The street lamp outside Santana's room streaks fingers around the curtains. The drapes have been pushed shut with such force-or maybe speed-that the plum material pulls away from some of the rungs in the middle of the rod. There's a triangle of orange light there; Santana fixes her gaze on it so she can avoid the shape at the base of the bed.
Brittany's still at the edge of her sight, though.
Santana refocuses on the triangle, and makes her brain fill up with regular things, like whether her mom will let her buy that skirt which shows off two inches more of her gradually lengthening thighs than anything in her own wardrobe. Brittany tugs her shirt over her head; Santana sees the flash of white and resets her thoughts, clenching her fists in time with math problems, staring at the orange triangle, refusing to turn her head.
Brittany exhales. Santana's mind is turning over quadratic equations and reciting numbers on a loop while her eyes trail after Brittany's sound. She's standing in her pink panties and gray bra and knee high socks and it's so all-at-once that Santana can't see her properly, at first. Then she looks up under a curtain of her hair, and words flash up in Santana's mind, like always when she thinks about Brittany's hair. Sometimes Santana sees Brittany's hair and her brain stalls; sometimes it parades a list of words like bright and sheer that all seem to shade into blonde; sometimes she just thinks thesaurus-thesaurus-thesaurus, like that will stopper the words.
Brittany smiles-too sweet for a girl who gets up to more mischief than anyone knows, except Santana-and bites her bottom lip. "What, Santana?"
Santana smirks, in a rush, trying not to trail her eyes down Brittany's body too much-just enough that Brittany can see her admiration and nothing else-and says, "You're looking good, Britt." It's more than she usually offers. Once, she would never say anything; she'd just dance with Brittany to let her know she liked her more than she liked anyone else, on her toes, negotiating the gap between their heights, hands touching Brittany's body wherever possible. In the last few years, she's been leaving her hands longer in Brittany's hair, on her wrist, in Brittany's hands. In the last few weeks, since they started making out, she's starting saying things, little things, words matching some whispery unnamed thing that's there behind her own eyes; there's always a smirk on her face, her head is usually cocked, but she knows there's something sad-like on her face. She sees it reflected on Brittany's face right before she speaks: a little frown; Brittany counting up things in her head that won't make a whole number.
Brittany pulls a T-shirt over her head from the pile on Santana's dresser, but doesn't bother with anything else, just walks over and perches on her side of Santana's bed. As she shifts over to get closer to Santana, she reaches out and starts playing with Santana's left hand, which is still balled into a fist in bunches of bedspread.
Brittany unclenches one of Santana's fingers at a time, and then speaks. "When you tell me I look good, it makes me feel like a chocolate dessert."
Santana laughs at the back of her throat, and relaxes her hand further. "Like, gooey?"
Brittany looks shy, but still answers. "Yeah."
Santana swallows before speaking, then talks in a slightly higher voice than before, scratchy at the edges. "That's because I'm awesome, Britt, and you like me best. So when I tell you you look good, it means more."
Brittany pauses, then starts stroking Santana's fingers, sliding hers in between each of them, and running her palm over Santana's knuckles. "I think it's because you never tell anyone else they look good."
Santana frowns a little, then shakes her head. She casts her eyes around the room, shifting from the orange triangle at the top of her curtains, to her black and silver alarm clock, where the display is ticking over to 11:57. She stares at the display for a beat, before turning back to Brittany.
Brittany's moved closer, almost imperceptibly, but Santana knows because she can feel the warmth that comes off Brittany's skin, regardless of the month of year. Santana ignores the things in her peripheral vision, doesn't reply to Brittany's comment, and leans forwards, kissing Brittany softly and pulling on her hand to draw her in. She draws her other hand up to Brittany's hair, and pushes her fingers through it gently; she thumbs at the back of Brittany's neck; she breathes into Brittany's mouth and tells her things with no words.
When Santana pulls back, the clock says 12:14. Brittany follows her gaze, frowns at the clock, then smiles knowingly. She kisses Santana again.