Let Your Heart Be Light
A/N: Written for the Brittana U Christmas Project on Tumblr. A companion piece, from Santana's point-of-view, has been posted by terriblemuriel. The merriest of Christmases to all!
My mom pulls the Pierce family van up to the tree lot, tires crunching in the dirty, gravely snow. I look at you and grin - we've done this for years, but there's something that makes every year special. The first time you came with us was the year my little sister got lost. She was tiny and you said she was kind of a brat, but when she got lost, I think you were more scared than my parents. Everyone was panicking and no one could focus on finding a tree. You were the one that found her and carried her back to us with candy-cane juice sticky all over her face. You looked so proud and she grinned like a cat as she pointed to a crooked little Charlie Brown tree and insisted it was the right one. I knew you'd get to come with us every year after that.
The next year we both had braces but yours had green and red rubber bands on them and I felt plain because mine were just regular white. The year after that was the year I got my ears pierced and we wore matching candy cane earrings - you gave them to me two weeks early because you couldn't wait until Christmas. I felt bad because the present I'd picked out for you was still at the store so I didn't have something to give you back right away. I had to beg my mom to take me to the mall the next day to get you that jeweled picture frame you still keep on your shelf.
This year is special because of you. You've always been here, at least as long as it counts. But this year the full-to-bursting feeling in my chest shimmers like the tinsel we'll drape on the tree later. This year you're not scared like you used to be. You have never been more beautiful to me.
This year when my mom told me we were going to pick out our tree, she told me to call my girlfriend and let her know we'd pick her up at five for dinner before we drove to Big Bob's Magical Christmas Tree Wonderland. And she didn't mean girlfriend like a friend who is a girl - I will never understand why people don't come up with a different word for that because it's not the same at all - she meant the girl I love. The kind of love that makes me feel like I have sunshine trapped in my hair and crickets in my chest. The kind of love that itches in my belly just as I'm waking up because I can't wait to talk to you and hear about all the nothing that happened since we said goodnight a few hours ago. The kind of love that had me running my index and middle finger over and around your knee the whole car ride here, even though I can't quite map your skin through your jeans, just because your knee is part of you and I want to know it as well as I can.
We jerk forward as the car is thrown into park, smiling just a little wider as we crane our necks to survey the lot. There are still lots of trees, and a handful of children are just exiting the front part where they have a little canopy set up, their parents following behind with a tree in tow. Under the canopy is Big Bob in his Santa outfit and a little shop with wreaths and ornaments and bows and snacks. My mouth waters when I spot the gleaming silver coffee dispenser I know is full of apple cider; I look forward to the apple cider all year. One year in October you gave me a package of cider mix you stole from the cafeteria because you knew it would make me happy, and even though it was delicious, it just didn't taste the same without the Christmas trees around us. I can practically taste the cinnamon and sugar crystal slush that always rests on the bottom of the cup; that's my favorite part.
You pull my hat a little snugger down over my ears as we climb out of the car. I smile because it's like you're hugging me, but the hug sticks around my ears instead of my chest. You look at me with that half-happy, half-lost look like something is stuck in your chest. I ask you why you don't have a hat just to help you loosen your words, and you smile, relieved, and say you have more hair than me and it's practically like a hat. But I see your ears are already red with cold and make a note to bring you an extra hat next year. You look really cute in hats, but you won't wear them unless they're mine.
As we walk - well, you walk, I skip-walk-hop - toward the canopy entrance, I grab your elbow and press it against my side. There's too much pillowy coat between us, but it still makes me warm to feel you against my side. I'm a little surprised but mostly giddy when you slide your hand into mine. I wish the gloves weren't there, but then that would be too much Santana I couldn't keep warm no matter how close I held you.
My sister trots a few paces behind us and as the sweet, stinging smell of the trees hits me, I remember we have an important mission. "We've got to find the tree this year, Santana," I say so she can't hear us. "We can't let my sister win again."
My mom and dad will spend half the time looking up at the wreaths, debating which one to get for the front door, and the other half of the time with my little sister making sure she doesn't wander off.
My mom chases my sister as she darts past us through the canopy and into the rows of trees as my dad looks up at the plywood wall hung with wreaths. I think it's silly to look for a wreath first when clearly the tree is more important. No one lies on the couch, sleepy and full of pie, staring at a wreath on the front door. People stare at the tree until their eyes are blurry and they're certain they've never felt so peaceful in their life. We have to find the tree that will give everyone that feeling.
We walk down the first row of trees: white pines. The needles on these trees are bursts of spiky emerald, and the branches jut out every which way, like real-life fireworks - not the TV kind that are always perfect and round and bright. The trees are energetic and wild, like when you and I are frantic for each other and we can hardly remember to shut the door before we're tearing each others' clothes off. I point to a tree and raise my eyebrows as if to ask. You study it, squinting a bit, and when you wrinkle your nose just a bit, I know it's not quite right.
The speakers playing Christmas music on the lot are old and crackly, and we can't really hear the music, but every once in a while I catch a familiar phrase and my brain fills in the rest. Right now I can hear Winter Wonderland and I hum the parts the speakers fuzz out as we walk down the first row of trees. I start to sing and you join in right away: In the meadow we can build a snowman, and pretend that he is parson Brown...
You stop singing and hum, pretending you've forgotten the words, though I know you haven't. I sing loud enough for both of us: He'll say are you married? We'll say no, man! But you can do the job while you're in town...
I break away and twirl, already dancing at the snowman-officiated wedding reception as the trees, our guests, look on, standing tall and proud and wishing they weren't nailed to frames so they could dance with us. A breeze blows down the aisle and the trees shiver, applauding as I curtsy. You giggle and I take your hand again and start up the next row of trees as the lyrics buzz through: Later on we'll conspire as we dream by the fire... And I think about curling up with you in my bed, feeling warm like my whole body has been soaked in your skin and that apple cider we'll have once we find the perfect tree.
The next row of trees are spruces. They're sturdy and they'll hold the ornaments steady, but the branches jut upwards a bit too starkly, revealing the pale underbellies of the needles. They look nervous and alert, like you did last year when you weren't ready to hold my hand and stiffened whenever I hinted at loving you. These trees aren't right. I pull you into the next row.
The Scotch pines are perfectly tapered, conical and graceful like the trees you see illustrated in books and cartoons. I smile and point to a tall one and you raise your eyebrows and smile as you look. But as we walk closer I see it looks too manicured, like someone took tiny scissors to every branch to shape it into unnatural perfection. You reach out to touch the needles and one pokes through your glove. You pull back and shake your head. Too pokey.
We slow our pace as Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas plays over the speakers. It's the kind of song that makes everyone slow down, but especially people who are in love. I smile and sing quietly, Make the yuletide gay and nudge you with my shoulder. You do that giggle eye-roll that you do when you're pretending you think I'm ridiculous. And I know you're just pretending because you curl your arm around me, pulling me flush against you with that sexy sparkle in your eye I'm always so excited to see. Could it really mean what I think it means? We're in public, after all.
Your eyes fix on my lips and I know you're actually going to go for it. My stomach feels like a million twinkling lights have suddenly been plugged in as I look at your lips. Just the sight of them - the tiny, sexy creases along the plumpest sections, the way they part as you inhale - makes my breath catch and my heart flutter. I flush warm as you pull me even closer and lift up on your toes to kiss me. You pull me closer to you and I pretend the coats aren't there, slipping and whispering between us as I press against you just like I would if you were naked.
It's only been a few seconds, but I simply can't wait. I slide my tongue between your lips and feel the twinkling lights in my belly ignite. It's the first kiss all over again, the takeover as my heart skips with disbelief and I start to ache in the basin of my hips. It doesn't help that you press your leg up into me; it's a trigger that makes me want to consume you. And I do, starting with your lower lip and your jaw and your neck, nestling my mouth under your scarf. My lips are drawn to your spot like a magnet - the spot that forces your eyes closed and your head back as you let out a breathy moan that tells me we are both lost.
I try, but it's hard to forget the coats are there. I can sense you buzzing but I need to feel it. My hand squirrels under your layers to your stomach, brushing, collecting the energy that shimmers off your skin and runs up my arm. I want to slide my hand up further and I'm about to when I hear my sister shriek, "You found it! The perfect tree!"
I startle and pull away from you, a little sheepish, but mostly love-drunk-silly, biting my lips over a smile. I glance at my little sister and see her eyes are wide and sparkly, taking in the tree just behind us. Her mouth is open just a bit, steam coming out in little puffs as her chest rises and falls, panting from running up and down the rows of trees. I can tell she didn't see us, but I glance at you to see if you're spooked. You're not; you look just as happy as you were when my mouth was on yours. I feel even closer to you and I am so proud of you.
My sister hollers at my parents that we've found the perfect tree and that we need to get Santa-Bob over to net it and haul it to the car. My parents appear, holding hands just like us as they grin at the sight of the tree.
The tree my sister thinks we chose is a Noble Fir, and it really is perfect. The branches are rounded and pillowy, bowing out as if to offer themselves to the service of ornaments. The needles are short and soft and will leave traces of scented oil on our wrists as we thread the lights through the branches, but never scratch or poke us. The color is a festive sage; it looks like an emerald tree was dusted with white, its green softened and timeless.
"It's perfect, girls," my dad says, bobbing his head decisively. My mom smiles and wriggles her hand in my dad's, gesturing for him to get out his wallet and call Santa-Bob over.
As he does I look back to you, seeing you are still humming with kisses.
"It's perfect!" my mom declares, putting her hands on her hips. "How did you find it?"
I shrug and tilt my head towards you. My mom smiles and shakes her head as she takes my sister's hand, turning to follow my dad.
I turn to you, going back for just a second to the place we were before we were interrupted. "I don't have to look for the perfect thing," I whisper in your ear. "It finds me when I'm not looking."
You curl around me like a garland, the your arms wrapping around my waist once more as I hear you whimper. I know you understood.
As Santa-Bob nets the tree and carries it with my dad over to the car, you shepherd us toward the snacks. You slide a dollar bill over the counter to Mrs. Santa-Bob. It's silly for you to pay because my parents always buy apple cider for both of us, but I don't mind. I know better than to protest. You hand me my paper cup and I hold it close to my chest. I can feel the heat through my gloves, relieving the hard numbness in my fingertips and making my stomach tighten in excitement. As I blow on the hot drink, the steam whispers warm against my chin and nose and cheeks for just a second before the cold air whisks it away. It feels almost as good as your kisses. But I can feel your kisses on my cheeks hours after you've left, and the cider steam only lasts for a second.
Santa-Bob finishes tying our tree to the roof of the van and trudges back to his chair. My sister is impatiently waiting for him, her list of demands for Santa-Bob memorized but written out anyway. We watch and sip our drinks as my sister goes into an elaborate story about a puppy and a bright red wagon saving the day. I hear you chuckle as I lean my head on your shoulder.
Nudging me with your hand, you hold your cider cup out to me. I'm surprised; you always finish yours. But when I wrap my hand around the paper cup, it's light, and I see there's only one more sip left: the cinnamon and sugar crystals at the bottom. I grin and drink it, tapping the bottom of the cup so I get all the sweet, spiced slush I can. Licking the crystals from the corners of my mouth, I look at my family and Santa-Bob, and, seeing they are all preoccupied, run my tongue over my lips again before jolting forward to give you a smacking, cidery kiss.
Someday when it's just you and me we can kiss as long as we want between the trees. It won't matter if we don't find the perfect tree; we can come back the next day and do it over and over again. And the year after that. And the year after that. And the year after that, until our hair shines silver and white.