nothing but the truth forever more.

"Did Dave rent a hotel room for you two tonight as well?" she asks suddenly.

Your hand wavers. She looks down and catches your eye, and suddenly it's too much. The stolen looks, the closeness, the lies, and the damn sunshine reflecting from her hair that's blinding you to tears. You hold them down long enough to stand up quickly and turn around. You hear her get up behind you, and she asks uncertainly:

"Santana?"

"You look great," you say quickly, and blink back the tears to turn around and smile at her. "I'm going to put on my dress, okay? Artie should be here soon."

"Okay," she answers uncertainly, but you give her one last reassuring smile (she deserves that much), and she settles back into her normal blissful happiness.

You pick up your dress and make your way to the bathroom, not caring about the look she's giving you; you've both seen far more of each other than bare skin around bras and panties, but you need to get away. You close the door behind you, and press a hand and your forehead against the flat of the wood. It resounds hollowly as you let your elbow fall against it, resting as the tears flow over and ruin the make-up you so meticulously lavished on so that you wouldn't have to endure her oblivious touch when she volunteered to do it for you.

"Did Dave rent a hotel room for you two tonight as well?" You remember the words as though they're burning into your eyelids and causing the tears. The answer (He better fucking not have) doesn't even matter, because all you can see is Brittany and Artie kissing again as he runs his undeserving hands over her flawless body, tainting her with his touch. You know, rationally, that they've been screwing since the day you messed it all up, but it's so much different tonight, when you've been expecting to be the one that takes her home after prom for years. No, not expecting; taking for granted. Just a dance, you think again, and then ball your fist at the lie. No, it's not. It's the dance. You've taken her home every party all your life, and then when it finally means something, the universe reverses and decides to shuffle the cards. The dream shatters under the harsh hammer of reality, and you sob as the shards of thoughts crush against you, penetrating the barricade in the wake of your resistance...

You grab her hand and steal her from her date to kiss her in the bathroom.

You convince her to fake food poisoning to let you take her home.

You pull out a bottle of Malibu and drive both of you to the park to lay under the stars as your dresses shimmer in the starlight.

Your kisses turn passionate and needy with the alcohol, and you press her hands above her head on the grass, admiring her body with your lips.

You go home together, daringly replacing linked pinkies with walking hand-in-hand instead, the car abandoned in the park, until the alcohol wears off, and talk about the past (neither brings up the future).

You lead her to her room and make love until you're both panting with passion and feeling, that, for once, neither of you are afraid of. And finally, you fall asleep in each other's arms with murmured promises that you both, for the first time, commit yourself to keeping, replacing fear with hope as you think of the future and whisper three words you've never said before.

You pull out of the reverie with a shaky breath and banish the thoughts, spent with the pain of their passing. This hurts. It hurts, and you can't do anything about it but lie again.

You pull on your dress, your hands moving with automaticity. You fix your make-up with a few well-placed brushes of fingers, straighten your shoulders to take the next few blows, and open the door. She's waiting expectantly, and her eyes widen in admiration at your beauty. You put on another smile, and shrug your shoulders confidently.

"How do I look?"

"Wow," she breathes. She checks you out shamelessly, lingering on your dipping cleavage and soaking in the curve of your neck, your lips, and your eyes. She subconsciously licks her lips. You blink. You're not imagining it, and you feel a familiar heartbeat between your legs. "I… You look…" She clamps her mouth shut suddenly, and frowns in confusion. She's remembering, carefully probing into her memories like she's waking from a deep sleep to recall a whisper of a dream. I love you. I want to be with you. Please say you love me back. But you told her to forget what you said, and she, forever trusting and obedient, did. She believed you when you told her you didn't care. Your breath hitches with hope as she takes an uncertain step closer, and reaches out her hand. Does she realize now, finally, that you lied?

The doorbell rings, and Brittany pulls her hand back with a start. A flash of guilt crosses her face, like paint splattered onto a white canvas. For pulling back? For feeling like she's cheating? For realizing how much she's hurting you? You don't know, but a second later, the canvas is blank again.

"That's Artie!" Her face lights up with a joyous smile and she bounces on her heels excitedly.

You simply nod, letting another blow fall.

"San," she says as she leaves the room, turning back and leaning against the doorframe. You turn and let yourself smile sadly at the startling contrast between your and her enthusiasm for tonight. You lift your eyes to her face, and memorize it for tonight.

"I'm glad we're okay…. That we're still friends." You search her face for any doubt, but there's nothing but confidence and certainty in her eyes.

I want to be more, you think. But you widen your regretful smile anyway. "Yeah, Britt. Me too."

She gives you one last, illuminating smile (you wonder how she can shed light on so much, but miss the lies you keep telling), and then she's gone, leaving behind nothing but the memory of sunlight and a deceptive taste in your mouth.

My first 2nd person fic, so I'm a little bit on the fence about it. Thanks for reading. I'd love a review! :)