That slap felt like a stun gun. The whole class gasped as Santana realized what she'd done. They had no idea what Finn had done to her. But in the back, Brittany reeled from its impact, though it had not impacted her at all.
Electricity charged up and down her spine, landing, a lump, in her stomach. Santana had been lashing out plenty lately, plenty unprovoked, but Brittany knew something outside Finn's usual shitstorm must have gone down. Santana never slapped boys. The Administration would notice. It didn't take a genius to deduce why the Snix hit the Finn.
Brittany's knees buckled, and she suddenly thumped onto the stage. Unable to stand, unable to breathe freely, she froze and boiled and seethed. Feeling revealed, impaled on an invisible icicle, she revisited all the other aches. Secrets, lies, lies she'd kept secret, lies she'd gone along with, all the lies they'd told themselves and each other.
"The plumbing's different."
"It's just for practice."
"I love Artie, too."
Going back to the first time, the very first time their eyes had met, the very first time their hands had met, the first time their lips had met, Brittany realized that the icicle had been there from the first hesitation, making her keep quiet, making her blurt secrets when she couldn't contain them any more. The icicle made it real. The icicle exposed Artie's truth. The icicle was a pain in the– chest.
Santana must have her own icicle, so much better controlled, wrapped up tight, always watchful, always careful. Always wanting. Always doubting.
But if everyone knew about Santana, didn't they know about Brittany, too?
Of course they did. They always did. And didn't. They always thought she was performing, or doing whatever Santana wanted because she was a pushover, or just too stupid to not kiss girls at a football game afterparty. So they didn't believe that it was genuine.
Santana needed Britt. But Santana needed her to be there and not be there. Since her teary confession, everything felt like breakfast for dinner. Yes no yes no yes no yes.
It was always yes for Britt, though.
Ever since that first moment when she noticed the blush of kissing Santana went all the way down her chest to her thighs, dappling her skin with voluptuous pink flowers, it was yes and yes and yes.
Kissing the boys had been fun. Kissing the girls had been fun.
But kissing Santana? Was just… Santana.
And now everything was Santana. Brittany felt herself melting away like fog at midday. She was nothing, nowhere. Santana was being whisked away to the office, and nobody remembered the other person affected by Finn's outing.
They shut the lights out while she was still onstage. Not even a ghost light. She stayed still in the dark, remembering.
"Mom! Mom! I have a best friend! Her name is Santana and she's beautiful and really smart and she has a giant generous heart and she thinks I'm a genius! And she's an amazing cheerleader and she yelled at some boys who were making fun of me!"
"Honey, that's wonderful! Look, you're blushing. Is it a crush?"
"A crush?"
"Like when you like someone, but more, like when you're with them you get all warm and fluttery inside."
"Oh no, Mom. I love her. She's the best best friend ever."
"It's okay to have crushes on girls, Brittany, it's nice. I mean, have you seen girls? I've had crushes on girls, too."
"Mooooom! Ugh."
"Pierce? Pierce! Brittany is crushing on a girl! Our girl is growing up!"
"Mooooooom!"
Santana's icicle got in the way, though, and made everything so confusing. Sometimes– sometimes, Brittany wondered if enough sweet lady kisses and Sweet Valley High episodes would ever melt it. She certainly tried. Enough rebuffs from Santana set her on the path of making out with everyone in the school. Girl lips were nice. Boy lips were nice. Some were nicer than others. But she wanted– she still wanted Santana's lips, Santana's hands, just Santana.
If she couldn't have what she wanted, well, neither could Santana.
For a while, anyway. Waiting was hell.
"How could you be so stupid?"
Now that was hell. Expelled from the limbo of loving Artie, Brittany landed where she belonged, but Santana–
"I can't."
Even in the face of so much love, even with Santana so obviously trying to wrap herself around loving Brittany, every rejection pulled her under again. Each loss called up every other. Each cut that her love bore cut her more and more deeply.
Brittany took a slow breath. She held it in, then even more slowly hissed it out. She did it again, keeping from sobbing, tears pouring down nonetheless.
It was time, she guessed, to appear and support the girl she loved. By the light of her phone, she made her way out of the auditorium.
Brittany shrank at the brightness outside. She put her fingers in her ears to stop the noise, but the clanging was all inside her head. Again she slowed her breath.
Santana's car was still in the lot. Santana's head rested on the steering wheel.
Santana's girl sprinted across the concrete, then paused. She placed her hand softly on the window, waiting for Santana to lift her head. When she didn't, Brittany tapped the window twice and opened the door.
Santana looked up, tear-streaked and furious. Brittany squatted down beside her. She waited. If there was something she could do well, in the whole wide world, it was wait.
At last, Santana's eyes softened. She floated the pads of her fingers along Brittany's cheek.
"You, too."
Brittany nodded.
"Honey," Brittany said, "it's time to melt all the icicles."
She placed her hand on Santana's heart, and slowly at first, gently pressed in. Santana covered Brittany's hand with her own and gazed into her eyes. Their eyes couldn't help it– they began to soften, then their mouths. Santana softened all the way in toward Brittany, wrapping her arms around her shoulders, bringing their foreheads together, breathing, breathing her in. Brittany pressed her lips on Santana's, letting her eyes be soft, lazy, letting her lips be soft and slow.
And the glow fired up, rising.