It's the day after finals. Santana took her bike on the metro, shoving through crowds of rude metropolitan professionals to get to Brittany. She's got her twenty pound backpack on and you'd think it would drag her down, but she looks lighter, happier, than she's ever been. Black strands of her hair fly loose around her smiling face, and Brittany swears she's never been more beautiful. Santana points to the handlebars, and Brittany laughs because they've done this since they were twelve and it hasn't gotten any less dangerous. Still, she kisses her girlfriend's flushed cheek and hops on the handlebars with well-timed grace. Santana pedals through the city with all her might, swerving around pedestrians and birds and trees, and Brittany almost closes her eyes at how free it feels.
They make it to their favourite park, the one they found on one of Brittany's whimsical "let's get lost" adventures. She jumps off the bike and Santana's quick to follow, laying her bike on the grass.
She pulls out a bottle from her bag and Brittany chides her.
"No drunk pedalling!"
"It's sparkling cider, B, the good stuff's at home," Santana giggles, plopping down onto the grass.
Brittany wants to question the fact that she lives in a dry dorm, but Santana grabs her hand and gently pulls her to the ground.
She keeps their hands tangled, leaning her head into Brittany's shoulder, and they sit in silence for a while.
"It's been two years," she says.
Brittany knows what she means, but she asks anyway.
"Since what?"
Santana's voice is timid, nearly a whisper.
"Since I told you."
She looks up, her eyes that hesitant shade she saves only for Brittany.
"I love you," Brittany whispers into her hair.
Later, with their stomachs full of sparkling cider and dollar store cookies, Santana rests her head in Brittany's lap. Her hair is loose, and Brittany can't help but be reminded of summers past spent braiding daisies into each other's hair. It sends butterflies into her stomach like she's a thirteen-year-old again.
"You're beautiful," Brittany says unconsciously.
Santana wrinkles her nose, but flushes ever so slightly.
"Can we stay like this?" she asks quietly.
"How long?" Brittany asks, threading strands of black hair between her fingers.
"Forever, and a day."
Their junior year they find an apartment. It's small, but a decent distance away from both their schools. Sure, there's the occasional roach, and sometimes the heat doesn't work, but it becomes home.
Santana hates the cold though, and so their first winter there she tries to call the super and complain about it. Before the second ring sounds in her ear, fingers wrap around the phone and a warm body presses into her from behind.
"I'm trying to fix the heat, B, stop—"
Brittany responds with soft kisses on her neck, dangerously close to where the phone is.
"What are you doing—oh," she's cut off with a light nip right below her ear. Brittany slowly slides the phone out of her hand, setting it on the counter.
"Warming you up," she whispers into Santana's ear, and Santana forgets what the problem is.
By the time she remembers, the heats been fixed and she's forgotten a few other things (her name, for instance).
They make love in strewn sheets on Sunday mornings, breakfast and other plans forgotten as they lie together for hours. Sometimes Santana takes up counting Brittany's freckles with soft kisses. Sometimes she'll doze off, lying on her stomach while Brittany traces indecipherable patterns and words into her back with nimble fingers. She hums to herself while doing it, and Santana can't help but smile into her pillow when she picks up a few bars of Songbird. Some days, they'll take each other out to lunch or coffee, and smile shyly while playing footsie under the table. Santana will insist on paying, and they'll squabble endlessly about it until they just decide to get a joint bank account because they already share the lease, anyway.
Santana does the cleaning. Well, sometimes. The apartment gets ineffably filthy until Santana is down on her hands and knees, muttering in Spanish and scrubbing with all her might.
The week before her birthday is terrible at work, and it reflects itself in the mess at home. She typically gets home first and several times Britt finds her passed out, still clothed, her brow furrowed in her sleep. She'll place a tender kiss on the creases and tuck her in, trying not to wake her. She gets idea to clean the apartment herself, and she ties up her hair, puts on an apron and rubber gloves and is about to start scrubbing when Santana walks into the kitchen rubbing her eyes groggily. She stops short when she sees Brittany in her cleaning gear.
"B, what the hell are you doing?"
Brittany grins.
"Cleaning. Go back to sleep, babe."
Santana's eyes widen when she sees the chemicals strewn on the kitchen counter next to an empty bucket.
"Brit, were you about to mix Clorox and Windex?"
"Um…"
"B, fucking hell, that can kill you—"
She rushes forward, pushing past Brittany roughly to start putting back all the cleaning materials.
"—you know there's a reason I do the cleaning, why couldn't you wait until I woke up? What where you even thinking?"
There's no response as she shoves things haphazardly into the cabinet.
"B?"
She turns to see Brittany standing with arms limp at her side and her eyes watering, and she melts instantly.
"B—" she says, rushing over and reaching out to Brittany's shoulder tentatively.
"I just wanted to do something nice for you," Brittany chokes out, "it's your birthday soon and you shouldn't have to clean and now I've made you mad at me—"
"—hey," Santana shushes her, rubbing her hands up and down Brittany's arms, "I'm not mad at you. You scared me, that's all. I'm not mad at you, ok?"
She lifts Brittany's chin with one hand, meeting her eyes.
"Ok?"
"Ok," Brittany nods, and Santana pulls her into a hug.
"And Brit?"
"Yeah?" she mumbles into Santana's shoulder.
"Don't worry about my birthday. I already have everything I want."
It's another year, and another December. It's honestly the worst time in the world to fight; Santana always has to go on walks to calm down. Their length is always proportional to how bad the fights are, and this one cut deep.
It starts like so many before—family. They're far from Lima, and Santana wants to keep it that way. The barely broken silence between her and her Abuela is tense, if not painful, and the lack of contact she keeps with parents only strains family time more. But it's Christmas, and Brittany insists that it can solve anything, and ten minutes later the harshest words they can think of come out of their mouths.
And so Santana leaves, like she always does, ignoring the fact that it's freezing outside and she wasn't wearing a coat when the fight started. The moment the door slams, Brittany falls onto the couch, curling into a ball as angry tears start to fall from her eyes.
Minutes turn into an hour, and Brittany starts to worry given how dark it's getting outside and the lack of messages on her phone. After a certain point, she doesn't care that they're fighting anymore because in this city the boogey monster is real and there's that skeezy guy in the alley two blocks down. She's zipping up her coat, with one hand on the door, when it's yanked open for her.
It's Santana, obviously. Her hair is strewn over her shoulders, her face tinged red from the freezing air, her lips slightly parted.
They stand in awkward silence, neither one daring to break it.
"I'm sorry," Santana spews out.
"San—"
"—no, listen. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have started yelling and I don't care about it anymore, you're right, you're always right and I can't fight with you, Brit. I just can't."
She's shaking, half from the cold and half because sobs are wracking her body.
"I can't lose you again, ok? I just—I was walking, and I got scared because what if I came back and you'd gone and left me alone in this shitty apartment and I don't think I could handle it if I let that happen—"
Her words are lost as Brittany strides forward, pulling her shaking body into her chest.
"Shut up," she says.
Santana just sobs more loudly, and Brittany spends countless minutes rocking her gently in her arms, whispering soothing words of "I love you" and "I'm not leaving" and "I'm right here" into Santana's hair.
When Santana's slightly calm, Brittany finds all the blankets and piles them on the couch. She pulls Santana into her makeshift cocoon, wrapping herself around every inch of Santana's frigid body. Santana snuggles into her neck, soaking in every bit of body heat she can.
"We don't have to go," Brittany says, "…maybe just for one or two days? They're your family, S."
Santana carefully extracts herself enough from their tangled forms to place a kiss on Brittany's cheek.
"We'll go. For a bit."
She mumbles as she cuddles back into Brittany's neck.
"What was that?" Brittany tenderly asks.
"You're my family."
They wash dishes together in the kitchen of their cramped apartment, taking advantage of the lack of space to nudge each other playfully with their hips.
"My aunt used to say that if a woman can keep three dish-driers busy, she's ready to get married," Brittany says, scrubbing a plate.
"That's sexist," Santana says, prone to using the phrase ever since her sophomore year Women's Studies class.
Brittany ignores her, though.
"I don't think you count as one drier, San. More like one third. You're so slow," she continues.
"Hey!" Santana says, smacking Brittany on the butt with her damp dishtowel. Brittany retaliates with a hand full of soapsuds to her hair, eliciting a high-pitched squeak, and the dishes are long forgotten as they fall into a fit of giggles and soap throwing.
Later, when they've cleaned up their soapy mess and finished the dishes, Brittany stops to wipe bubbles from Santana's eyebrow. Santana stops her hand as it traces down to her cheek, holding it there.
"Are you?" Santana asks, searching Brit's eyes.
"Am I what?" Brit counters.
Ready to get married.
"Ready for payback!" she says, her nerves getting the best of her, and she attacks Brittany with tickling fingers. She nearly forgets it all as their tickle war turns into Brittany throwing Santana's laughing form over her shoulder and carrying her to their bed.
But the next morning, while running errands, she buys a ring.
'I might be home late' turned into seven hours and Santana waiting anxiously on the couch.
"Hey baby," Brittany drawls, her arm around Mike.
"That's my girlfriend, Mikey…isn't she pretty?"
Santana and Mike share a knowing smile.
"Come on, drunky, let's get you inside. Thanks for bringing her, Mike."
Mike just nods as he shifts Brittany's weight onto Santana, closing the door for them.
She leads Brittany to the couch, setting her down gently and starting to take off her shoes.
"I love you," Brittany mumbles.
It's in that moment, with those three drunken words, that Santana gets the nerve. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out the little box before she even has time to think.
"Brit," she says, catching her widening eyes and opening the box, "marry me?"
Brittany eyes go wide and she starts shaking her head, clumsily swatting away her hand.
"No, you can't ask me when I'm drunk, that's not fair, you know I'll say yes."
"Fine, marry me when you're sober."
"No," she says stubbornly, "it's not fair. I was going to be all romantic about it and now you're asking me when I'm inerb—ineber—"
"—wait, what? All romantic about what?"
Brittany nearly falls off the couch, pushing past Santana as she struggles to get up. She stumbles into the kitchen, Santana trying to catch up to her before she keels over. Brittany reaches into the cupboard and pulls out a box of Lucky Charms. Santana is bewildered, but Brittany pushes her hand into it and pulls out an almost matching black box.
"You kept an engagement ring in a box of Lucky Charms?"
"I had it in here for weeks and—whoa," she loses her balance, but Santana catches her and they slide to the floor.
"Weeks? Why didn't you ask me?" Santana asks, failing to mask the insecurity that spikes in her voice.
Brittany just shakes her head vigorously.
"I couldn't. I wanted to make it perfect, with like, candles and music and it wasn't—it wasn't the right time. "
Santana reaches out to steady Brit's flushed face with her hand.
"What about now?" she asks softly.
Brittany's eyes widen.
"Now?"
"Brittany Susan Pierce," she says firmly, placing her free hand on Brittany's other cheek.
"I'm in love with you. I spent seven hours today sitting on the couch just thinking about how deeply, maddeningly, stupidly in love with you I am."
She enunciates each word as well as she can, running her thumbs over the heated skin of Brittany's cheeks.
"I was going to ask you tonight because I needed you to be away from me so I could get the confidence to ask you."
She smiles slightly, keeping her eyes locked on blue ones.
"Because every time you look at me, B, I fall to pieces and get put back together again and it's the scariest thing in the world, but I never want it to stop. And so I'm asking you, if you'll ask me—"
—she pauses to tuck a strand of hair behind Brittany's ear—
"—to marry you."
"Yes," Brittany says, grinning and nodding feverishly.
Santana chuckles.
"That's not quite what I asked, but it works."
"Let's get married," Britt giggles, "let's get married, let's get married."
Santana's never smiled so hard as she does now, kissing Brittany's still moving lips over and over again. They separate long enough to slip the rings on each other's fingers with shaking hands, and Santana can't help the tears that prick at her eyes as she pulls Brittany into her arms.
After a while they get up from the floor to go to sleep, and Santana takes care to prop all the pillows up around Brittany and bring a bucket to their bedside, in case she gets the urge to vomit. Brittany flops into the pillows, her hair askew and her hand on her forehead, and Santana's eyes can't help but find the ring that rests on her girlfriends—fiancée's—finger. She smiles as she turns off the light, finding Brittany's free hand the instant she crawls into bed.
She's almost drifting off to sleep when a whisper wakes her back up.
"Worst proposal ever."
She can't suppress a chuckle.
"You'll get a better one tomorrow. Along with a killer hangover."
Brittany smacks her arm in the dark.
And it doesn't change. Sure, things change. There's a ceremony, there are papers. There's a new place to live, a new town, a new car and new life. Wrinkles from smiling start to grow on Santana's features, and Brittany's dancing gets a tiny bit less fluid. But Brittany and Santana stay Brittany and Santana.
Years later, their daughter crouches in secret at the top of the stairs, her hands tangled in the bars of the banister. She watches with curious eyes, as the two loving parents who just tucked her into bed make small movements around each other, calm in the still of the night.
Her Mommy stands over by the small stereo they keep on the kitchen counter, slowly turning on soft, melodious music. She sashays over to where Mami is sitting at the table, reading over bill payments, and softly takes her hand, spinning her out of the stool she sits in.
Mami laughs, a light, floaty laugh, and pulls her wife closer. They move softly to the music, their bodies swaying seamlessly.
And they're there. Through graduations, illness, holidays, worries, changes, fears, hopes. They last.
Forever, and a day.