Dance is getting harder and harder. Brittany's got a new ballet coach at the studio: a former ballerina at the Met. She wonders what a dancer like that is doing in Lima, Ohio, until one of the juniors tells her she followed a guy. She can't even be forty yet, so she must have just aged out. A few years ago, tops.
No wonder she pushes Brittany so hard. What other dreams does she have left?
Her jazz and modern teachers are cracking down too. Like her ballet teacher, they're pounding conservatory conservatory conservatory into her head, over and over and over, and they work her until she aches every morning and it hurts to walk and stretch and even think. Not even to mention the Cheerios.
Homework's out the window. Even worse, these days she talks without thinking. That filter everyone has: hers is broken. Everybody thinks she's stupid, and maybe they're right—she's never been good at school—but mostly she's just tired.
Santana never calls her stupid. She massages her feet and listens when Brittany unloads the frustration of never being good enough, for anyone.
"You're good enough for me," says Santana.
But she isn't. Not really.
Before the school year is out, they hook up again, twice. The first time, Brittany starts it. They're in bed but still awake. Neither of them even pretends to be sleeping. Santana gives in fast and tugs her shorts off her hips so Brittany can touch her—she's super wet again, and she takes less time than a boy to get off—and then flips Brittany on her back to do the same, only she doesn't take off Brittany's panties: just peels them back enough to wiggle her hand underneath them.
The second time, it's Santana who begins to kiss Brittany in the dark. She strokes back Brittany's hair, almost tenderly, flirting with the border between fierce-cold-sex-Santana and sweet-protective-friend-Santana.
"I like the way you kiss me," whispers Brittany. "Sweet lady kisses. Touch me under my shirt, please."
Santana shushes her and stops her mouth with a deep kiss for good measure. Her tongue dipping into the crevice between Brittany's lip and teeth makes her forget the shushing. She sighs into San's mouth and, instead of waiting for Santana to touch her breasts, traces the line of Santana's jaw to the soft spot behind her ear, that place that makes her smile and hum as they kiss.
"Do you maybe want to try something different?" asks Brittany. "Like maybe I could—"
Santana shushes her again, firmer, and answers by reaching down to touch her like before.
After they're both spent—Brittany made Santana come twice in a row—they collapse, too sweaty and overheated to cuddle.
"Sweet lady kisses," echoes Santana. Is she laughing? "Britt, you're so cute."
Dance is hard enough this summer without Cheerios camp every day on top of it. Santana and Quinn are super tired with only Cheerios to drain them. Brittany goes from practice to the studio. When her muscles aren't like stone, they're like jelly. She feels like her skin is the only thing keeping her together. She feels so heavy that she never swims in her pool for fear she'll sink straight to the bottom and drown.
Quinn's sure around a lot these days. Brittany's not so sure she likes that. Quinn can make her feel stupid without knowing why she feels so stupid. It doesn't feel mean. Just natural. But Brittany isn't so stupid that she doesn't know Quinn means to make her feel like this. Santana defends her when she can, but Quinn just flashes those eyes and pretends not to know what she's talking about. That face, as sweet and perfect as Brittany's little sister's.
Sometimes she feels around Quinn and Santana the way she feels when Santana is speaking to her parents in Spanish. There's something she's missing in the words, something she can see in the way they circle each other like boxers, the way their eyes flit or fix on each other as if deciding where to land blows. It makes her nervous that she can't tease out the meaning.
Brittany almost never cries. She just goes stony, cold. When she's alone, she squeezes a doll; when she isn't, Santana.
San's the only one who can see when she gets like this. It's almost worth feeling upset, overwhelmed, frustrated, when Santana holds her and strokes her hair and nestles her into that soft place between her collarbone and her breast. She never complains that Brittany is squeezing her too tight, not even when her breathing is ragged and rough from the pressure. Brittany buries her nose in Santana's flesh and just breathes her: hothouse flowers and foxy musk and earth and gardenia and soap and crushed fruit and sweat and everything good in the world.
One afternoon, after Coach Sylvester yelled at her and made her do laps after Cheerios practice, she's late to ballet and makes so many mistakes that her teacher sends her home early after a sharp scolding. She's just so tired, tired of all of it. She calls Santana, who, hearing her flat low tone of voice, comes straight over.
Brittany lies on her bed and hears San chatting with her mother downstairs as she gathers some plates and silverware. When San trots up the stairs and shuts herself in Brittany's bedroom with a block of cheese, a jar of apricot jam, a loaf of bread and a rare Santana smile, Brittany feels the heaviness melt off her like a coat of wax held against a fire.
San kisses her hair and sits down on the edge of Brittany's bed. Without a word, she picks up a knife and a plate, unwraps the ingredients, and begins to make sandwiches right there on the bed. Brittany watches her fingers dance as she pares off thin slivers of cheese and slathers each slice of bread with an even layer of jam. She licks the jam off the knife before cutting each sandwich into fourths. Scooting closer to Brittany, she holds a triangle to Brittany's lips.
Brittany leans forward and nibbles the corner. Her favorite, since she was little, and Santana knows exactly how to make it. This one's just right: layers of cheese thin enough to soften and melt on her tongue, a thick coat of jam on either side. She takes a bigger bite. Santana still holds the section—Brittany makes no move to take it from her fingers, and San doesn't ask her to. Is San breathing a little funny? She won't quite catch Brittany's eye, and when Brittany licks her sticky fingertips in prying the last bite from between them, San only laughs and pushes the plate toward her.
"It's perfect, San," Brittany tells her. She picks up the next quarter and uses it to point to the second sandwich. "Aren't you going to eat yours too?"
She shakes her head. "They're both for you."
"Will you stay over?"
"My stuff's already downstairs. But don't forget, we gots to get up early for Cheerios tomorrow morning."
"I don't want to go." She tells San about Coach Sylvester yelling at her just after San had left, the laps, the worst ballet lesson ever.
"God. Coach Sylvester is such a fucking harpy." She grips one of Brittany's sticky hands. "Don't listen to her. She just gots a bug up her ass cause she probably hasn't gotten her freak on since, like, 1982."
Brittany giggles.
"Listen. If she ever makes you feel like that again, tell me right away." She skates her fingernails gently over Brittany's inner arm. "Same goes for ballet. She's not my teacher, and I ain't afraid to cut a bitch."
"Santana, you're the best ever."
"Don't I know it." San winks.
During the night, when Brittany is tucked into the soft place and breathing Santana, she nuzzles into her and begins to kiss her over her tank top. San is pretending to be asleep, but her breath gets shallow and uneven. She sighs hard when Brittany's lips brush her covered nipple, which stiffens as Brittany drags the fabric over it with her lower lip.
"You awake?" she whispers into San's skin.
Santana doesn't answer.
"San. I know you're awake."
A pause. "Yeah, I'm awake. What is it?"
"I want sweet lady kisses to make me feel better. Under my shirt, please."
Santana sighs. She sits up. Brittany wonders if that's a no.
"Well?" she demands. "Going to come here and let me take your shirt off, then?"
Brittany's stomach flip-flops with excitement. She sits up quickly, and Santana rolls her shirt slowly up her waist to her ribs, over her head and off her arms.
"On your back," she directs, gently. Brittany obeys. Santana climbs between her legs and fits her hips into Brittany's. She can hardly see Santana's face—only the shadowy outline of her hair. "Now, where do you want them?"
"Um. On my neck. And then under my arms and inside my elbows." Brittany likes it when boys kiss her in those places, but she's never done it with Santana before.
Santana's shadowy head nods, and she bends down to press kisses on Brittany's neck. Brittany whimpers until San places a finger on her lips.
"You have to be quiet now."
Brittany holds her sounds of pleasure in as Santana turns her arms to lay them over her head. She kisses down the line of Brittany's collarbone and burrows her wet mouth under each arm—it tickles, but in a good way, and San takes her time—and then works her tongue into the pits of Brittany's elbows. She brings Brittany's arms back down to her sides and kisses her wrists and palms with such gentleness that Brittany feels like nothing and no one can hurt her.
"Can I touch you?" asks Brittany.
Santana shrugs. "If you want." She swings a knee over one of Brittany's thighs to give Brittany's hand room.
"Will you take off your underwear?" asks Brittany. San nods and peels it back. Brittany smells her again: that smell that seems to make her heart sling its whole weight between her legs. San still has her tank top on, but the hand Brittany slides over her leg meets nothing but warm skin, until she reaches the stickiness smeared over Santana's inner thigh. All this—just from kissing Brittany's neck and arms. Brittany fights back a grin.
Santana's waiting for Brittany to touch her, but at the last second, Brittany grips her waist and flips her onto her back. San sighs without thinking and lets Brittany spread her thighs with her knees. Brittany slides a hand under her tank top to rest at the base of her ribcage, pressing gently, and bends to kiss her mouth. Santana kisses back, but she's impatient now; she peels Brittany's hand from her chest to place it between her legs. It surprises Brittany that San is openly admitting her need. But she knows San will be embarrassed if she so much as smiles into her mouth, so she uses every bit of her command over her body to keep from showing how pleased she is.
When Brittany begins to touch her with slow, gentle strokes, Santana struggles at first, grinding her hips against Brittany's hand in frustration. But Brittany whispers, shh, and shakes her head. Santana surrenders, turning her face into the pillow, and Brittany listens as her breath grows deep and quiet. Brittany rolls her body against Santana's like a docked boat in the water. Santana kisses her mouth and her cheeks and her ears and snakes her hands around Brittany's waist. She sighs—Brittany could swear she sounds relieved.
When Santana comes, she cries out before she can stop herself. The cry is sad, somehow. It bunches Brittany's throat and makes her heart speed up in a way that has nothing to do with being turned on. She kisses San's eyelids as San gathers herself again from the darkness.
"It's okay, San," she says. "It's okay."
That night is the last sleepover they have to themselves that summer. Then Quinn is there full-time, and Brittany watches their game—she still can't follow the rules, and she can't decide if Quinn's with them or against them.
As for Brittany: she's always on Santana's side.