"I love you."
Brittany speaks of such a thing so freely. It tumbles from her lips without thought, without so much as a care. It's as if she feels the very thing. Like she knows this for a fact; like it's something entirely real.
Santana, however feels the ground below her feet shift. And her body is the only thing staying glued in place. Even her mind whirls about with no signs of stopping. She's not sure she can grasp this concept. Or even so much the idea of it. She's not sure if she's ever felt it before. (Or if she's feeling it now.) Perhaps, she had. She imagines that maybe at one point love of some sort existed. Maybe, in the form of her father on the nights when he actually noticed she was around. Or, her mother when she bothered to smile.
Instead of forming the words Brittany wants to hear, she nods and let's her lips twist into a mutated sort of grin. "Yeah, I know."
She knows Brittany feels something. Whether that was love or not was debateable. Despite the way she panics at such a thing, Santana isn't dumb enough to ignore the way things felt. The weight in her stomach is a constant. Her insides knotted themselves up daily, but only when the blond was around. She hates it.
So, she ignores the concept all together hiding behind a bottle of smirnoff vodka they both swindled from the Lopez household. It's all too much, and happening all too fast. The idea of going with the flow fit Santana. But thinking? That didn't. Nor did putting labels to things she wasn't sure of.
Santana Lopez wasn't ready for this, not now.
Leaning forward, her body tilting towards Brittany, Santana kisses the slope of the other girl's neck. Her lips grace every open space possible. Brittany wouldn't fight back, because she never does. This, whatever it was, kind of worked for them. Fucking around, drinking, smoking a little. (Not a single thought. Not a single label.) Her fingers trace contours of a body she knows far too well. They build a mental image of every dip and curve into Santana's mind.
"Oh." She hears Brittany's lips form to the word.
The only way Santana can manage to put up with this, to continue what she's doing, is to reach out, and link pinkies.
"You and me, that's how it is." Santana manages a smile. "That's how it'll always be. Don't put words to it."