A/N:This isn't a finished piece of writing, but I thought if I uploaded the first few chapters that are written that it'd urge me to update more regularly and finish it. Also, Britanna shippers I apologise in advance. Ps. the title and chapters are named after Florence and the Machine lyrics because while writing she's been a kind of inspiration, so there we go.

Her arms were full, wrapped around two overflowing grocery bags, so unstable she practically tiptoed home in fear of them spilling onto the sidewalk, stupid kid should have paid attention to the bag instead of her boobs. Within the two grocery bags held various ingredients for her favourite blondes favourite meal; cannelloni, with lucky charm salad (don't ask) and cheesy garlic bread. Somewhere with it, stuffed to the very bottom, were a few extra's for desert, that would probably end up stained to the bed sheets anyway. Oh, that reminded her: she'd need new bed sheets.

Two years, two wonderful years of her life she'd spent with her, as her girlfriend. All those years before were equally as amazing, but the fact that they could walk down the street holding hands without people openly judging or go to meals as a couple, and be treat as the adults they were now? It was fantastically, awesomely heart warming that it was indescribable. Brittany and her, they'd been best friends forever. Of course their friendship was special, and not in the way that Santana could tell Britt anything and know it would remain a secret, but something deeper and more profound; she was her first love. At fourteen she realised Brittany had boobs. Did she always have those? Why were they so interesting now? And why did her stomach curl at the thought of her and Chase Donovan hooking up at his halloween party. She struggled with her unrequited feelings for two years, each time Brittany hooked up, Santana would get even and do the same, trying to convince herself she was jealous that Brittany was the one who had a boyfriend, and not that she was jealous of the boyfriend who had Brittany. Until finally, senior year. Outed at Prom when, after having too much punch (spiked by one Dave Karofsky), she crashed onto the stage during the announcement of King and Queen and cried out,

'I'm fricking in love with you, okay?' Then crashing their lips together in an all too passionate kiss for that moment. Life was over for her, it seemed. No-one who outed themselves while drunk at Prom ever got off easy. So she ran, frightened into the deserted halls, ready to hide from the world, crawl into a black hole and die. Brittany followed behind her closely, then fitted their fingers together and backed her against the lockers.

'I love you too,' the girl whispered back, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, before she leant in and continued what they had begun on stage. Even rethinking it sent shivers down her spine. Every memory of that night, that kiss, those words. Perfect. And every snag along the way (yeah talking about you, Chase) was worth it in the end, because she had the girl. Sure, it hurt when her Dad told her it made him sick, and when her mother practically disowned her. They'd never known love like her love for Brittany; they were divorced for christ sake. Love came in all different shapes and forms, so fuck them.

Reaching the steps to their apartment building she shifted the bags in her arms, fumbling in her pocket for the keys, and careful not to drop anything from her grocery sack. A smell of sweet perfume flooded her as she entered, arousing her senses. Britt's favourite, she bought it for herself every birthday and would never let anyone else ('It's my birthday so I get myself a present because it was me who was born on that day' was her logic, and no-one argued with Britt's logic). The living room was dark, the curtains pulled close when she was sure she'd opened them earlier that morning, weird. Setting the bags on the coffee table she gripped either side of the curtain and pulled them aside, casting a stream of light through the space, highlighting a pair of unrecognisable shoes strewn across the rug.

Then, a rustle from the bedroom. Shit, someone was in there. In her home, she'd have to call the police. Where was the phone? Another rustle. Shit, shit, shit. Her heart pounded in her chest, she needed something to arm herself. And what better form of protection than a paper bag filled with cans of tinned vegetables, and bread. You know, the heavier stuff. If she couldn't knock this bastard out then she'd shove the loaf down his throat in self defence. Perfect plan.

Tiptoeing quietly down the hall way, armed with the paper bag and, yes her nails were looking sharp today, she prepared herself for the worst. Another rustle. Pushing the door open as softly as possible her eyes fell to the bed. The worst? Hell, she wasn't prepared for this 'worst'.

A brown mess of hair splayed out across a pillow, her pillow. Who ever they were, their face was hidden from Santana's disbelieving eyes, in the crook of Brittany's neck. Her twig-like arms curled around her waist of the blonde, her blonde, their bodies pressed together as they slept together; both bodies still glistened with sweat and the quilt, her quilt, bunched around their hips.

Oh.

All Santana could do was stare, unmoving and unable to form words. Her mouth opened to speak but closed just as quickly, blinking for a ridiculously long time. The love of her life, her high school sweet heart, her best friend, her life was cuddled up with someone that wasn't her. She was resting contently in the arms of an auburn skank, sleeping with that tiny, soft Brittany smile. A smile, she thought, that only graced her face when it was her making it. Like when she introduced her as her girlfriend for the very first time; like when she twirled her around in the middle of central park and kissed her, like when she professed her love for her. Of course now it felt like all those memories had been flushed down the toilet, and were falling apart like soggy tissue paper.

Neither stirred, how long had she been there? Probably only a few moments, however it felt like an eternity. It was like her own personal car crash; a big, flaming car crash with people screaming, fires burning, engines exploding. No matter how agonisingly painful it was to watch, it was even harder to look away. Tearing her eyes away she found something safer, like… like the loaf of ciabatta bread in the brown paper bag. The loaf of ciabatta wouldn't sleep with someone else. God, her body felt numb, was she even still standing? She had to do something. Something. Anything. Anything? Maybe, maybe it wasn't real. She squeezed her eyes tight; no tears, none. Surely if it was real, she'd be crying, it couldn't be real.

Pinching her wrist would tell her; tell her if it was all a dream and she'd wake up with Brittany drawing circles around her belly button, telling her that she'd been thrashing in her sleep, that she had been pulling 'that cute little face' she pulled when having a bad dream. The one where she scrunched her nose and pouted. If she pinched her wrist and it told her it wasn't a dream, well. What would she do then. She'd rather live in the hope she was dreaming than do anything to prove that she wasn't.

Then the skank hummed dreamily, pressed her lips against Brittany's exposed neck and ran her fingers up and down her arm. The blonde giggled and curled her face into the pillow, Santana felt sick; then it happened. Her arms opened and the bulging paper sack fell to the floor with a clang, and both women startled immediately; scrambling to cover their modesty with whatever they could; the quilt, a shirt, the pillow. Santana's hands found her hips and settled there, her chest puffed out with every ounce of strength she could muster. Brittany's eyes, those large blue pools she'd fallen in love with, shimmered guiltily,

'Santana,' she started softly, but Santana stood tall, quirking her eyebrow in explanation. And when nothing came, she dropped her shoulder and locked eyes with her; she wouldn't break down in tears, not yet at least,

'I bought something for dinner, but it looks like you've already eaten out,' Santana spat, it didn't make sense, and was such a ridiculous thing to say, but when you find the love of your life in bed with someone who, I don't know, isn't you? It kind of throws you. Brittany snatched a pink bra from the floor, scooping the quilt around her body like a towel as her feet touched the floor,

'Santana stay,' she pleaded, following the Latina who had quickly escaped the room and was frantically pacing around the living room, 'What's wrong?'

What's wrong? What's wrong? Santana spun herself around immediately and came face to face with the doe eyed beauty,

'Are you kidding me?'

Brittany shook her head innocently, chewing the inside of her cheek and nervously twirling a lock of her tussled blonde hair around one of her long, slender fingers. They stared at each other in silence, Santana's eyes prayed for Brittany's understanding; how betrayed she felt, how embarrassed, how heartbroken. Nothing. The blonde just stared back, eyes wide and expectant; as if it was Santana who had some explaining to do. Her mouth opened to speak again, when at that moment the skank scurried out of the bedroom, hastily dressed in a pair of jogging bottoms and a faded white McKinely sweatshirt, and Santana's heart sank further. That was hers too, hers that she'd let Brittany borrow earlier that day. Giving the brunette a quick once over she clicked her tongue in disgust and snatched her purse from the counter, her chin quivering wildly,

'Screw you,' she yelled, gripping the door handle viciously then slamming it with all her might as she stormed out. Frightful that she would be followed, she took flight down the steps and pounded down the street. Uncaring of the looks she was given, the worry on peoples faces as pushed passed them, she carried on unsure of where her feet were taking her. Bolting down the street, blood rushing furiously and hot through her veins and deafening her ears. Heart throwing itself against her ribs in an attempt to break free, head pounding and pulsing as furious as every other part of her. As she began to fight for breath, she slowed down and rounded the corner onto a quieter side street. Her back hit the wall harshly, she slid to the floor and finally the floodgates opened; the tears poured from her eyes, her body shaking with pain or adrenaline, or both. Her knees were pulled up to her chest and she wrapped her arms around them, making herself as small as possible; maybe if she squeezed herself to tight she'd pop and everything would be better. It didn't, of course. It just made the pain worse and her arms ache.

Rachel thanked the Barista with a smile as she took the two paper cups in her gloved hands, then peered around the small bistro for a free table. As she set down the two coffees in front of her, Santana pushed her way through the door; bundled up in a woollen scarf and a duffle bag slung over her shoulder, her eyes red and nose a similar colour. Rachel stayed standing and embraced her friend tightly in her skinny arms, squeezing her until the girl relaxed into the hug. Tearing away, she smiled up at her sadly, pushing the cardboard cup towards her as they sat down. San tucked her oversized bag between her feet, and cradled her coffee between her cold hands, then looking to Rachel who's eyes were fixed on her; large and sympathetic,

'Are you okay?' Rachel asked tentatively, as soon as the words fell from her lips she was met with a look from Santana, who's eyebrows were raised in an 'are you kidding me?' fashion, 'Stupid question, I'm sorry. A better question would be how are you doing?'

'I'm coping, I guess. God, I'm pathetic. It's been, what? Four weeks? And I'm still moping about like a fucking, zombie or something,'

'You and Brittany were together since High School. It's going to take a while before you're…'

'Yeah.' They looked at each other; Rachel subtly chewing her bottom lip, and Santana frowning at the swirls and initials carved into the rim of the table. She looked tired and beaten, and never in the 10 years had she known Santana had she ever seen her as sad as she'd been in the past two weeks. Even when her parents had disowned her, she still had reason to smile, because Brittany was there and would make everything alright. Now that Brittany was gone though, what else did she have? A job that she hated, an apartment she couldn't face going back to, a bed in the Berry's spare room. The girl stayed quiet, and each beat of silence that passed broke Rachel's heart even more.

Brittany was definitely in her bad books. Hell she had been for a while, but Rachel had tried to be more understanding, more forgiving, more mature. In their final year of High School, the two best friends had made plans, big plans that involved taking over New York together; Rachel making it as a star on Broadway in her original musical 'Tony at 25', and Santana being the most feared, most sought after Lawyer and her agent (what? They were young, it could have worked). During summer break each year they'd get part time jobs and work crazy hours, doing the odd babysitting jobs just so they could afford an apartment together in New York when the time came. Then, their final year, Santana dropped the bomb that she would be staying in Ohio with Brittany. The dozy cheerleader was scared of leaving home and Lord Tubbington, afraid that he would relapse and start smoking again (because, of course he would.) They didn't speak for three weeks, the longest either girl had went without speaking to each other. Rachel couldn't help but feel a little resentful towards Brittany, robbing Santana- supposedly the love of her life, of the chance to better herself. Brittany could have told Santana to go, she could have made her go, the girl had that power of her but she didn't. And now a few years down the line, they were broken up and Santana was a glorified phone answerer in a little attorneys office.

Unable to handle the lack of conversation, Rachel piped up, asking how work was going and if she'd seen anything else going. As she heard Santana groan and complain about the unproductive jobs she was made to do, Rachel was struck with the most amazing thought she'd ever been graced with,

'Come to New York with me,'

'I can't do that,'

'Why not? What have you got to stay for?'

'My job-'

'You hate your job,' interrupted the girl, leaning forward eagerly, 'There's so many better opportunities out there for you. It'll be good for you, to get away, start again you know?'

Santana looked down at the table, her brows furrowed in thought before looking back at Rachel, asking quietly,

'Can I do that?'

Rachel nodded enthusiastically, her eyes wide and shimmering with hope.

'Where would I stay?'

'With me! Please Santana,' Rachel pleaded. She took a deep and shaky breath. It was true, she had nothing really to stay for. Her parent's didn't speak to her, she hated the office where she worked; the men were old and pervy, and it stunk by both meanings of the word. And she was right, New York did have more opportunities for her, but there was also more competition. Ohio was safe, Ohio was home… but Ohio was also a shit hole. And the place where all the memories of her and Brittany belonged; some places she couldn't even go to anymore because of those memories. Still, it was a difficult decision, and Rachel's dewy puppy dog eyes were not helping her.

'Okay,'

'Really?'

Santana nodded, and suddenly her neck was wrapped in the arms of her tiny best friend, and all she could do was choke out a giggle. Santana Lopez was going to New York.