With all the time they've spent on the beach these past couple of weeks, Santana's surprised they aren't sick of it.

But with the way Brittany wanders just a step in front of her, arms stretched out to either side, their footprints imprinting in the sand, Santana can't help but smile. The wet sand sinking between her toes, the salt of the ocean breeze sticking on her skin, she's had more than enough. But oh, Brittany is a gentle wave, a sunbeam just as the sun sets — everything.

Her hair, golden gossamer threads in the amber lowlight, dances in the wind, and Santana almost reaches out, twines her fingers through the strands because oh, she's been lucky enough to wake up to her every day for weeks. Brilliant blue eyes and freckled skin that has grown tan from all their time in the sun.

(She loves her. She does, she does, she does.)

"I can feel you staring."

"It helps that you're very easy to stare at."

Brittany's grin is crooked, but Santana catches the fondness in her eyes, that soft, adoring gaze that has been looking back at her for weeks, and weeks, and weeks. Her pulse thrums beneath her skin, each beat echoing the rhythm of the waves. And oh, her heart swells in her chest, almost too big to hold it all.

(Most days she feels like Brittany's love is like a balloon, growing and growing and growing until she'll learn to fly from how much she loves her.)

Brittany pauses, foot dragging through the sand, toes curling through the waves, and Santana nearly collides with her back. She whirls around, smile wide and blue, blue eyes too mischievous for their own good — and oh, Santana immediately knows what's coming.

She pushes the heel of her foot into the sand, leans back a step. "Britt, don't you—"

Too late.

Brittany winds her arms around her waist, tosses her over her shoulder, and Santana shrieks with laughter, her fingers brushing against the base of her spine.

"Brittany!"

"What? I can't hear you over the wind!"

And she darts forward, Santana flailing from her perch over her shoulder, but Brittany's arm holds her, secure and protective even as she laughs like a madwoman, skirting the edge of the ocean as the sun sets low against the waves.

It's exhilarating, and wild, and carefree, and oh, Santana can't catch her breath from it all.

(Every moment of this vacation — their weeks in Lesbos, and now the tail end of their trip in Hawaii — has been a blur of skin on skin, whispered confessions, and love, and love, and love.)

Brittany's body is sun-warm against hers, and her stomach hurts from how hard she's laughing, the wind chasing away all of the sound.

She never wants this feeling to fade.

—

They have to make their return to the real world, and Santana wants nothing more than to curl up against Brittany's chest and never leave. But Brittany gently nudges their noses together, kisses her sweetly.

"A few more weeks and we can finally live together in New York."

Santana sucks in a breath, squeezes her eyes shut. "I hate being away from you."

Brittany's hand is warm as it trails up her back, slips beneath the hem of her shirt. She skates up the vertebrae of her spine, and Santana shivers, sinks even deeper into their embrace.

"I do too, but we'll be okay." The 'this time' goes unsaid, but Santana hears it, presses her forehead more firmly against Brittany's. This won't be like the summer after high school graduation. Full of promises they somehow got wrong. "I promise."

Santana exhales slowly.

—

New York is lonely without Brittany.

She goes back to the Spotlight Diner and actively avoids Dani because as much as she doesn't regret breaking up with her because Brittany, she does feel awful about it. Dani deserved so much better than her, still aching from her breakup months later.

Rachel somehow becomes even more obnoxious as she settles into her role as Fanny Brice, and she shares more eye-rolls with Kurt than she bothers to count these days.

(The only bonus of going on vacation for months on her end — her wallet weeps, but then she remembers Brittany's smile and nothing else matters — is that she comes back to New York and Mercedes is there with open arms and an open couch.

Beats the Berry-Hummel loft any day.)

But oh, being around all of these big dreamers reminds her that she doesn't have hers (not with Brittany in a different state again, dealing with dropping out of MIT and what that means for her scholarships and grants — not with the uncertainty that has been clawing at her since she arrived in New York City the first time).

Mercedes drags her to the studio, ignoring all of Santana's vocal rebuffs, and she has never felt more unworthy of anything in her life. Not this kindness, not the way Mercedes insists that she deserves this chance despite the fact that this is Mercedes' big break and she deserves to make it big.

I'm not worth it, she says. Nothing has felt more true in that moment.

She walks away, leaves Mercedes in the recording studio, the walls closing in on her.

She really misses Brittany.

—

"I'm filling in for Berry – and god Britt – I'm freaking out."

"Relax, honey. Take a deep breath—" Santana inhales sharply. "—Now let it out."

Santana leans against the vanity, presses the tips of her fingers to her forehead, her lips pursed as she tries to assuage the surge of anxiety pushing through her. Her heart is pounding and her head is spinning, and oh, she really thought she could handle this, really thought she could fill in for Rachel even though it has been nearly a year since she's even glanced at the script of Funny Girl.

(Confidence has been fleeting since she's come back to New York, back to the stark reminders of her friends and every corner of Time Square that she hasn't gotten anywhere with her dreams. Without Brittany there, the security of her fingers tangled in her own, Santana forgets herself.)

(I believe in you Santana.)

"I wish you were here," she admits, quiet and subdued, like it's a secret.

Brittany breathes out a wobbly sigh. "I miss you too, San. But I promise everything will be fine. Just be yourself and everyone will see just how awesome you are."

Santana brushes the corner of her, wipes at the tear there and: "Thank you." Because there's nothing else she can say.

"Always."

—

She dreams of Brittany later that night, and it is slow, and blue, and endless.

—

Brittany's in New York.

Brittany's in New York, and Santana is here in fucking Reno.

(She's never hated Yeast-I-Stat more. It's made her a nice chunk of change, but goddamnit, of course they miss each other by a couple of days. Damn her shooting schedule. It's not like this commercial couldn't have waited.)

"Mercedes and I will be meeting up with you really soon, San."

And despite how patient Brittany is trying to be, Santana manages to discern the undertone of longing and annoyance in Brittany's tone that echoes her own. They haven't seen each other in weeks, and after months of falling asleep together, waking up with their bodies wound tightly around each other, and spending every moment together, it feels like torture.

"Not soon enough," she sighs.

(She doesn't mention how she's been thinking about the grand scheme of things, how she's been dreaming of Brittany every night, or how she's been thinking of their future and their forever, toying with the empty space around her ring finger.)

(She thinks Brittany understands regardless. She's always understood her after all.)

"Soon."

Santana huffs a little, kicks the point of her foot against the carpeted floor of her hotel room.

"Don't pout, San. I can't kiss it away."

And oh, Santana glances back at their FaceTime and laughs at the pout Brittany is now sporting. "Hey, that's not fair either. Put that bottom lip away."

Brittany's mouth curves into a grin. "There's that pretty smile I love."

Santana dips her head, a warm flush rushing to her cheeks, her smile widening. "I love you, Britt," she sighs, hopelessly adoring. "I can't wait to go on tour with you."

"And Mercedes."

She nods. "And Wheezy."

"It's going to be amazing."

Santana doesn't doubt it. Then again, she's learned to never doubt Brittany.

—

"I think I'm going to propose to her."

Mercedes jerks so hard her knee bangs against the underside of the table. Santana arches a brow at the reaction, unimpressed.

"You're what?"

"Brittany," Santana supplies, swirling her straw through her iced coffee. "I think I'm going to propose."

Mercedes stares, longer this time, mouth slightly agape. Normally, Santana would be offended by how stunned Mercedes looks, but they've been on tour with each other for months now. Up and down the West Coast, and now they're in Miami, sitting under one of the umbrellas of the outdoor café they found. Brittany had a last minute hitch in the choreography and couldn't join them, so Santana figured she could finally breach the topic.

She didn't think Mercedes would take the news like this though.

"Wheezy?" Santana waves her hand in front of her face, waits for Mercedes to blink, jerk her head from one side to the other.

"Did you even pick out a ring yet?"

Santana scoffs.

"Is that a 'yes'?"

She opens her mouth, fiddles with her straw, fingers twisting around each other. "Not—" Her voice cracks halfway through the word and she has to clear her throat, the words scratching against her tongue. "—Not yet, actually."

Mercedes looks at her blankly. "Santana, you can't be serious."

"I have been looking," Santana shoots back, abandoning her drink altogether and crossing her arms over her chest. "I've even been calling Quinn for opinions, but I just—" She squeezes her elbows, eyes drawn to the steady stream of tourists clogging up the sidewalks. "—I haven't found the one, you know? Brittany deserves the best."

(She thinks of hotel rooms and gentle caresses beneath the blankets. She thinks of tilting her head up and seeing the universe in Brittany's eyes before she kisses her, shadows folding around them as the grey-blue light of dawn slips between the gaps in the curtains. She thinks of living in those moments forever.)

"We've been through a dozen cities, and you haven't found anything?"

Santana bristles, defensive. She has spent so many hours between rehearsals rushing in and out of jewelry stores, making up poorly disguised excuses that she's pretty damn sure Brittany saw straight through, but she hasn't managed to find one that fit. Brittany deserves so much more than the first ring Santana sets her eyes on.

(Quinn is barely any help. Between her snobby classes at Yale, she offers continuously useless advice.

S, she'll like anything you buy.

But it has to be perfect, Q. Absolutely perfect.

You're overthinking this.

And you're entirely unhelpful.)

"Girl."

Mercedes looks disappointed. Santana is affronted.

"I'll remember this conversation if you ever decide to get married. And we'll see who's disappointed then," Santana grumbles, picking up her coffee again.

Mercedes takes a sip from hers, casting a fleeting glance to her watch before grimacing. She rises from her seat, Santana quick to follow. She tosses back the remainder of her drink and tosses the plastic in the trash.

"You really shouldn't be drinking that before rehearsal. It won't be doing your voice any favors."

"God have you been talking to Berry? You sound just like her."

Mercedes rolls her eyes, slaps Santana's arms as they walk side-by-side. "I care about you, Satan. You've got a couple big solos tonight."

Santana pauses, brow furrowing. "A couple?"

"Oh, I didn't tell you?" Mercedes' grin is sly, her expression a picture of innocence. "You're gaining in popularity, Santana."

Her heartbeat trips over itself, and Santana sucks in a breath. "You're kidding."

"Just ask your girl."

The wink is a dead giveaway, and recognition hits fast.

"Wait – is that what the choreography mishaps were about? Mercedes? Mercedes, wait up!"

(When she performs that night, clutching the microphone and singing her heart out, Brittany twirling around her, eyes bright and wondrous whenever they meet hers, Santana doesn't think anything could get better than this.)

(And when they crawl into bed later that night, a crack in the window letting a warm summer draft into the room, Brittany's arms comforting around her waist, Santana realizes she was wrong.

Brittany takes her bottom lip between her own, pouring a love Santana can feel with the way their hearts beat in sync into the kiss as their bodies meld together.

It's even better.)

—

"Not that I'm complaining, but what's making you so smiley today?"

Brittany pokes at her cheek with her index finger, tracing over the dimple Santana is more than certain is deepening as her smile widens.

"Oh nothing, just excited for the show tonight."

Brittany pushes their foreheads together, squinting. Her hand slides up, tangles in her hair, and oh, despite the deceptively soft touch, Santana knows she's been caught, but she merely blinks, serene and content in Brittany's arms, hoping to give nothing more away.

"You're going to be amazing, San."

"Not as amazing as you."

Brittany shakes her head, smile almost disbelieving. She pulls her impossibly closer, their limbs tangling to the point where she can't tell where she starts and Brittany ends. And oh, Santana flits her eyes between Brittany's, soaks in that familiar soft shade of blue, the gentle curve of her mouth as her gaze dips down.

She can't wait to marry her.

—

They're almost back to New York when Santana finds the ring.

Somewhere between Pennsylvania and Massachusetts, she stumbles into a small jewelry store on the corner of the street. Luckily, it's one of their rare days off, and Brittany and Mercedes took to gallivanting around the city as one last hurrah before they head back to their regular day-to-day lives.

Santana smiles weakly at the salesman behind the corner, peers at the glass displays.

She's really hoping to find one today, and she wrings her hands as she peruses. She doesn't want anything too gaudy, too flashy. Brittany isn't that kind of person, but oh, she doesn't want anything too simple either. Brittany is golden, and beautiful, and dynamic, always moving, her grace as a dancer unparalleled.

As she makes her way through the displays — her time spent in here steadily ticking upward if the impatience twitching at the corner of the salesman's mouth is any indication to go by — she starts to doubt herself.

Maybe Quinn was right, maybe she's overthinking this.

(Or maybe she can't find the right ring because this isn't the right time for them to get married, or maybe it'll never be the right time because Brittany deserves better than her and her swirling thoughts that are starting to become far too overwhelming.

And oh – oh god, she still hasn't asked Whitney or Pierce for their blessing.

What if they say no? What if they—)

Her eyes catch on something tucked in the far left display. Her breath stutters in her lungs, rattles against her ribs, and oh, oh, she doesn't want to get her hopes up, but she—

"It's perfect," she breathes, fingers grazing the surface of the glass separating her from the ring.

"Have you found something?"

"Yes," Santana croaks out, scrambling to snatch her wallet from the messy interior of her purse. Her bank account is going to cry, but she's been saving for a while. This is more than worth it. She points to the one in the case. "This one, please."

The salesman carefully plucks the chosen item from the display, eyes it critically. He turns his shrewd eyes to her, and Santana refuses to back down. She can guess what he's thinking but she's stronger, braver, than she was at sixteen. She won't let herself be intimidated here, not when she finally finally found the one.

"Ring size?"

Santana blinks, a little startled, but she rattles off the appropriate information, signs on the appropriate lines, and slides her card with as much composure as possible. It's a huge purchase, but oh, she can't wait to see the look on Brittany's face when she gets down on one knee and shows her.

Now she needs an actual plan to put in motion.

—

Santana folds her fingers over each other and squeezes, attempting to wring out the nerves.

It's been days since the end of Mercedes' mall tour — managers and producers have eyed Santana keenly, almost expectantly, like they were anticipating her arrival in their studios — and Santana has yet to develop the right way to propose.

(Again, Quinn proves to be of no help at all.

With her patented eye-roll and unhelpful Brittany will honestly say 'yes' regardless of how you ask her. Stop overthinking it.

Santana considers never calling her for advice ever again.)

But oh, this is it, isn't it? Everything that's happened to them has been leading up to this.

All the pain she inflicted on both of them in high school by being so uncertain with her feelings and determined not to deal with. Artie, and Landslide and Songbird, and oh, that summer in between where they somehow managed to carve a space for them to figure everything out.

And then they had it perfect. The perfect senior year despite Finn's giant fucking mouth and her abuela—

She got to hold Brittany's hand for everyone to see. She got to lean their shoulders together, kiss her on the cheek whenever she felt like it. She finally got to be brave enough to dip Brittany in the middle of the hallway after the New Directions' Nationals win and show the school that she was proud of who she was and was so, so proud to be Brittany's girlfriend.

And maybe it fell apart in between.

Maybe they struggled to understand each other because there was so much distance between them and they have never once been good at dealing with that. Too many misunderstandings and too little communication pushing them further apart.

(Sometimes Santana wonders how Brittany could have waited for her for so long.

But Brittany would cup her cheeks, look her dead in the eye, and remind Santana just how easy it is to love her and that she would have waited forever if she had to, and oh, Santana desperately wants to ask.

Marry me, marry me, marry me.)

"Santana Lopez, nervous? Never thought I'd see the day."

Santana sets the ring box back into its proper hiding space and tilts her head, smile tinged with something wry. "After all our months on the road together?" She shakes her head in disapproval. "I'm hurt, 'Cedes."

Mercedes laughs, all good-natured and kind, and Santana knows she would never have made it this far without her.

"She's going to say 'yes,' you know. That girl has been madly in love with you for years."

Santana can't help the way her smile slips into something more genuine, more shy. "Is it that obvious?"

"You two couldn't keep your hands off each other. Weren't exactly subtle."

Santana knocks their shoulders together and sighs. "I can't believe we're going back to Lima."

"Well, Rachel and Kurt can't start up a new glee club without us. Those poor kids will never know anything but show tunes."

"You're right. That's awful. We don't need more Berry's running around. One is more than enough."

Mercedes snorts. "No kidding." Her eyes flick to the drawer Santana placed the ring in. "Do you have a plan yet?"

Santana closes her eyes, pulls at the memories of McKinley High School she's kept tucked away. The way Brittany's pinky felt twined around her own as they paraded down the hallways, the way they danced together and laughed, laughed, laughed, with the rest of the club in the choir room, the way they would always turn to whisper snide comments in each other's ears whenever Finn or Rachel said something particularly ridiculous.

She remembers family, and belonging, and oh, she should've known from the beginning.

She reopens her eyes, smiles something soft, Mercedes' expression far too knowing.

"Yeah," Santana says. "Yeah, I do."

—

Brittany's bedroom hasn't changed in the slightest.

All of their pictures from childhood through high school hang high and proud on her walls. The sheets on the bed are the same as they were back then, memories woven into the cotton of all of their Brittany and Santana nights. Lord Tubbington lays curled on Brittany's desk chair, bored with them now that he's had his fill of pets.

It's like years have never passed.

Santana tucks herself into the cradle of Brittany's side, body soft and warm as Brittany cards her fingers through her hair. Neither of them say a word, content to let the silence settle comfortably over them.

Their earlier conversation echoes in her mind, circling over and over, and Santana casts her thoughts to the ring she carries with her everywhere, hidden in the safety of her purse at the end of the bed.

Any uncertainty about her plans have been banished just from the look in Brittany's eyes and the way her fingers trace reverently over her skin.

I will love you until infinity, Santana Lopez.

Santana's lips curl up helplessly at the words, and she has to turn to hide her growing smile against Brittany's shoulder.

"What?" Brittany asks, tender and quiet, lips brushing her forehead.

"Nothing," Santana murmurs. "I just really love you."

Brittany giggles. "Well, I know that, Silly—" She brings their lips together. "—I really love you too."

And oh, Santana pulls away just enough to catch the way Brittany is already looking back at her, quiet, and adoring, and limitless. Her eyes hold a world of possibilities, and Santana wants to spend the rest of her life discovering them.

(I love you more than I've loved anyone else in the world, and because of that I think anything's possible.)

She's going to ask Brittany tomorrow.

thanks for reading!
title from: happy by oh wonder (which doesn't actually fit this fic but the lyrics were nice lol)