Brittany is fourteen years old, but only for a few more days.
She still really, really likes candy, though.
She also really, really likes Santana, so tonight is basically like the best night ever because she has candy and she has Santana and it's just them and no one knows or really cares where the hell they are.
Santana's parents aren't ever truly mean; mostly, they're just aloof, like cats. But when they get drunk, they change, just like Brittany's parents do when they get drunk. It's not bad, but it's still a change. Their eyes seem darker and shinier, and they act more canine than feline, transformed in their drunkenness.
They get loud—especially Santana's dad—and call Santana into crowded rooms to show her off, bragging about what good grades she gets and about how she's a cheerleader and how all the boys like her and how she volunteers at the hospital on weekends.
They seem to fill more space than usual, which is funny, because somehow when they get like that, Santana seems to shrink. She contracts under their attention, her voice small and young, her eyes too busy searching the room to rest on any one thing, hopping like a wary bird from perch to perch to perch. By the end of the night, Santana all but disappears.
Dr. and Mrs. Lopez don't seem to notice, but Brittany does.
That's why she took Santana down to the basement before the party even started: because she likes Santana taller rather than smaller. She doesn't want Santana leaving her tonight.
It wasn't hard to get Santana to hide with her; all Brittany had to say was that she wanted to look at pictures of them from when they were little and Santana's face lit up like Christmas. She said, "Okay, Britt!" and led her downstairs by the pinky, tugging Brittany over to the Tupperware box where Santana's mom keeps all the old photo albums.
Lately, looking at pictures has become one of their favorite hobbies. They both agree they were cute when they were in elementary school and they like to rehash all their old stories, recounting past bike accidents and school art projects and all the little firsts that have brought them to fourteen. Tonight, they discover some old paperback yearbooks from WMES and spend the evening laughing at the unfortunate fashion choices that their classmates made in the early two-thousands.
They can still hear the party going on upstairs—Santana's parents and their doctor friends laughing about the ridiculousness of patients and taking cracks at the hospital administration over dry pinot grigio. They're long past the third bottle of wine by now; their footsteps fall heavily and the ceiling rattles over Brittany and Santana's heads.
"Hey, San?" Brittany says, eyes catching something on the other side of the room. "Why is the doorknob on top of the door instead of on the side?"
"What?" Santana says, stopping her sharpie marker just above an eleven year old Adams, Azimio on Mrs. Hammond's fifth grade page. She's already drawn a mustache above his uninhibited grin; she's halfway through a word: D-O-U-
Brittany points to what she means: what looks like a closet door on the side of the stairwell, with the doorknob on the top of the door instead of on the side, like usual. Now that Brittany examines it closer, she realizes that its hinges are at the bottom of the door instead of on the side, too.
"Oh," says Santana, recapping her marker. She stands up off the loveseat and heads over to stairwell. Brittany follows, curious.
There are not very many things in Santana's house that Brittany doesn't know about; after all, Brittany is here almost as often as Santana is. They've practically been best friends forever. Finding something new like this thrills Brittany. It's not very often that they can have adventures while they're still in the house anymore.
"It's a hideaway bed—er, couch, Britt," Santana explains, grabbing onto the doorknob and opening the door down instead of out. As she does, a mattress erupts from behind it, probably faster than Santana expected it to do. "Woh!" she says, hopping out of the way.
Brittany sees what Santana means right away: it isn't exactly a bed because it doesn't have a frame or box springs, but it is sort of divided, with a back and what could be a seat; it seems like a couch, maybe, except that it doesn't have legs. Someone draped a thin, yellow sheet over it, probably years ago. Brittany wastes no time diving onto it, laughing as it bounces under her weight. It smells musty and Brittany guesses that no one has ever really slept on it.
"Gross, Britt," Santana says. "That thing is, like, a million years old. There are probably spiders crawling around in it and shit."
Brittany leans over the back of the couch and peers into the closet. It isn't empty. "Hey!" she says, reaching out before Santana can protest. "Look at what I found!" she grins, revealing a plastic jack-o-lantern bucket filled with goodies. "Isn't this your Halloween candy?"
Both Brittany's parents and Santana's agree that their daughters shouldn't go trick-or-treating this year because fourteen—or fifteen years old by then, in Brittany's case—is too old for that, but last year they let the girls go under the condition that they chaperone Brittany's little sister when they did, and that actually turned out pretty well for them.
The people around Santana's neighborhood seemed to like seeing two big girls with the little one. They said that Brittany and Santana were such good babysitters, and wouldn't they like some candy, too? When Brittany and Santana pretended like they couldn't possibly accept any treats for themselves, Santana's neighbors insisted that they do it anyway—"selfless service" and all that.
"Oh, yeah," Santana says. "Nasty. I hid it down here so my mom wouldn't eat all my Almond Joys, but I guess I kinda forgot about it." She shrugs.
"Chocolate takes a long time to spoil, Santana," Brittany says knowingly, fishing an Almond Joy out from inside the pumpkin, wagging it in Santana's face.
"Yeah, but that's from last year," Santana returns, eyeing the candy bar as though it's done something to wrong her.
Brittany unwraps the chocolate and shrugs. "More for me," she teases, knowing that Santana won't hold out for long.
Santana scowls, but after a second, she shrugs. "Well, I guess we are in a house full of doctors. If we get sick, they can pump our stomachs, right?"
"Totally."
Santana joins Brittany on the couch, settling down beside her. The mattress caves in beneath her so that she and Brittany sink to the middle, hips touching. Suddenly, the room feels warmer. Santana's eyes make a quick pass over Brittany's face; she smiles shyly before reaching for a chocolate bar of her own.
"Ugh! Don't tell me you took the last Almond Joy."
"There's one."
"That's a Mounds."
Thirty minutes later, Santana has her legs in Brittany's lap; they've devoured most all the chocolate and now they're down to what Santana calls the "cheap-ass candy." Neither one of them has said so aloud, but they seem to have decided to eat all their findings in one sitting. Brittany's body seems to notice where Santana touches her more than anything else, tuned to Santana like a radio station; Brittany hums, tasting sweet, sweet, sweet.
Santana burrows her hand into the bottom of the jack-o-lantern, which stands almost empty after their binge. She shuffles around the remaining Smarties and Dum Dums, digging for something palatable. Brittany can't see what she's looking for; she chews on a Starburst, wondering if Starbursts taste as good frozen as they do roasted on skewers over a campfire.
By this point, Brittany's teeth buzz; she's pretty sure it's from the sugar. She feels light and loopy, kind of like she does when she and Santana sneak champagne out of Santana's parents' liquor cabinet.
The ceiling rattles again and laughter rumbles through the rafters. Brittany looks up, listening. How many more patient jokes do Dr. Lopez and his colleagues have left to tell before Santana and Brittany can go upstairs to get ready for bed? Brittany kind of wants to watch a movie or something.
"Hey, Britty!" Santana says suddenly, cutting through her thoughts, catching her off guard.
Brittany looks over to see Santana extending something to her: a ruby red Ring Pop set on a green plastic ring. The candy seems congealed and not quite perfectly gem-shaped anymore. The ring looks lopsided, bent, too. Santana grins like a goon.
"Brittany Susan Pierce, will you marry me?"
Brittany knows right away what Santana means, but it's like her brain knows one thing and her heart knows another.
It should just be a joke.
(Somehow, it feels like a promise.)
She should say something. She should put on a silly accent and say, "Why, Ms. Lopez, bless my heart! I do declare, of course, of course!" talking like one of those ladies from Gone with the Wind. She should take the ring and make a big show of slipping it on her finger, then offer it back to Santana for a lick while it's still perched atop her knuckle. She should break down in a fit of giggles and say, "God, San! You goofball," and try to hit Santana with one of the floppy throw-pillows on the couch. She should roll her eyes and ask Santana to find her some more Starbursts, if there are any.
Instead, Brittany does what she shouldn't: she stops.
Brittany pauses, her eyes moving from the ring to Santana's face. She can't help it: she thinks about the question, or at least she thinks back to two weeks ago when she kissed Santana for the first time with the lights on when it wasn't just practicing for boys. She thinks about that thrill that fanned out across her face and down her whole body and how she felt light and warm and like the strong strum in a guitar song. She thinks about how she thinks about Santana all the time now, about how when her heart beats fast like this, it's always, always for Santana, Santana, Santana.
"BrittBritt?" Santana says breathlessly. She searches Brittany for something, but seems scared to find whatever it is. After another long second, she giggles, nervous; she seems to want Brittany to join in.
Brittany does, forcing the smile already on her face into a different kind of smile. She laughs and snatches at the candy.
"Ring Pops are my favorite," she says harmlessly, and that seems to break the tension. She jams the Ring Pop in her mouth without first slipping it onto her finger, glad for something to distract her from the fluttery, giddy feeling in her chest. She knows she's blushing; she hopes Santana won't mention it.
Santana doesn't mention it. "Every candy is your favorite, though," she says quietly instead, snatching at Brittany's hand, pulling the Ring Pop out of her mouth. Something dark and deep passes over Santana's eyes, but then it's gone. Santana puts on her cute mouse voice. "Share?"
Brittany melts.
She offers the Ring Pop to Santana for a taste. She knows it's too soon to ask for it after scaring Santana like that just a minute ago, but Brittany can't help it: she wants to kiss Santana more than anything right now. She bets Santana's lips taste like candy, like the strawberry Ring Pop, impossibly sweet and kind of tangy. She fidgets in her seat.
"Taste?" she asks and Santana holds the Ring Pop up without actually giving it back. She gestures for Brittany to open up and Brittany does; Santana plugs the candy into Brittany's mouth like a pacifier and laughs.
"Ow," Brittany says around the sucker when it knocks against her teeth.
"Baby," Santana teases, patting Brittany's knee.
They trade the Ring Pop back and forth for a few minutes. Every time Santana smiles, Brittany feels something stretch inside her chest. After a while, the candy paints their lips deep red, and their tongues and teeth, too. Santana starts scooting closer to Brittany, shy about it. She removes her legs from Brittany's lap and readjusts so that she and Brittany actually sit closer together than before. She breathes like she does just before the rollercoaster car goes over the first big drop at Cedar Point.
"Hey," she says.
Brittany loves rollercoasters.
Santana says she hates them.
(Santana doesn't really hate them, though; what she hates is people knowing how scared she is to fall.)
"Kisses in Spanish are besas, right?" Brittany blurts.
"Besos," Santana corrects automatically.
"Not lady kisses, though. In Spanish, girl words end in -as."
"I—," Santana says. She chuckles, defeated. "Well, yeah, I guess."
It's probably stupid that they both go for it then, but they do.
Neither one of them really expects the other one to move, so they collide somewhere in the middle, chins and noses first.
"Ow."
Brittany knows enough by now to know that kissing isn't always graceful on the first try, even with someone you—
They both laugh and try again, leaning in slower, tilting their heads. Brittany was right: Santana does taste like strawberry candy. Brittany's mouth no longer buzzes from sugar, but instead from Santana's kiss.
The last time they kissed each other like this, they only really did it once, and quickly, in a fit of giggles on Brittany's bed; this time, they draw it out, savoring each other's breath on their lips. Santana shivers a little where she sits just as Brittany's eyes flutter closed.
It's not like they haven't made out before, but this is definitely the first time they've done so while fully awake and without an excuse bigger than just a Ring Pop and the fact that they like each other to do it. Like, really, really like each other. Like—
After a minute, Brittany pulls away, grinning.
"Hey," she says.
"Hey," says Santana.
"I'm glad you didn't stay upstairs for the party."
"Me, too, Britt." A pause. "I am so done with this candy, though."
"Okay," Brittany says. For a moment, they sit in silence. It takes a while for Brittany to notice that their hands have tangled in their laps. Even though there's room enough on the couch for each girl to have her own space, they both sit super close to each other, breathing like they've finished out their rollercoaster ride.
Without taking her hands back, Santana lays down, falling away from Brittany. She brings her legs up to sit in Brittany's lap again and sighs.
"You'll stay?" she asks.
Brittany thought that was kind of the plan.
"Yeah."
"You'll really stay, Britty?"
Brittany gets the feeling that Santana means more than just a sleepover.
If it wouldn't scare Santana, Brittany would say—
But even though Santana asks, she doesn't really want to know, not yet.
Brittany thinks forward to lots of somedays.
"Yeah, San," she says again, this time quieter. In her lap, she gives Santana's fingers a squeeze.
Santana seems to have crashed from her sugar high. When she speaks next, it's in her close-to-sleep mumble: soft, sweet, and dreamy.
"You promise, BrittBritt?"
Brittany nods, "I do."
(She always keeps her promises.)
