It's a Friday in late October and they really ought to be going to a party tonight. They're Cheerios – they're popular. They have to keep up with appearances. They have to seek out alcohol and weed and sex.
But they don't.
They had planned on going to Noel Jackson's party. People had asked if they were going and Brittany had said, "Duh," and Santana had said, "What do you mean, 'Am I going'? Of course I'm going." But suddenly it's 2:55 pm on Friday and they're sitting in Brittany's car in the parking lot and they just don't fucking feel like going out anymore.
"Wanna just have an 'us' night?" Santana asks Brittany.
Brittany pulls the Diet Coke bottle out of Santana's grasp and takes a sip. "That's the best idea you've ever had," she says. "And that includes your idea to pants Emily Zeidig in second grade."
Santana snorts. "Little bitch deserved it. She shouldn't have taken your Lizzie McGuire stickers."
"Maybe we can watch Monte Carlo?" Brittany suggests. "I always wanted to know who that guy was. He sounds like a pretty awesome vampire."
"Monte Carlo's a casino, Britt," Santana says, checking her text messages as she talks. "You're thinking of The Count of Monte Christo."
They decide they'll go to Sonic. Santana grabs her book bag and moves to get out of the car, then pauses. She looks like she wants to kiss Brittany, but she doesn't: there are still lots of people in the parking lot. She smiles, says, "See you there," hops out of Brittany's Jeep, and walks over to her own car. Brittany watches her as she squints against the sun.
Santana leads the drive to Sonic, but Brittany can't resist pulling up next to her at one of the stoplights and blaring some Nicki Minaj out the window. Brittany dances like a crazy person solely for Santana's entertainment. The chorus starts up and Brittany sings it to Santana – her mouth shapes the lyrics of "Super Bass" while her heart beats like one. Santana's eyes dance and she bites on the corner of her lip, trying to contain her smile.
They park at Sonic and Santana clambers back into Brittany's car. Brittany orders a cream slush; Santana orders a chocolate milkshake. They eat for a few minutes while they talk about school. Santana plucks the cherry out of her shake and gives it to Brittany – she has always liked cherries, but she knows Brittany likes them more.
They decide on Santana's house for the night. Her parents have to go to a gala, so they can have the house to themselves. It'll make it easier to hit up the alcohol.
It's only four, but Brittany's tired. She flops on Santana's bed and closes her eyes. She breathes in the familiar scent of Santana's room. It's a scent that hasn't changed since they were kids, despite Santana's adolescent foray into pot and perfume and incense. The smell has seeped into the room just as surely as Santana has seeped into Brittany.
Santana pulls off her white cheerleading sneakers and socks. She watches Brittany on the bed – watches how her chest gently rises and falls. She climbs onto the bed and wraps an arm and leg around Brittany, then closes her eyes to enjoy the feeling.
Brittany turns her body toward Santana. "Hi, snuggle bug," she says.
Santana laughs. "Hi."
"Is somebody feeling affectionate today?"
"Mm," is Santana's response.
Brittany shifts so she can pull Santana's hair free from its elastic. She carefully unties the elastic, then shakes Santana's ponytail loose. Santana's dark hair falls all over Brittany's wrists and arms. Brittany musses it, weaves her fingers through it, and says, "Beautiful."
Santana opens her eyes and smiles. Dark eyes match dark hair and the effect electrifies Brittany. She alternates between studying Santana's eyes and feeling Santana's hair. Sight and touch, she thinks. And the smell of this room.
"What are you thinking about?" Santana asks.
"The five senses," Brittany answers honestly.
Santana laughs. "Why?"
Brittany shrugs. "Because they make being in love so much better."
Santana places a hand on the side of Brittany's face. She strokes Brittany's cheek with her thumb; she uses her other fingers to feel the angle of Brittany's jaw. Brittany's face is so soft and Santana wants to touch it forever.
"I wanted to kiss you in the car earlier," Santana says.
"I know."
"I'm sorry that it's—I'm sorry that I can't—" Santana struggles with her words and looks away from Brittany.
"Hey," Brittany whispers, "it's okay. I know you're working on it."
Santana rolls her eyes at her own cowardice. "Yeah," she mutters.
"At least you're not pretending to date boys anymore," Brittany says. "That's a step in the right direction."
Santana nods. "Yeah…I just…."
"San," Brittany says firmly. Santana makes eye contact with her. "You're doing just fine."
Santana sighs. "I don't want to be doing 'just fine.' I want to be doing great for you." She pauses. "And for me. For both of us."
"You're getting there," Brittany assures her. "Look at how far you've come already. Auditioning for that solo for Nationals, scoring a lead role in the musical…you're totally letting the real you shine through. You're doing awesome."
"And how am I doing with you?" Santana asks. She smoothes a thumb over one of Brittany's eyebrows, lets her gaze linger on blue eyes.
"Great," Brittany answers. "Totally great."
Santana kisses her. It's a delicate kiss: nothing too solidifying, but sweet and tender to fit the moment. Brittany feels the sensation all throughout her body. She pulls Santana in closer. Santana burrows into her, all dark hair and slender limbs and tan skin. Brittany runs her fingers up and down Santana's back for a minute, then threads them through her hair. She settles a hand at the back of Santana's neck and plays with the small wisps of hair there.
After a few minutes, Santana's breathing changes. She's fallen asleep. Brittany tries to match her breathing to Santana's so that she can fall asleep too, but the wild happiness of her heart won't let her relax. She just wants to absorb this moment forever – the feel of Santana against her chest; the sight of Santana's dark hair and eyelashes; the scent of Santana's shampoo and the smell of Santana's childhood bedroom; the taste of Santana on her lips; the sound of Santana's light, even breathing. It's too much and not enough.
Santana wakes up later and feels disoriented. It takes her brain a few moments to figure out that it's Friday and that she accidentally fell asleep. Brittany's not in the room anymore. Santana sits up and rubs the tiredness out of her eyes. She pulls off her Cheerios uniform and pulls on a pair of WMHS sweatpants and an old t-shirt.
She can hear the television playing downstairs. She walks down the wooden steps, careful not to slip in her socks, and sees Brittany sitting on the couch with a bowl of food in her hands.
"Hey," Santana says. Her voice is scratchy with sleep.
"Hey, sleepyhead," Brittany says through a mouthful of food. "'Bout time you got up."
"You should've woken me."
Brittany shrugs. "You were tired. You had a long week."
Santana sits down next to Brittany. Brittany's eating ravioli; Santana steals the fork from her and takes a bite. "Mmm," she says. "Chef Boyardee: the only man I ever loved."
Brittany laughs. "Give me my fork back, thief. Yours is on the stove."
Santana smiles big and kisses Brittany's shoulder. "You are the best. Ever."
Santana pours them some red wine to drink with their ravioli. They eat and drink and watch re-runs of Jersey Shore from the night before. They laugh when Deena falls on her ass and when Snooki says stupid shit; they commentate and criticize and build off of each other's insults.
Brittany grabs a pillow and lays it on Santana's lap, then lays her head down.
"Okay, one condition for this," says Santana.
Brittany looks up at her in confusion. "What?"
"I know what happens when you eat ravioli. You better send those burps out that way" –she points toward the television—"and keep 'em out of my grill."
Brittany rolls her eyes. "Don't be a brat."
"I'm just saying," says Santana.
Brittany bites her knee in mock anger. Santana laughs her carefree laugh and says, "Hold my hand." Brittany holds her hand out and Santana takes it and laces their fingers together.
Brittany burps a few minutes later and immediately starts giggling. Santana swats at Brittany's head and says, "You are so gross."
"I needed that," says Brittany. She burps again. "Yum. It's like dinner all over again."
"Okay you are disgusting," says Santana.
"Mm-mm-mm, love that ravioli taste."
Santana shoves her playfully. "Seriously, you're nasty. God only knows why I like you."
"I think it's because I have very refined manners," Brittany deadpans.
Santana rolls her eyes. "Sit up, burp face. I need more wine."
They drink the entire bottle. They can't stop giggling. Everything about Jersey Shore seems hysterical. When Brittany starts imitating the accents, Santana laughs so hard that she chokes on her wine.
"And to think," says Santana, "we could have been at Noel's party right about now. Drinking Natty Light and flirting with horny douche bags."
"Screw that," Brittany says. "This is so much better."
"For sure. I mean, given the choice between listening to fratty pop music and listening to your Jersey Shore impressions, I'd go your impressions every time."
Brittany grins. She looks up at Santana, whose cheeks are flushed from the wine.
"What?" Santana asks.
"Lay down with me," Brittany says.
Santana smiles softly. She takes the pillow off her lap and tosses it to the ground. Brittany stretches out on her back and Santana lies down on top of her, resting her head on Brittany's chest.
Brittany draws circles on Santana's back. Jersey Shore is still playing on the TV, but Brittany's no longer watching it. She breathes in and out and watches how Santana's body rises and falls with hers.
Santana closes her eyes and listens to Brittany's heartbeat. It's a steady drum in Brittany's chest and in Santana's head.
"San," Brittany whispers.
"Yeah?"
Brittany kisses her forehead. "I'm so happy right now," she says.
Santana's heart swells.
"Me too, Britt," she whispers.
Around midnight, Santana hears the garage door start to hum: her parents are home. She pulls herself off of Brittany, who has dozed off, and scrambles to hide the wine bottle and wine glasses behind the sofa. She sits erectly next to Brittany with the remote control in her hand and tries to look like she's just been flipping through channels.
The backdoor in the kitchen opens and she hears her mother's heels clacking on the tile floor. Her father clears his throat as he follows behind her. Santana looks around as they come in. "Hi," she says quietly.
"Hi, sweetheart," says her mother.
"How was the gala?" Santana asks.
"It was fine," says her father, rubbing his eyes. "Lots of donors."
"How are you?" her mother asks. She walks further into the room and Santana catches the scent of her perfume. "Did you eat dinner?"
"I had some ravioli," Santana answers. "Brittany came over after school, so we've been hanging out, but she fell asleep."
Her mother glances at the couch briefly. "You two must be tired. Are you going to bed soon?"
Santana nods.
Her mother looks over the couch again, taking in Brittany's long, stretched-out body. Her eyes rest for a fraction of a second on Santana, who is sitting rigidly with her arms around her knees. "Alright, well, we'll see you in the morning," her mother says. "Tell Brittany we said good night."
"I will," Santana says. "Good night. Night, Papa."
He looks up from his cell phone. "Good night, mija."
Her parents retreat upstairs. She waits until they're out of the kitchen before she places a hand on Brittany's arm. "Britt," she says quietly. She skates her nails lightly over Brittany's wrist. "Let's go to bed."
Brittany stirs. "Your parents home?"
"Yeah. Come on. Let's go to sleep."
Santana gathers the wine bottle and wine glasses and takes them into the kitchen. She buries the wine bottle in the bottom of the trash can; she rinses and cleans the glasses as quietly as she can, trying not to clink them on anything. When she turns away from the sink, Brittany's watching her quietly. Her hair has fallen out of its ponytail; it hangs all around her face.
Santana smiles at her. Brittany smiles back. They walk quietly up the stairs and into Santana's bedroom.
Brittany pulls off her sweatpants and climbs straight into Santana's bed. She settles into the right side – she knows Santana always sleeps on the left – and immediately closes her eyes.
Santana takes her time washing her face and brushing her teeth. She knows Brittany won't fall asleep without her. Santana works her face cleanser into a lather and gently scrubs her face clean. She washes away her cowardice, her shame, the look in her mother's eyes.
She pulls back her bed sheets and climbs in beside Brittany. Her eyes rake over Brittany's face – her slightly open mouth, her messy blonde hair, the sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks – and she lets out the breath she didn't want to be holding.
Brittany senses Santana looking at her. She opens her eyes suddenly, training them instantly on Santana's own eyes.
"San?" she asks. "You okay?"
Santana doesn't answer. She looks straight into Brittany's eyes – it's something she has done so many times before, so it should feel commonplace, and yet she so rarely does it intentionally that it actually feels unnerving. Brittany's eyes are too striking, too knowing, too familiar, and it scares Santana and thrills her at the same time.
"What are you doing, baby?" Brittany whispers.
"I don't know," Santana says. "I just wanted to look at you."
Brittany's face breaks into a goofy grin. She pulls Santana down to her and kisses her gently. Santana tastes like toothpaste and her face smells like oranges.
Santana draws back slowly. She looks into Brittany's eyes again, then moves her gaze down to Brittany's lips. She touches a finger to Brittany's bottom lip and traces all around her mouth.
"I love you," Santana says quietly. She pauses with her tracing and looks into Brittany's eyes again. "So much. You're just—you make me feel so happy. So happy that it scares me."
"Why would that scare you?" Brittany asks.
Santana drops her gaze. She shakes her head.
Brittany waits.
"I guess…" Santana says, chewing on her lip, "…I'm not used to letting myself feel so much. You always let yourself feel so much, but I don't know how to do that."
Brittany touches Santana's face. "You feel things all the time, Santana. You feel them even more deeply than me. You're just bad at admitting that you feel them."
Santana laughs. "Okay, see, like this," she says. "You know me better than I know myself, and that scares me."
Brittany thinks on that. "Well…" she muses, "I've heard before that being in love is a little scary. But. Even if this is a little scary, I think that mostly it just feels awesome."
Santana closes her eyes and smiles. "You're right, Britt," she says.
"Can we turn the light off now?" Brittany asks.
"Yes," says Santana. She switches the lamp off and then scoots down under the covers, positioning her body so that it mirrors Brittany's. She wraps an arm around Brittany's waist and pulls her close. Brittany rests her forehead against Santana's and they breathe each other in.
Santana places a hand along Brittany's jaw and looks at Brittany's face. The darkness is so fresh that she can't see any of Brittany's features. Her lips seek Brittany's, and as soon as she finds them, she kisses Brittany firmly. She tastes her lips, feels them against her own; she kisses Brittany again and again, and soon they're making out in a tender, sleepy way.
Brittany drops her kisses to Santana's neck, to her collarbone. Santana rests her cheek against Brittany's hair as Brittany kisses her sweetly, dropping her lips across Santana's upper chest. There's nothing urgent about it: the new balance of their relationship is too delicate for that. This kind of kissing is gentle, grateful, adoring.
"Come here," Santana says, cupping the back of Brittany's neck. She kisses Brittany's lips again, kisses her jaw, kisses her eyelids, kisses her temple.
Brittany kisses her back in kind. "I love you, Santana," she whispers against her lips.
Santana smiles. She rests her head against Brittany's chest and listens to her heartbeat again. Its steady drum soothes her, protects her. She allows the sound to fill her up with peace.
Brittany rubs Santana's back. "Night, baby," she sighs. "Have happy dreams."
Santana kisses the smooth skin of Brittany's chest and whispers, "I will."