A/N: I may do a sequel or make this a multi-chapter, if there's any interest. Reviews are appreciated!
Listen to Shirts and Gloves by Dashboard Confessional to hear the inspiration for this fic.
I'm like one thousand percent sure there are going to be a lot of typos in this, but I can't seem to pick them out myself. Let me know on here or on my Tumblr (iam-your-opus. tumblr. com) if you find any and I'll be happy to change them.
A/N2: Since this is getting more attention than I had thought it would, I'm gonna take this opportunity to shamelessly plug my other fic, Several Ways to Die Trying. It's a Superhero!AU, Brittana style.
"It seems our day keeps falling on a leap year…"
Santana
You and Brittany move in together at the beginning of your sophomore year.
You think it's the happiest day of your life so far when she shows up at the new apartment with a box in her hands and a smile on her face. You had gotten there a few minutes before she had, and grin when you open the door to her on the other side.
"You don't have to knock, baby," you laugh. "This is our apartment."
She smiles up at you shyly, and you pull the box from her hands, leaning in for a kiss as you do so, knowing you could never be more in love with anyone than you are with her in that moment.
You quickly fall into a routine with each other. Britt showers in the mornings and you shower at night. She does her homework on the couch in the evenings and you sit in your bed, Indian style, typing essays on your laptop. You meet her for lunch every day between classes, and some days Kurt and Rachel even join you.
Something changed between you and your former classmates when you all moved out to New York. You and Kurt aren't close on an emotional level, but you get along just fine and have fun together. Rachel, on the other hand, has somehow become one of the only people you can talk to besides Brittany.
You and Brittany work well together in your small apartment. You make dinner most nights, but Brittany cooks on the nights where she doesn't have rehearsal. Her meals are usually simple, but the way she serves them to you, like she's so proud that she was able to cook something you like, makes whatever she cooks your favorite meal no matter what it is.
You're both pretty busy, but you make time for each other. Wednesday nights you watch television (though the one thing you do consistently bicker about is what channel you should stay on—Brittany likes cartoons, you like reality TV and crime shows). She nearly always wins, but you don't mind because she never fails to make up for it later, when you're trying to fall asleep and her hands slip low against your stomach.
Brittany spends some nights out late practicing, and aside from the way you worry about her traveling home alone at night, all you feel is an overwhelming sense of pride from watching her dance. You've been to a few of her performances, and she's like nothing you've ever seen before. She was good in high school, yes, but here she shines.
This is why you're not surprised by her news when she comes home one night, a serious look on her face. Brittany is rarely in a serious mood, and you can tell immediately something is up.
"Baby?" you ask, and her eyes rise sheepishly to meet yours. You're sitting at the kitchen counter, eating dinner, and she's been staring into her soup bowl for the past three minutes.
"Sorry," she says, laughing, and you smile.
"What's up?" you ask, reaching for her hand. She squeezes yours back tightly, sighing.
"I have to tell you something," she announces. "But I'm nervous how you might take it."
You furrow your brow as your mind jumps to all sorts of conclusions, nearly all of which you'd bet serious money on not being true because Brittany would never, ever do anything to hurt you.
"Don't be nervous, B," you say, as reassuringly as you can despite your own nerves. "Just tell me what's going on."
"I got offered a job," she says quietly. Her eyes flick to yours to gauge your reaction, but you're smiling. "As a dancer."
"What? Babe, that's great!" You pull her into you for a hug. "What is it?"
"I… um. You know that showcase I danced in about a month ago?" You nod. "Well there was a scout there, and he wants me to join this dance group."
"And you'd get paid?" This time it's her turn to nod. "You're going to get paid. You'll be a professional dancer. I don't see the downside in this, baby," you laugh, nudging her.
Her eyes drop back down to her soup.
"It's a touring group," she says. "We'll be gone for two months, starting in two weeks."
You look at her, and you can tell this is the part she was nervous to tell you about. You squeeze her hand again, and she looks up at you.
"That sounds amazing, babe," you say with a smile, and she visibly relaxes. She smiles at you for a moment before sighing.
"I don't know, Santana," she breathes out. "Two months is a long time. I'd have to take the semester off."
"So, you take the semester off. It's not a huge deal. You're building a resume! This will make you look that much more impressive when you get out of school."
She still looks skeptical, so you continue.
"And you'll learn so much. You'll get first hand experience of what it's like to be on a tour with other professional dancers, and maybe even more scouts will get to see you this way. It sounds like such a great opportunity, Britt."
She smiles again, but you can tell it's not entirely real.
"It's just…" she looks at your hands. "I'll miss you."
You bring her hand to your mouth and kiss it.
"I'll be here when you come back," you promise, and she smiles at your intertwined fingers.
"Do you want to go?" you ask, looking at her closely so you can tell if she's lying in her answer.
She takes a deep breath, then nods, slowly at first, but picking up speed as she makes up her mind.
"Then you're going."
Her eyebrows are pinched together and her mouth is slanted downwards, and you can tell she still doesn't like the idea. You're quick to reassure her.
"It'll only be two months, Britt. I can even maybe come visit you once and we can Skype all the time, you know?"
Later you'll find it ironic that you were the one who convinced her to go, that gave her that extra push.
She frowns, looking straight into your eyes, and if it were anyone else you would feel extremely uncomfortable. Her mouth opens and closes several times, and she can't seem to find the words she wants to say.
"I'll miss you," she decides on after a minute, and you grip her tightly and pull her into you.
"I'll miss you more," you breathe into her hair.
The two weeks before Brittany leaves with the group are hectic, and you don't get to see her nearly as much as you'd like to. She got added to the group late, so she's a bit behind in learning the routines, which means that she has to spend more time at the dance studio, practicing, than at home with you.
You know that it shouldn't make you quite as sad as it does, but you can't help it. You figure as long as you don't tell Brittany that it's hurting you, you're not a bad person. You're just in love.
The night before Brittany is supposed to get on a plane, she misses the dinner you have planned. She doesn't know, but you cooked her favorites. They're already cold on the table by the time she calls, apologizing, saying she'll be home within two hours. She apologizes again, and there's an uncomfortable silence when you don't tell her it's all right. She says she loves you, and this you do respond to, and she hangs up.
She walks in an hour and forty minutes later. You're sitting on the couch, eyes trained on a television that you haven't really been watching since you sat down in front of it. She has a brown paper bag in her hands, and your eyes flick to it for a moment before going back to the television.
She kneels next to you on the couch, her lips immediately landing on your cheek.
"Baby…" she says, and you turn to look at her. She's smiling, and you almost smile back, but you force yourself to pout instead. She giggles.
You're jealous, because whenever she pouts you just can't resist her, and she knows that. When you pout, she laughs at you.
"I brought ice cream!" she sings, and your face softens. "I figured we could curl up and watch a movie, if that sounds good to you?"
You sigh, knowing that it'd be hopeless to try and stay angry with her. Besides, you don't want to spend your last night together fighting.
"Finding Nemo?" you suggest, because you know it's her favorite, and it's so worth watching it for the twelfth time since you've moved in to watch her face light up as she nods.
"Santana?"
Brittany is standing in the doorway. You'd decided you needed to shower after the movie, and she'd stayed in the living room to print out her boarding pass for her flight in the morning.
You've just slipped a t-shirt over your head when you hear her. You turn around and smile.
"Yeah, Britt?"
Her arms hug her sides awkwardly as she enters your bedroom. It's a foreign sight; the graceful dancer rarely looks awkward in any way.
"I'm sorry about earlier," she says quietly, looking at the floor.
"Britt," you sigh, walking up to her and wrapping your arms around her. "It's okay. We don't have to talk about this."
"Yeah, we do," she insists. "I… I kind of stayed out on purpose."
You jerk away from her.
"What?" you ask, feeling a pinch of hurt because Brittany intentionally didn't spend her last night home with you.
"I just…" she breathes out heavily, her mouth scrunching to one side. "I'm nervous."
You're not sure why that would result in her wanting to avoid you, but you lean back into her anyway.
"Brittany, don't be ridiculous. You're going to be great," you assure her, rubbing your hand up and down her arm.
"No, no," she says, shaking her head. "I'm nervous about us."
Your eyes lock onto Brittany's, and you're not entirely sure what she means.
Actually, you're not sure at all what she means.
"What about us?" you ask, carefully.
She sits down on the corner of the bed, facing you.
"I'm going to miss you," she says, and you feel like you've heard it a thousand times. It still makes your heart a little warmer every time she says it, though, because you feel that much better knowing that she's on the same page as you.
"I'll miss you too, babe," you reply.
"You will?" she asks, and she sounds scared of the answer. Your brow furrows. You know you haven't been telling her everything you're feeling about this because you don't want her to think she has to stay because of you, but you didn't know that you were making her feel like she wasn't going to be missed. That wasn't your intention at all.
"Of course I'm going to miss you," you assure her, taking the seat next to her. "I'll miss you so much, every day."
"Oh…" she says, and she sounds confused. "I thought… I don't know, you've seemed like you're excited for me to be gone."
You shake your head, seeing how she could get that impression. You haven't been very clear with her lately. Maybe you've been preparing yourself for the distance by trying to keep her at arms length when it comes to your emotions, but you realize now that that was silly. Communicating with Brittany is never a bad idea.
"I'm not excited for you to be gone, Britt. I'm excited for you to go. I'm excited you're going to get to experience these amazing things and become an even more amazing dancer. I'm so, so proud of you, baby."
A small smile forms on her face. "Really?"
You nod, pulling her into you. You kiss her; your lips press against hers in the way you know you're going to miss so badly the next day.
Her hands find their way up your body, first trailing up your arms, then cupping your cheeks, and now one is tangled in your hair. You're not sure how long you've been kissing, but when you pull away you're both out of breath, and Brittany has this airy smile she only wears after a particularly good kiss.
"We'll be okay?" she asks, leaning her forehead against yours.
"We'll be perfect," you reply. "I promise."
She kisses you this time, and you feel the way your words affected her in the smile she presses into your lips every time they meet hers. Her hands are warm and soft, and you feel their affects on you every where she touches you—your arms, your face, your neck, your stomach, your –
"Oh, god, Britt," you hiss as her right hand palms at your breast while she lightly kisses her way up your neck. She stops at your ear, timing the flick of her thumb against your nipple with a slow lick across the shell of your ear. You groan, loudly, and she smiles when you buck against her.
"I'll miss you," she says into your ear, before kissing down your body to your stomach.
You want to tell her you'll miss her more, but then she's pulling on your underwear and her mouth is on you, and you think that she may just have to get the message from the way your back arches off the bed as you moan her name.
The first week she's gone isn't as bad as you thought it would be. You're distracted a lot, honestly, and most nights you can convince yourself that Brittany is just out at the studio, that she'll be there when you wake up.
Mornings are the hardest, but most of them begin with a sweet text from Brittany when you wake up. She tells you what she's doing that day, she tells you how much fun she's having, she tells you how much she misses you and loves you. One day she tells you about a dream she had that you were the star of, and, well – you end up on the phone later that day with your hand in your underwear, listening to her pant out the details of her dream on the other end of the line.
The second week is much worse. You miss her in a lot of ways you didn't expect. You always come home to a dark house, now. You make way too much food sometimes, forgetting that you're not cooking for two. Eventually you decide to stop cooking and just eat HotPockets and Ramen, like you did in your freshman year.
You like that you can watch whatever TV show you want, but it doesn't feel as satisfying as it does when you've won that privilege from a pouting Brittany.
She doesn't call you as much the second week, either. They've started doing shows every night, and on more than one day they have two shows back to back. Brittany is exhausted by it all, but thrilled that she's getting to dance professionally, and you don't have the heart to tell her how much you miss her when she's off having so much fun.
One day you barely hear from her at all besides the good morning text. You don't want to seem overbearing, so even though you're worried something has happened to her, you don't call her. You're fears are settled when there's a text waiting for you the next morning.
The third week, you get to Skype with her. Her webcam is broken, but one of the other girls on the tour is nice enough to let Brittany borrow her laptop for a half an hour. Brittany looks absolutely gorgeous, and you can't stop smiling the entire time. Brittany shows you a few of the dance moves she's learned, and tells you about her friends. The conversation ends abruptly when Brittany has to leave for dinner, but she promises she'll call you tomorrow night.
You watch cartoons that night, a pillow clutched against your chest.
The rest of the tour continues this way, until it's the last few days and you are bubbling with excitement that Brittany is coming home. You have spent way too much time with Rachel and Kurt, and Rachel's enthusiasm and Kurt's romanticism have started to rub off on you. You think of having a big elaborate date planned for when Brittany gets back, but realize that would be too cheesy and Brittany would probably be too tired for it anyway.
Instead, you decide to recreate the dinner that you made Brittany the night before she left. Brittany's plane lands around four in the afternoon, and she catches a taxi back to the apartment.
You're pacing when she hears the door open.
"San?" Brittany calls out, you grin at the sound of her voice, so here, so present. You run into the hallway and grab Brittany before she gets to take a single step away from the door.
Brittany is laughing, but she's returning your hug with just as much enthusiasm. She only pulls away to bring you in for a kiss, one that makes your legs feel just a little bit weaker before she pulls back.
"Hi," she says, a blush on her cheeks.
You don't answer, just pull her into another kiss.
"God, San, this is delicious," Brittany says through a mouthful of food. You laugh, because it's just mac n' cheese, but if it makes Brittany happy you won't argue with it.
"I'll make you as much mac as you want, B, I'm just so glad you're home," you smile at her.
She puts her fork down suddenly, and you jump at the noise.
"Britt?"
She looks up at you, and you know that face, like she's guilty of something.
"Santana…" she starts, and you can honestly say you don't know what to expect. "I have some news."
"News?" you parrot, because you don't know what else would be an appropriate response in this situation.
She nods.
"You know how I was picked out by a scout at my showcase? Well…"
Your stomach clenches as you realize where she's going with this, and you immediately feel guilty for wishing with all that you've got that her next words aren't what you think they'll be.
They are.
"I got offered a spot on another tour," she says, and she sounds excited. "You'll never guess with who!"
"Who?" you ask, even though your throat is tight and you really, really do not want to know.
"Beyonce!" she says, and you don't register the name.
"Beyonce?" you repeat, and you feel bad that you haven't really come up with your own words for a few minutes now.
She nods, grinning, and the name doesn't click until you're jumping out of your seat, looking at her with wide eyes.
"Holy shit, Beyonce?!" you shout, and she's on her feet then too, nodding excitedly.
"I'm just a backup dancer, and there's going to be a lot of us on this tour, but the scout who picked me up for this last tour recommended me to a friend and then he came and saw one of the shows and he just… I'm going on tour with Beyonce!"
You grab her by the shoulders and pull her into a hug, kissing everywhere you can reach in the process.
"I'm so glad you're happy," she breathes, and you laugh. How could you not be happy? Your baby is going to be a dancer for the Beyonce.
You ask her this, and she shrugs as she pulls away.
"I don't know, I just… I thought you wouldn't want me leaving again, after being away for so long."
"How soon do you have to go?" you ask, and you feel guilty about how sad your voice suddenly sounds.
"I have a month," she answers, and you're glad that it's at least more than two weeks this time. "But…"
"What is it, Britt?" you ask, when she doesn't continue her sentence. Her lip is worried between her teeth, and she's back to looking as nervous as before.
"This tour isn't for two months, San," she says quietly. You feel panic grip your chest and you will yourself to not look visibly upset.
"How long is it?" She drops her eyes from yours onto the floor, and it feels like your stomach dropped with them.
"A year."
You breathe out. A whole fucking year. Not only do you have to live through these past two months again, but this time, it'll be for six times as long.
"A year?" you repeat, just to make sure, and she nods sadly.
"Listen, Santana, if you don't want me to go I can—"
"My baby is going on tour with Beyonce for a whole year," you interrupt her, and she looks surprised before a huge smile takes over her face. She tackles you in a hug, and you stumble a bit from the force of it.
"I love you so much," she says into your shirt.
"Yeah," you reply, rubbing her back. "Me too."
The month goes by quicker than you ever thought it could, and you find it funny that just a short time ago a month was dragging along to be one of the longest periods of your life. You're seeing her off to her plane before you even have time to fully process that she's actually leaving, again.
Single Ladies plays on the radio on the ride home, and you nearly break the knob of you hit the power button so hard.
The first two months pass pretty much the same as the last tour. Brittany can't send you texts every morning anymore because of her schedule, but you get used to it within the first week. You've adjusted to all the other parts of Brittany missing from your life; one more isn't too big of a deal.
The third month is a bit more painful. You've never been away from her for this long, obviously, and you begin to cling to Rachel like a lost puppy. She sees what you're doing but never comments, and for that you'll always be grateful.
She even lets you come over and get absolutely shitfaced at her house. You sing karaoke and watch whatever trashy reality TV you want, and it feels so nice to be distracted for a little while that you crash so hard later that night when you realize you haven't thought of Brittany in hours, and you wonder how often that happens to her.
You used to be so in love with her that she wouldn't stay out of your thoughts for more than a few minutes, but that was when thinking of her didn't hurt. You miss that.
The fourth month you get a featured solo in a performance at NYU. Brittany was always pressuring you to audition. You try to call her a few times that day, but she doesn't answer. She calls you back long after you've fallen asleep, and leaves you a long voice mail, apologizing for missing your calls and catching you up on what's been going on with her—she's happy, but she misses you "so, so much."
Your birthday is in the sixth month, and you wake up to a text message from Brittany. It makes you smile, because it was sent at midnight and you're pretty sure she stayed up just for you.
You go to class, have a lovely lunch out with Rachel and Kurt, and nearly have a heart attack when you walk into your apartment that evening to see Brittany leaning against the couch waiting for you.
You're in her arms before you have time to decide whether or not she's real, and you're so relieved when she embraces you and kisses you on the mouth.
"What are you doing here?" you ask, embarrassed by how tearful your voice sounds. You decide it's okay, though, because her eyes are watering too.
"I missed you too much to stay away. I can only stay for a night, but we were passing by New York and it's your birthday and just… I missed you so much," she settles on, kissing you again.
"I missed you more," you say, and kiss her just as hard.
"Happy Birthday, Santana," she says, smiling, and you know that there isn't anything else you could have ever wanted.
Brittany has to leave early in the morning, but you're so thankful that you got to spend time with her, as little as it may have been.
You kiss her as she gets on the bus and she smiles into it, the way that she always does that makes your heart race, and you feel so, so happy. Rachel meets you for lunch that day with a big grin on her face, so proud of herself for keeping Brittany's surprise visit a secret in the weeks preceding your birthday. You hug her without warning, and she's wearing the biggest grin you've ever seen her with when you pull away.
The seventh month brings change. Brittany stops calling.
You don't think it's intentional. She's been added to more and more numbers as the tour goes on and people realize how talented she truly is. She's been super busy, with rehearsals all day and shows all night. She barely has time to sleep anymore.
You know all this, but still, it hurts like hell when you realize it's been nearly five days since you've talked to her.
You call her, but no one picks up.
You listen to the voicemail just to hear her voice, but hang up before it reaches the end when you realize how pathetic that is.
It's on the tenth month when you know you can't do this anymore.
You go to the club with your friends, the new ones from class that you haven't hung out with much before. There's a girl there, Emily, and she's showing all the classic signs of crushing, pretty hardcore, on you. She laughs at your jokes, shoves you playfully, texts you cute, funny jokes during class just to see you smile. You don't mind the attention at this point, honestly. You haven't heard from Brittany in days, and although you would never ever cheat on her, having someone flirt with you does feel quite nice.
You're not sure why you accepted her invitation to dance. It was probably an awful idea, and you might have recognized that had you not had a few drinks in your system. Unfortunately, the Jack and Cokes had been calling your name all night long.
You're dancing with her in ways that you shouldn't be, but hey—it's the way everyone in the club is dancing. Brittany wouldn't be jealous, no. In fact, you're sure she's danced this way with a ton of people since you've last seen her.
Emily is a good dancer. Not as good as Brittany, obviously, because no one is, but she's as good as you, if not better, and she's on a mission. You're not sure whether or not you've mentioned you have a girlfriend, recently. It hasn't come up much in conversation around this group; they aren't much for emotional talks.
Emily grinds against you and you move with her easily, falling into rhythm without thought. Her mouth is near your neck, and she breathes out heavily, and that's when you feel it—goosebumps. Something tightens in your stomach, and you pull away quickly at the sudden pulse of arousal now shooting through you.
"You all right?" Emily asks, looking concerned, and you pull away from her shaking you head.
"I need some air," you say, shouting so you can hear, and she nods. She grabs your hand and leads you towards the door, and even though this was something you definitely wanted to do alone, you don't want her to go away. You feel like you're about to break down, because fuck you feel so guilty about being that strongly attracted to anyone other than Britt, and you figure a bit of human compassion won't hurt.
When you get outside, Emily immediately wraps her arms around you in a hug. You fall into the embrace, resting your forehead on her shoulder as you try to calm your thoughts. Before you can, though, Emily is leaning back and then forward again, and you don't recognize what's going to happen before it's too late and her lips are on yours.
You don't kiss back. Not really, anyway. Not that it's that sort of kiss. It was sweet, and you honestly feel a little bit sad because Emily is nice and funny and you are definitely attracted to her, but you are so helplessly in love with someone who hasn't called you in six days.
"I'm sorry," she says, sensing that it wasn't something you wanted. You excuse it because she's probably drunk and you know you are too, and maybe that's why you didn't protest this entire time, but something about that excuse doesn't seem to fit right with you.
"It's okay," you reply, and she offers you a small smile before pulling you back into a hug.
You get home that night and cry for what feels like hours, knowing that you could've fucked things up really badly tonight if you had just been a little more drunk or a little more upset with Brittany.
You decide you can't do this anymore, and you'll have to tell her next time you speak with her.
You're going to have to ask her not to do any more tours at least until she gets out of school. You know she's just doing what she loves, but you can't stand being away from her anymore. You feel so guilty about it, but you realize that if you don't ask her, your relationship is going to fall apart completely anyway.
"You're not going to believe this," she says when you get her on the phone the next day, and you get excited because it sounds like she has something really great to tell you. You try not to get your hopes up that she's going to tell you she's coming home early or that she can visit you for a weekend, but you can't help it.
"Oh, I'm not, am I?" you ask, and she giggles.
"No, you're not. It's out of this world, Santana. There are so many people here and they all just—the all want me to dance for them!"
Okay, so it's not exactly the kind of news you were expecting, and it makes your heart break a little more than you thought was possible at this point.
"That's awesome, B," you respond, and it feels automatic by now.
"Yeah!" she replies, not noticing your lack of enthusiasm. "But that's not all. Guess who called me an hour ago with like, the offer of a century?"
"Who?" you ask, because you really don't feel like guessing.
"Britney. Spears."
You process it a lot faster than you processed the news of Beyonce. Britney Spears, one of Britt's idols. They danced around to Britney in their rooms when they were just kids, using hairbrushes as microphones and jumping up and down on Brittany's bed like it was their stage.
"Holy fuck, baby. That's amazing!" you reply, and you can hear her humming with excitement on the other end.
"Yeah, I'm so excited! But Sanny, I gotta go. I wanted to call you and give you the good news, but I really can't stay on the phone for longer. We're in the middle of rehearsal and they all think I'm in the bathroom," she laughs.
You say your goodbyes and hang-up.
You're left staring at the phone in your hand blankly for a few minutes, before you begin to cry.
Brittany calls to tell you that her plane landed safely and she's about to go find a taxi.
"I'll be home by eight!" she says excitedly.
She's twenty minutes late, and you don't find yourself minding at all this time around. Gone is the itch to see her, the one that used to claw at your mind until you had her in your arms, her lips pressed against yours. Honestly, you're dreading the moment the key turns in the lock and everything changes.
It happens anyway, not five minutes later.
You draw in a sharp breath when you hear footsteps outside, because you know it's her (you always know when it's her). The key turns in the lock and the door opens and you hear her humming softly under her breath.
She drags her suitcase in inside and the humming stops. You don't move or make a sound from your seat on the couch, and she waits a beat before calling out your name.
"Santana?"
She's expecting you to be there, waiting for her, rushing to greet her with hugs and kisses and love, and the thought tightens your chest. For a second you consider forgetting it all, consider running into her arms and pulling on her neck until her lips meet yours and not letting them part until morning.
"Santana? I'm home!"
You push yourself off the couch. You tell yourself to move your feet, to walk into the hall and do it (like ripping off a Band-Aid, make it quick and get out of there). Somehow the words "in here, Britt!" escape your mouth instead, and you want to slap yourself.
She walks into the room, a bright smile on her face. A Brittany smile, as you've always called it, radiant and contagious and you almost feel the corners of your mouth tugging up at the sight.
"There you are!" She's wearing sweatpants and a tank top, perfect clothes for travelling. Her hair is up in a messy ponytail and you want to pull her into bed with you and cuddle her, holding her until you both fall asleep, and you can wake up in the morning and make her Mickey Mouse pancakes.
You're in her arms before you realize what's happening, and she's running her hands up and down your back in the way that only she knows how to. Your arms rise weakly around her, and you're angry with yourself for you own weakness.
"I've missed you so much," she says, squeezing you tighter.
You swallow thickly and don't respond. It takes a moment before you feel her body tensing, and you can almost hear her thoughts as she realizes you're not hugging her back nearly as tightly as you should be.
She pulls back, and you see the worry in her eyes when she asks, "Are you okay?"
You lick your lips and avert your eyes. Four words, that's all you have to say, but you find yourself wanting to put them off as much as possible. Now that she's here, it's different. You consider briefly waiting until the last day before she has to go back on tour to do this, but you know how cruel that would be to her. If you do it now, at least she has two weeks to recuperate.
"We need to talk," you say, and you surprise yourself with how strong your voice sounds.
She looks at you blankly for a second, before smiling slightly. You know she can sense what you're about to say, but she's trying to assure herself that she must be wrong.
"Baby, you're scaring me," she says with a small laugh. She looks relieved, and you realize it's because you're smiling now too.
Fucking idiot, you scold yourself for giving her false hope. But it's Brittany, and you just can't help it; her laughter makes your heart race, no matter what the circumstance.
"I…" you trail off, unable to finish your sentence.
"You…" she says, giggling, teasing you. She thinks this is a game, and you feel a rush of guilt.
"You should sit down," you say, and her smile drops.
"Why?" she asks, curiosity evident in her voice.
"We need to talk," you repeat, and this time she doesn't smile afterwards.
She stares at you for a few seconds, blinking.
"Are you breaking up with me?" she asks, and your heart twinges with affection at Brittany's endearingly blunt nature.
"Yes," you reply, and you force yourself to look at her. You won't be a coward during this.
She doesn't react at first, taking a few deep breaths before her eyebrows pull inwards, forming a crease between her eyes.
"Oh my god," is all she says after nearly a minute of silence. She breathes out, and it almost sounds like a laugh, but you can tell by the tears gathering in her eyes that it isn't one. "Why?"
She sounds so shocked and small and hurt, and it takes everything in you not to start crying.
"I just can't do this anymore," you reply, and you know it's a copout of an answer, but you can't bring yourself to tell her that you're leaving because you're weak and you can't handle being in love with someone from a distance.
"I-is… is it someone else?" she asks timidly, sucking her lips into her mouth as she waits for an answer. She hasn't started crying, not yet, and for that you're grateful, but you can see the tears in her eyes and you know it probably won't be long.
"No," you answer with a firm shake of your head.
"Do you not love me anymore?" her voice is filled with so much heartbreak you feel your own heart cracking your ribs as it tries to force you towards her.
"Of course I love you," you say, and the words echo in your mind as words from your past. You remember how far you've come together since those days in high school, and you realize you've never really done right by her. Not then, and certainly not now.
"Then… why?" she asks, and you can feel her eyes on your face as she waits for an answer.
"I just can't be in a relationship with you anymore. We're not right for each other," you try to say, but she shakes her head immediately.
"That's bullshit," she says angrily, and you know she wouldn't be saying it if she wasn't absolutely certain that you were just trying to get out of this as easily as possible. You look at the ground, ashamed at your attempt to try and lie to her, ashamed that you didn't know she'd see right through you.
"Why?" she asks again, this time with more conviction.
You remain silent for a few seconds before finding the courage to answer.
"I can't be with someone who is never here, Britt," you say.
"What?!" she nearly shouts. You flinch a bit but don't move backwards. "But, Santana, that's—I—y-you were the one… You told me to go, you convinced me to go. And now you're leaving me because of it?"
Your heart clenches because you know you've been stupid, you've made a mistake and you've hurt the one person who you care about most in the world.
"Things change," you say softly.
"Things don't just change overnight, Santana," Brittany says, and you know she's right. She's always right. "You should have told me."
"I tried to," you begin to say, but her eyes cut you off with a harsh look and you end up sighing instead.
"I just…" you say, and now it's the part you've been dreading, the part you just want to skip. You know you're not good with words and you know everything is going to come out wrong and she might end up hating you.
"You're not here," is all you can manage at first. You can tell you must look pathetic because Brittany's eyes soften once more and she looks like she feels guilty, which is the last thing you want.
"You're not here, and I miss you," your voice breaks, and you take a deep breath to calm yourself before continuing. "I miss you so much, and it just feels like… It feels like you left me, you know? And I know you didn't leave me, I know you love me, it's not that," you quickly insist as her face falls.
"But… you're so far away, Britt. You don't have time for me anymore. I feel like I've been broken up with but I can't get over it or move on because every month or two you appear for a weekend or a Skype date and I know that I'm so in love with you, that I'm so yours that I could never get over it while we're like this, that it'll always keep hurting this bad as long as we're together."
Tears have started to fall from her eyes as you speak to her, and she pulls hand against her mouth to muffle the sound of her crying. Your heart hurts at the sight and you don't know what to do now that you've finished saying all that you have to say.
"I-I…" she stutters. You're afraid of what she's going to say next, if she's going to beg for you to stay or tell you you're an idiot or what, but instead she just says, "I'm so sorry."
"You didn't know," you say softly, and she shakes her head, taking a shuddering breath.
"I should have," she insists. "In a way I think I did, I just didn't… I didn't think that—" she stops speaking to take another deep breath, and you can tell she's trying not to break down in front of you.
You decide that's your cue to leave.
"You can stay here," you tell her. "I'm going to go stay at Rachel's until you leave again for the tour. I'll move out after that," you finish, and go to move past her, but she steps in front of the doorway.
"S-Santana, wait—"
Oh God.
"No, I can fix this. I'll quit. I'll come back, I'll live here again," she says, tears spilling over onto her cheeks. "I'll live here with you and everything can be good and happy again. I'll go back to Juilliard and we can go out to lunch with Kurt and Rachel every Monday again and we can have TV nights and date nights and— "
You know she's rambling, and you feel bad cutting her off, but all of this is sounding too tempting and you could never live with yourself if you let her do any of that.
"Brittany, stop it," you interrupt her, and the words stop. Her mouth hangs open, still, and she takes short breaths that almost sound like gasps out of it. "You're not quitting. You're not going to go back to school."
"Yes, I am!" she says firmly, and takes a step closer to you. "Santana, I'm not gonna let this break us up. I'll go back to school, I'll study and I'll train some more. It'll be good for me. Juilliard is the opportunity of a lifetime, it was stupid for me to have left in the first place." You cringe inwardly at this.
"It wasn't stupid, Britt. You were chasing your dreams—"
"You're my dream."
You pause for a moment, a sigh falling from your mouth. Your hand rises to brush against your brow, a gesture you always subconsciously make when you're frustrated.
"I'm not, Brittany."
She shakes her head at you, and you know she's about to argue some more so you speak again before she has the chance to open her mouth.
"The only thing that Juilliard is going to give you is opportunities like the ones you've already made for yourself, B."
"It'll give me you," she insists, watery eyes locking onto your own.
"No, it won't."
She blinks at you, not understanding your words for a moment, before her eyes flash with the most hurt you've ever seen in a person.
"What are you saying?" she asks, her voice quiet and cracking.
"I'm not going to let you give all this up for me," you say, and now you're the one with tears in your eyes, and goddamn-it all because you promised yourself you wouldn't cry during this. You know what it does to her when you cry.
"Santana…" she says, and you keep your eyes down as you hear her choking on a sob, realizing there's nothing she can do to talk you out of this. This is really happening, and you feel awful because you know it's breaking her heart. It's all you can do not to reach out and grab her, hold her, but you're so fucking selfish and you know doing this for any longer will break you (though now you're not so sure this option is any better). "P-please, San, don't…"
You stand there awkwardly for a good thirty seconds before her sobs have quieted down and you allow yourself to look up. She's sat down on her suitcase now, her head in her hands, shaking it back and forth.
It's as if she feels your eyes on her, because she looks up at you within a few moments.
"Santana…" she trails off, shrugging helplessly. "I—I don't... Please don't leave me. We can fix this," she insists, reaching forward and grabbing your hand.
You feel how warm it is, the soft skin pressing against yours making your heart beat fast.
You pull away.
"I don't want to," you say quietly, and she starts to cry again. "I want what's best for you, Britt. You're my best friend. You always will be. I want to see you happy, I want to see your dreams come true. You can't do that with me, anymore."
"I c-can't do any of it without you, Santana. Please, I—"
You hold up your hand to stop her and you're surprised when she does. She looks at you and you have a hard time keeping your eyes are her sad blue ones.
"You're really doing this?" she asks, and you nod.
"I have to," you say quietly. She blinks for a second, as if remembering why it is you're doing this in the first place, and the she looks even sadder.
"I'm so s-sorry I hurt you," she says, and your resolve finally breaks enough to pull her into a hug. Her body molds to yours as if it knows that this is the last time she'll get to be held by you.
"It just couldn't work out, Britt," you say. It sounds like it's way too simple, but it's the truth.
She shakes her head in protest against your shoulder, but doesn't try to argue anymore. You can tell by the way she's slumped against you that the fight is gone out of her.
"I'm gonna go," you say, pulling away. She doesn't move, just lets her arms fall against her sides and stares at the same spot on the floor.
You press a kiss to her forehead, something that makes your heart ache even more than you felt possible but you're pretty sure it would have killed you not to do it. She wraps her arms around herself and she looks so small, standing there.
"I love you," she says just as you reach the door, and you almost don't hear it. This time, you don't respond.