Puck is the one who taught her how to break into her parents liquor cabinet.
This was back when she used to look at him differently, though. Back when she thought he had the answers to that burning question she felt deep inside of her. Back when she was full of unanswered questions that scared the shit out of her.
They practiced at his house a few times. He would show her how to jiggle her hand just the right way to get the cabinet door to pop open without leaving behind any marks.
Nice he had hissed through his lips in appreciation.
Santana likes being good at things. She's good at breaking into her parents liquor cabinet. As she grabs two of her fathers favorite bottles of vodka and two double shot glasses, she thinks maybe she's too old to be doing this. At seventeen (nearly eighteen now) she's had plenty of alcoholic encounters and wonders if it's time to be a bit more tame in her drinking.
She shakes her head because at least she isn't drinking alone anymore.
/
She's in the kitchen when she hears the front door open and Brittany voice ring through the house. "Hi Santana's house!"
Santana exhales a soft laugh and listens to the sound of Brittany's bag hitting the hardwood floor by the front door. She can hear soft feet padding through the hall and turns when the door to the kitchen swings open.
Brittany is there. She's smiling and her cheeks are tinged pink from the cold. She looks like she's dressed for comfort with her red shorts and green tie dye top. Her shoes are already off. She moves her feet from side to side and they slide easily on the tiled floor of the kitchen. "Hey pretty lady," she says, moving into the kitchen and throwing her arms around Santana.
It's a sweet hug. The kind of hug where Brittany relaxes completely into Santana and holds her tight. Santana melts at the touch, every time. How can she not when Brittany is letting her this close and then pulling her closer?
Brittany ends the hug with a loud popping kiss to Santana's cheek. "What're we doing?" She asks as she lifts herself easily up to sit on an open spot on the counter.
"Well," Santana says, picking up the timer resting by the stove. "In about six minutes we're gonna have to put icing on a cake."
"A cake?" Brittany says, tilting her head to the side and resting it on her shoulder. "Why're we bakin' a cake?"
"To celebrate. And I fucking love funfetti," Santana says.
"Me too, but what're we celebrating?"
Santana is quiet for a moment as she pulls her mothers flat spreading knife off of the rack on the wall. "My parents are out of town."
"Oh?" Brittany asks, sitting up straight.
"All weekend," Santana replies. The nervous excitement from the statement makes her cheeks ache, that same feeling she gets when she eats something with too much flavor.
"All weekend," repeats Brittany sliding off the counter and moving slowly towards Santana.
"All weekend," Santana repeats in a voice that is just barely a whisper.
It doesn't matter, though. Brittany hears her. She's right there in front of her, pulling her close and planting a very soft kiss on Santana's lips.
/
Santana runs the knife along the rounded side of the cake with care. She doesn't bake often because...well, it's baking. When she does though, the need for perfection overtakes her. Brittany ices the top of the cake quickly and uses the knife as a spoon to eat the leftover in the bottom of the can.
"Funfetti icing is the best," Brittany says more to herself than anyone.
"Okay, I'm done," Santana says, stepping back to get a better look at the cake.
"Perfect," Brittany says. "Now sprinkles."
Santana lets Brittany add the sprinkles. She watches as Brittany takes more care than she did with the icing to make sure they are spread out evenly. She steps back from the cake to stand beside Santana. "Now it's perfect," she says, placing an arm around Santana's hip.
Santana nods.
"Now let's eat it," Brittany says.
Santana exhales another soft laugh.
/
Their dirty plates are in the sink. The cake is covered up and sitting on the counter.
"I'm so full of awesome," Brittany says, flopping down on the couch.
"I hope not too full," Santana says.
"I'm never too full, San," Brittany says in a you-should-know-that-by-now voice.
"Hang on," Santana says and disappears into the kitchen. She pulls the bottle of vodka from the freezer and orange juice from the fridge. She grabs two glasses from the cabinet.
She had Googled how to make the perfect screwdrivers. Six fluid ounces of premium pulp free orange juice to one and a half fluid ounces of vodka. She did her best to measure it out perfectly for Brittany's drink. She added ice and stirred.
Her own drink she handled differently. She poured it halfway full of orange juice and added three ice cubes. She filled the rest of the space with vodka and stirred it quickly. She slipped the two shot glasses into her pocket. She tucked the bottle under her arm and carried the two drinks back to the living room.
/
"Orange juice," Brittany asks, staring at the glass in her hand. "But I already had milk..."
"Screwdriver," Santana says, smiling encouragingly at her. "Vodka."
"Oh," Brittany says, staring at the cup with new interest. She takes a sip. "This tastes like really good orange juice."
"It is really good orange juice," Santana says, setting the bottle and two shot glasses on the table.
"Shots and screwdrivers?" Brittany asks, grinning at Santana. "You're not trying to get me drunk so you can sleep with me, are you?"
Santana shrugs her shoulders and takes two big gulps of her own drink. "Maybe."
/
"Okay, okay, okay," Brittany says quickly. "You have to take a shot whenever Bliss lies about where she's going. Whenever someone gets hurt, whenever someone is on skates. Um..." She trails off, staring at the title screen of the DVD.
"Whenever she's at a pageant," Santana says.
"Yes and whenever that douche Oliver is on screen," Brittany says, making a face.
"So, you're trying to get us killed?" Santana stares at Brittany, finger hovering over the play button on the remote.
"Maybe," Brittany shrugs. "Now play!"
/
They stopped drinking forty-five minutes in. After a screw driver and a good amount of shots Brittany is leaning back on the couch, happily buzzed.
After two of her special screwdrivers and too many shots to count Santana is teetering on drunk.
Brittany holds up the vodka bottle. "San," she says and her words slur slightly. "They forgot a g on the name of this bottle.
Santana pauses the movie, she's relieved it's stopped. Everyone is moving too fast, especially since everyone is on skates for some reason. She already knows how it ends, anyway.
"They forgot to make it chopping. They forgot a g," Brittany says handing the bottle to Santana.
Santana stares at the name printed on the bottle. The script is curly and hard to focus on. "That's the guys name, Brittany."
"What guy?" Brittany asks, standing up and stretching.
"Chopin, that's his name. He was a composer," Santana says, setting the bottle down too hard on the coffee table. "Whoops," she whispers.
"Show pan?" Brittany says picking up the bottle and staring at the name. "That doesn't spell like it sounds."
"What?" Santana asks, giggling at Brittany.
"Oh, it doesn't sound like it spells," Brittany amends. "It's the same either way."
"No, it's Chopin not choppin'," Santana says.
"I don't think we're talkin' about the same things anymore, San," Brittany says giggling. "I'm almost drunk."
Santana shakes her head and closes her eyes. She keeps them closed for a while before opening them. "Do you wanna take your clothes off?"
Brittany laughs at the question. "Not yet," she says, winking at Santana.
Santana already feels so warm from the alcohol. Brittany winking at her makes her feel like she's going to catch on fire. "Then you're not drunk yet."
/
"Let's just do something," Brittany says, pulling Santana to her feet.
"Like drink more?" Santana asks, staring at the nearly empty bottle of vodka.
"No, like do something. We've got that good almost drunk feeling, don't wanna waste it," Brittany says, squeezing Santana's hand.
"Okay," Santana says, sighing heavily. "Whaddya wanna do?"
Brittany is silent for a moment before she looks up at Santana like she's just found the cure to cancer. "Build a fort."
"What?" Santana asks cocking her head to the side. She feels her body leaning and grabs Brittany for support. They both stumble and Brittany giggles into her hair.
"You're more drunk than I am," Brittany mumbles.
"Well, maybe," Santana says, straightening herself up, hand on Brittany's shoulder. She moves her hand slowly to Brittany's neck and strokes her jawline with her thumb. She watches her hand for a moment before looking up to Brittany's pretty blue eyes.
"We can build it here," Brittany says.
"Build what?" Santana asks. She feels confused.
"The fort."
"Okay," Santana says, nodding her head and retreating her hand. She tries to make her tone serious. "We need sheets."
"And blankets."
"And more to drink."
"San," Brittany whines.
"More to drink, later. Britt Britt, later."
/
Brittany runs to the linen closet to get sheets while Santana stares at the living room. She purses her lips and tries to think of the easiest way to build a fort.
Brittany skids to a halt beside Santana and dumps a pile of blankets, top sheets and pillows onto the floor. "I grabbed everything," she says and smiles at Santana.
"Good, I think I figured this out," Santana says. "But you're gonna havta help because I don't think I'm that stable."
"I got you," Brittany says, moving closer and bracing Santana by holding onto her hips.
"I'm fine now, jut can't move stuff," Santana says.
"Maybe I just wanna touch you," Brittany says.
"Oh," Santana says quietly.
They stand in the living room. Santana rests her hands on Brittany's. the alcohol mixes with the feel of her skin.
/
The couches are lighter than they look. They're able to lift the couch and turn it around so that the seats are facing the wall. Brittany turns the loveseat around like the couch. She moves it forward so that it sits adjacent to the couch.
"We have half a square-ish base," Brittany says, looking at their handiwork.
Santana is sitting on the arm of the couch. "Looks good," she says, nodding slowly. She can feel herself starting to sober up. "Now for the other loveseat."
"Awesome," Brittany says, excitement barely contained. She's bouncing up and down slightly on the balls of her feet.
"I have to use the bathroom," Santana says, standing up and wobbling. She grabs the couch for balance.
"You okay?" Brittany laughs, moving to hold Santana up straight.
"I got it," Santana says, straightening up and smiling at Brittany. "I'll be right back."
"Okay, I'll do this," Brittany says, returning her attention to the second loveseat.
/
Santana stares at herself in the mirror for a really long time before heading back to the living room.
/
She stops in the kitchen on her way back from the restroom. She looks at the empty bottle of vodka. The other bottle still has a lot in it. She unscrews the second bottle and pours herself a double shot. She downs one, two, three, four.
She can't even taste it anymore. It slides down her throat like it's water. She forgoes the shots and takes a ridiculously large gulp directly from the bottle.
/
"Okay, since it's hardwood in here I put that rug from your room down first, then your blankets, that big comforter from the closet and the other blankets from the trunk thing," Brittany says crawling into the fort. "I also filled it with pillows and found a flashlight."
Santana stands, swaying slightly. She stares at the fort and listens to Brittany's voice, eyes closed.
"Coming in?" Brittany asks, peeking out through the sheet that marks the fort's doorway.
Santana nods. She's on her knees before she realizes it, like the floor just sprang up to meet her. She exhales heavily. She's really drunk now. She can feel it working through her, making her limbs feel like they aren't there. Making her heart heavy.
She crawls in and settles onto the blankets next to Brittany. The fort is dark. Santana can feel Brittany searching the blankets for the flashlight. "Aha," she says triumphantly.
Santana blinks a few times when light floods the small space. Her legs are tucked up slightly; there isn't enough room to extend her body. "This is nice," she whispers. She can feel the heat of Brittany's body close to hers.
"I know, it turned out so good," Brittany says, shifting in the blankets. "And it's soft, I was afraid it wouldn't be soft. Here," she throws a blanket over Santana and tucks her in. "So you can stay warm."
Santana nods. She doesn't want to talk. She's afraid of what she'll say. All she can think about is the heavy feeling in her chest, how she suddenly feels completely inadequate.
When Brittany settles the fort becomes silent. Santana concentrates on breathing.
"Hi," Brittany whispers and Santana can feel her moving closer.
"Hey," Santana whispers back, voice too quiet.
Santana keeps her eyes closed. She hears Brittany moving, feels warms hands sneaking under her blanket. Brittany pulls Santana's hands away from her chest; where she had tucked them in. She holds onto them, stroking the backs with her thumbs.
They stay in a comfortable silence for a long time.
Santana sniffs once and knows she's given away too much to Brittany.
"San," Brittany's voice says, soft in the dark behind Santana's closed eyes.
"Mmhmm," Santana mumbles.
"What's wrong?" Soft fingers slip a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"Nothing, Britt," Santana says, shaking her head and burrowing her face into her pillow.
She feels Brittany scoot closer. She feels Brittany's warmth wrap around her and hold her firm. "You're drunk now," Brittany says, voice flat.
Santana means to laugh but it breaks in the back of her throat. She wraps her arms around Brittany. She feels like she's tangled in Brittany, the blankets, the darkness behind her eyes.
"Why are you crying?" Brittany's voice is soothing, curious.
Santana shakes her head where it's tucked in Brittany's neck. "I don't understand."
"What?"
Santana sobs once, hard. It catches in her throat and she feels like it's going to suffocate her. She pulls away from Brittany for more room to breath. She pushes herself up on her hands. She feels the need to sit up. She leans against the couch wall of the fort. Brittany is sitting, legs crossed, across from her. The flashlight casts eery shadows on everything. It's dark outside, no lights are on in the living room.
"I don't," Santana stops and wipes at her eyes. She sniffs a few times. "Dave...I just..." She stops and cries in earnest. Her shoulders shake with the effort of it.
Brittany makes a small noise before crawling to sit beside Santana. "Oh San, he's okay."
"It's not just that. I just," Santana trails off. She turns to Brittany and lays her head on her shoulder, holding onto any part of her she can get it. "I don't understand why anymore. Why I'm here or you're here or why anyone is anywhere." She sobs harder after she says it.
"Like what's the fucking point?" She doesn't understand how her words turned so vicious so quickly. "Like why Lima when we could have been born anywhere and what's the point of any of this? Like Dave could have just been gone like that." She stops and gasps unevenly at her own words. She isn't sure if she's just struggling for breath or if she's just shocked that her words feel like she's dredged them up from somewhere deep inside. "I just feel like there's no rhyme or reason to anything anymore. What's the fucking point?"
She expects her words to be harsh and loud. They aren't, though. They fizzle out. Santana feels hollow as Brittany cradles her close.
"I'm really fucking drunk," Santana says.
Brittany chuckles at the admission. "How about fresh air?"
/
It's cold outside. Santana shivers so hard her teeth chatter. Brittany holds up her arm, offering Santana a spot under her blanket. Santana ducks into it and stands with Brittany, watching the stars.
They're bright.
"I wonder how many of these are dead now," Santana says.
She feels Brittany shift beside her. "Big dipper," she says, pointing her hand at the constellation. "Or little dipper, I dunno."
They stand in silence and Santana feels some of the fog in her head clearing.
/
She isn't sure how they ended up on the floor of her father's study.
They're lying on the rug in front of his desk, staring at the ceiling.
"This is one of his nocturnes," Santana says. It took her forever to put the record on. She made herself move extra slow because she was still kinda drunk and didn't want to mess up her dads favorite things. She had managed to get it working, with Brittany's help.
"It's beautiful," Brittany says, finding Santana's hand and clasping it. "What's a nocturne?"
Santana shifts on the rug, trying to make herself more comfortable. "A piece of music...for a piano? I'm not sure, Britt."
"Does your dad have a dictionary?"
Santana points towards one of his shelves. Santana's eyes are closed. She feels like she can soak the music into her skin if she listens hard enough. If she can just try to find what he was saying.
Brittany's back sooner than expected, sitting beside Santana and reading. "Nocturne: a dreamy or pensive musical composition."
The piano plays on in the background, filling the silence for them. Sometimes Santana sneaks into her dads study to listen to the old records. She finds something calming in the scratchy quality of the music on her most thoughtful days.
"Pensive," Brittany repeats. "Like Harry Potter?"
"Sorta. It means thinking or something," Santana says, pushing herself up.
"Dreamy and thoughtful," Brittany says slowly. "Sounds like me and you." There isn't a trace of sarcasm in her voice.
Santana smiles and lowers her eyes to stare at the carpet.
"I'm sorry for drinking so much," Santana whispers softly.
"I'm sorry I don't have answers for you," Brittany says, just as quiet.
Santana shakes her head.
Brittany's hand finds it's way on Santana's thigh, stroking the skin there softly. Santana looks up, but Brittany's eyes are focused on her fingers. "Let's go back to the fort," she whispers.
Santana nods.
/
Santana stumbles some, Brittany catches her every time. Strong hands on her shoulders, her hips. Santana's hands find some of Brittany, too. They get stuck in the hallway. Brittany's hands stabilize Santana on her shoulders, move their way up her neck, one rests on her cheek and their lips meet.
It's sloppy and slow.
Brittany giggles and Santana sighs. Santana adjusts, tilting her head slightly. She sucks gently on Brittany's bottom lip.
Brittany reacts immediately. She pushes Santana against the wall gently, breaking the kiss. Santana sighs as she feels Brittany's lips lock on hers again, move with hers, slip against her. She whimpers when Brittany's tongue slips into her mouth, sliding against her own. She slumps slightly, her wobbly legs giving at the contact. Brittany's there to catch her. She wedges a leg between Santana's as her hands hold her hips. Santana whimpers again at the contact.
She breaks their kisses and inhales deep. "Britt," she pants.
"I know," Brittany replies.
They stumble through the hall and find their way back into the living room.
Santana feels like she's on fire. Every place Brittany's fingers touch seems to be vibrating with energy. Her legs feel like jelly and the place between them aches with heat.
They fall into the fort and manage not to damage it. They find each other inside and their lips, chests, stomach, hips, everything presses together. Santana sighs in relief at the contact.
This makes things better. The connection, the love, the intimacy and trust of it all. When she's with Brittany now it's beyond physical. It's deep and real and Santana's drunk off of it more than the vodka. When Brittany's hand moves low and sinks into her she gasps and feels more real than ever before.
/
They're naked and sated and sweaty. Santana feels like it's perfect, the way they fall asleep after making love. The way they wrap up in each other, the way they can make the other feel.
/
Santana feels herself waking up and tries to fight it. She wants to sleep, sleep is good.
A noise breaks into her sleepy haze, shattering it. A sob. It's small and choked.
Santana blinks hard, trying to force the sleep away. She sits up quickly and feels the room spin slightly; she's still drunk.
Brittany has moved away from her in sleep. She's lying on her side, legs and arms tucked up to her chest. Her body is shivering and she's making noises that sound like scared whimpers. Santana moves quickly. She scoots her body closer to Brittany. She shakes her slightly, peppering her face with light kisses.
"Please wake up, Britt," Santana says softly, kissing the shell of Brittany's ear. "It's just a nightmare."
Brittany gasps and her eyes snap open. She stays still, tucked into that same position, eyes moving wild, taking in her surroundings. "Britt?" Santana asks.
Brittany exhales and her shoulders shake with a small sob. She sits up slowly and wipes her eyes. She pulls Santana in for an awkward hug and Santana lets her squeeze as tight as she wants. "Britt?" She asks, voice strained.
"I had a nightmare," Brittany says. She isn't crying or shaking anymore.
"Yeah?" Santana says in the sweetest voice she can find. She pulls Brittany close to her, the way Brittany had done for her earlier.
"What time is it?" Brittany asks, curling into Santana's embrace. The warmth of holding Brittany is always a comfort, especially when Brittany needs it. Santana loves feeling needed.
"I don't know," she replies, stroking Brittany's hair.
They sit in silence for a very long time.
/
"I really don't want to eat anything," Brittany says, sitting on the stool opposite where Santana stands in the kitchen. They're both dressed again.
"You want to have a hangover?" Santana asks moving around the kitchen. She clumsily pulls two potatoes out of the bottom drawer of the fridge.
"You," Brittany says, accusing. She leans her head against the counter.
"You, too," Santana replies. "We both drank a lot."
Brittany groans in response and Santana pushes a few buttons on the microwave. She leans against the counter and watches Brittany. "Wanna tell me about your nightmare?" She asks the question in a whisper.
Brittany doesn't lift her head off the counter but manages to shake it back and forth.
"Okay," Santana says.
Silence.
"Why potatoes?"
"Heavy carbs before I sleep keeps me from having too bad a hangover," Santana shrugs. "I also like potatoes."
/
"Caesar dressing, Colby cheese blend, salt, pepper," Santana says, handing Brittany her chopped up potato. "That's what's on it."
"I'm gonna throw this up in the morning," Brittany mumbles taking a fork from Santana.
"I'll hold your hair," Santana assures.
They eat in silence for a while, sitting at the counter in the kitchen.
"You weren't there," Brittany says after a long time.
"What?" Santana asks, swallowing a bite.
"You weren't there. You weren't ever going to be there again," Brittany says, stabbing gently at a piece of potato.
Santana watches her push the food around the plate.
"My nightmare," Brittany supplies.
Santana scoots her stool closer to Brittany's. "I'm right here always," she says.
They eat the rest of their food in silence. They link their hands together under the counter and smile into each forkful of food.
/
Santana is full of good food. Brittany has her arms wrapped around her, holding her close. She's sleeping in the coolest fort she's ever seen or built. She's on the verge of sleep, in that wonderful feeling of in between sleep and wakefulness. It's one of her favorite feelings.
"Santana," Brittany whispers, pulling her away from sleep, but only slightly.
"Mmm," Santana mumbles.
"I have answers, now."
"Yeah?" Santana whispers. The word pulls her farther away from the drowsiness and she frowns.
"The point to it all. The reason we're here. The meaning of life," Brittany says. Her voice is earnest, real, confident.
Santana opens her eyes and turns her body around so she can face Brittany. She can barely make out Brittany's features in the dark –or maybe she just knows them so well she think she sees them. "The meaning of life?"
"What you said earlier about the point of it all," Brittany says quietly. Her breath tickles at Santana's nose. "My life. Our life."
Santana finds Brittany's hands and laces their fingers together. "Tell me."
"Me and you. It's always been me and you. That's why I'm here. I know that's why I'm here."