It began with the compartmentalization of your emotions towards her. It was a deduction that came in stages.
The first time consisted of wrongful coercion—the use of her smile to create internal affliction.
She approached you in the hallway at half past eleven on a Wednesday night—baggy sweatpants sitting low on her hips, OSU sweater slightly damp from the rain, some sort of ridiculous green frog hat on her head completing the ensemble—and the moment you looked at her cold-flushed cheeks and chapped, upturned lips, you knew control was slowly slipping away from you.
Its return was beginning to seem highly unlikely.
Perhaps because you have a predisposition for practical sleepwear, or the fact that she made even the scrubbiest of wardrobe entirely sexy, it gave her an unfair advantage.
"Hungry?" She dangled a familiar white paper bag in front of you, like she knew you had been fantasizing about hot soup and flannel sheets all day.
Your attempted stoicism was in vain, and just...the fact that she had gotten herself out of bed, trudged through the rain and brought you dinner—it made your throat tighten and your chest expand slowly, but in a way that left you feeling oddly transcendent.
Like falling and floating all at once.
And when you answered it was quick and genuine, your lips smiling in tandem of a soft nod. You counted the seconds it took for her to look back at you with a smirk, and everything behind it was undeniably—
sexy.
The second came to fruition by corruptive chance.
When you saw her standing in front of the cafeteria's cappuccino machine at nearly midnight on Thursday—her eyebrows lined indecisively, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth—your grin stretched wide while your stomach moved in waves.
She was too cute to ignore, and you were too eager to deny yourself such simple pleasures like looking at her. So you snuck up from behind, your fingers poking slightly at the spot just above her ribs, teasing. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"
She jumped a bit upon initial reaction, but her smile didn't quite match yours among discovery. Usually eye contact with you provided at least some semblance of happiness, but rather, today, relief seemed to be the only thing touching her face. "I wish. It's kind of been a long day."
"Oh. Well, I'm sure it'll get better," was the best you could offer. You didn't like the defeated, tired look in her eyes.
Her chest heaved with a long exhale, and what seemed like a sure hand reached up to choose a flavor, only to fall back down again. The indecisive gesture made you chuckle lightly, wanting to offer assistance in her time of frailty; so you did. You took a step directly beside her, your arm grazing hers, skin igniting skin, "Just get the hazelnut, Britt. You never like the cinnamon kind. Every time you just add a ton of sugar."
It was such a simple, insignificant reminder. Effortless even.
Yet it made her eyes sparkle in the most significant of ways, and a smile finally found its way to her lips. In return, your own mouth turned upwards, your eyes watching intently as she pressed the hazelnut button shyly. Time moved with ease as you both stood there, gazes flickering back and forth from one another's while hot liquid rained down.
You could've stood there all day memorizing algorithms if you knew it would create such a smile.
Once the cappuccino was in hand, she looked up at you hesitantly, "Come sit with me for a while?" You didn't miss the way her voice touched hopeful, or the way her eyes silently were pleading with you.
The question ensued a quick, sharp pang in your chest.
"Of course."
The walk over to the table made you feel nothing but heavy. You never meant to sway her confidence.
And as you sat down across from her, seeing the way she finally relaxed her shoulders, you wish you could've explained yourself without really having to.
Maybe if she knew there was just so much beyond your understanding, so much that dictated what you could and couldn't confess, she'd spend less time worrying over you. It was your job to worry over her—to make certain your distance was safe. The last thing you wanted was to create false hope; a hope that you were only bound to break at some point.
And if you broke her, you'd never forgive yourself
Yet, the most intimate part of your mind knew your fear had reached new levels—that your cognition was envisaging in ways you didn't think it was ever designed to; that everything meaningful you did, everything you built, was with the intention of being for her.
That your imagination had created an altar the color of her eyes, just so you could fall to your knees before it.
And if you could've told her anything without explicates, you would've said she's entirely —
deserving.
The third time was deceit by default.
Typically, you'd never been a fan of Fridays, especially on floors like transplant where they try to cram all imperatives into the weekday schedule. This particular day was no shit-show exception.
Your head was pounding, yet you knew the second she was in your vicinity. You felt her there. You always felt her.
And you're sure it wasn't God's intention to enrich you with such blissful tyranny, but when she caught your gaze early that morning, fixating on you with those ridiculously blue eyes, you found yourself reconsidering all your previous notions of beauty.
And she flashed you that soft smile—possibly your favorite of all her smiles because it reminded you so much of that first night, and...
You needed to stop staring.
Before she left, she made sure to make long strides in your direction, stopping not far from where you were. Your heart began beating rapidly, as if it had been classically conditioned to do so. "Eleven thirty?" she asked confidently while beaming that wry smile.
Your throat caught, but you gulped "Sure," regardless.
As if you had a choice.
And when you met her near the elevators at 11:30 sharp, watching you watch her from afar, there was something about the way her complexion looked against that blue v-neck—the flex of her neck muscles, the arc of her shoulders; it left you in awe. Much like they always did, blue eyes tested your willpower. But discreet staring was never your forte, and Brittany caught on to this relatively quickly. It was only a few seconds later that she considerately dropped her gaze, letting your public hallway eye-fucking falter, like she was understanding of your biased predilection for everything above her shoulders and its blatant inability to limit obviousness.
How odd that even when she wasn't looking at you, she was affecting you.
Like how you couldn't seem to catch up with the quick rushed swoons thrumming beneath your flesh. Yet another came the second the elevator doors closed and she courageously closed the distance between you, hooking her pinky to yours.
You shouldn't have allowed it. You should've stepped away. But every time you gave in just a little bit more, the reward was that much sweeter.
This time you noticed how she had the softest skin, and how she smelled even better than the last time you were this close.
Your eyes closed. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip. She squeezed harder.
Had it not been for your heart pounding in your ears, you might've lost yourself in the moment. It served as a reminder though, and you had to urge yourself not to think about how constant the aching swell in your chest was becoming, or how the room felt spellbound every time she was in it.
It was...ineffable.
It was pure and perfect manipulation.
Your watch tells you it's Monday.
The calendar hanging in the employee lounge says Monday.
Yet, you can't be sure. Everything has assimilated into some blended existence.
Your mind wants to tell you it's just like every other day.
Your actions want to tell you it's just like every other day.
Yet...no.
You're watching her from across the table, your mind scarcely left in a state of dissonant static reality because you know it isn't.
Your memory is capable. It serves itself, travels back to the last few weeks and their rapid happenings.
Wednesday — Hungry?
Thursday — Come sit with me a while?
Friday — Eleven thirty?
Repetitious behavior is petrifying, and it is now a...thing.
You're well aware that you have established a routine—interaction of regular occurrence, planned promises, implicit hellos and goodbyes, the effort of caring enough to carry on with such endeavors.
You're also well aware this has never happened before.
She's done something to you.
When you think about all the effort you've put forth in this lifetime evading closeness, how careful you've been with personal contact, how hard you've contended to remain a certain amount of ambiguity—the grasp of such a notion becomes that much more unnerving.
It's never been about trust, or love, or commitment.
It's always been about control. Never having to feel the loss or gain of expectation is easier for you. It's one of the downfalls that comes with feeling so intensely—you become the product of passion and pain, and you can't let many people touch you in this world.
The potential damage could be devastating.
Yet, as she looks at you, stirring up all this beautiful chaos, that something says she just may destroy you.
And you can't help but think you would absolutely let her.
"Okay, so when you were younger, did you like N'Sync or The Backstreet Boys?" Her question is directed at Kurt, and you nearly spit back the coffee that was mid-way down your throat from laughter. You never knew that a ten minute argument about music could be so entertaining.
"Is that a real question? Obviously N'Sync."
"Such a real question. The Backstreet Boys had better music," she argues as if it's the most logical thing she's ever said.
"No way," Kurt deadpans. "Bye Bye Bye was a great song, and Justin Timberlake had dreamy curls."
You press your lips tightly, trying not to allow yourself to chuckle. Neutrality is key in times like these.
It doesn't go unnoticed, however. Kurt fixes his stare at you. "Don't laugh at me, Lopez. You know it's true." Your head shakes as you bite back a grin.
Brittany's elbows touch the table, and she leans over, staring at you in this really sexy, coercive kind of way. "Come on, San," her inflection tracing the lines of sultry, "Help me out here. You know you're team Brittany on this one."
That voice and the way she says team Brittany—you're pretty sure it's your new favorite form of foreplay.
"Um..." She wets her lips as she looks at you. Your eyes follow slowly and trace the curvature along cupids bow.
What was the question again?
"Better yet, which song was better? Everybody or Bye Bye Bye?"
Oh, that.
You direct your gaze at the table and roll your bottom lip between your teeth, contemplating on how to go about this without really going about it. At one point, you knew the Bye Bye Bye dance, but you'll take that information to your grave. "Um, I don't really know. I was more of an Aliyah kind of girl?" It's sort of true and the most shameless answer you can conjure.
They both look at you confoundedly. You shrug while taking another sip of coffee, shoulders back against the booth cushion, ankles crossed loosely beneath the table. With age, you've learned that bickering is better as a spectator sport, and since you only have another five minutes left on your lunch, you plan to enjoy every second of them peacefully.
Kurt scoffs. Brittany focuses on the gaze you refuse to give her. When you finally do, she catches your eyes and looks at you with this way, like she's exploring beneath your surfaces, and she's readily willing to understand each and every one of your actions...
It's a bit unnerving, how good she is at picking apart your words and rearranging your lies. Even the silly, inconsequential ones.
"Whatever. I'm right and she knows it," Kurt states simply, rolling his eyes.
"Or maybe she just doesn't feel like taking sides," Britt rivals.
You cock your grin as she glances in your direction, eyes soft, dimples on display, and you watch as she offers you a shy smile. And it says more than she ever could, because while she doesn't look entirely confident, she still exudes a quiet collectivity. Even if she doesn't feel completely at ease, she's self-aware enough to endure whatever formidable surroundings may exist.
And it's that moment you find yourself certain.
Her destruction of you would still be considered flawless.
On Thursday, you decide that it doesn't take an overtly exceptional day for her to exceed expectations.
You've been periodically checking on Blaine since his medication has been altered, per Dr. Yuik's advisement. His levels haven't really changed for better or worse, and while you're not hopeful that he'll survive, you're positive that you'll give it your best effort to see that he has the opportunity to.
When you enter his room unceremoniously, you immediately notice the change; a quick transitioned contrast of color against the dark walls of neutrality, covered with bright checkered patterns of fabric. The bedside table surface is scattered with rainbow coasters and neon streamers. They flamboyantly dangle from the fixtures, drawing attention. Juxtaposed next to a white foam cup sits a pair of boxing gloves and a several upright wooden frames. First glance tells you the photos are the most important, like meaningful captured family moments or male significant-other poses; second glance tells you maybe the boxing gloves signify strength, perseverance and passion, and maybe that's therein lies the important message.
Third glance tells you that everything in this room is story about who Blaine is, and each one explains something different about what matters to him.
You study it all with a close interest.
It's strangely intimate, yet exposing.
Another step further into the room, and your former patient beams upon notice of you. Your heart skips because he looks better than you've ever seen him.
Blaine's still wearing his hospital gown, but there is a certain cropped cleanliness that's evident. A black necktie pulled tight around skin and his jet slicked hair seem to have ignited a smile. The jaundice is still prevalent, but he has a different glow about him; you think it just may be the derivative of renewed energy.
You can't explain it how it makes you feel, other than closer to hope.
You grin at him. "Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes."
He blushes, "Thanks. My hair was dying to be cut."
"Well, it looks good now."
"It better," he chuckles.
"I think you've got enough gel in there to be sure." Your tone is teasing, but his smile still moves wider than you've seen before. When you turn your head again, offering another glance around, you mention, "Look at this place..."
"I know. Talk to Britt. She did all this."
And it all makes sense—the touch of profound interest, the perceptive balance of beautiful and tragic, the implicit understanding of how and what exactly makes a person special.
It makes sense because only exceptional people can do exceptional things.
You think about that first time you had lunch with her, and how easily she said, "Everyone has favorite things, San."
You look down and you smile because it's so...
Brittany.
Just...her.
Just...
Sorcery.
"Lopez, you've got Saturday and Sunday off, right?"
You spin on your heels, not expecting to hear that particular voice at this time of night. Yet, you're standing across from Dr. Yuik who is looking at you, and you're not quite sure how to answer. "Well, yeah, but—"
"Good," he interrupts. "You're going to need it. I need you early tomorrow morning. We've got back to back kidneys. It's going to be a long day, but nothing you're not used to. This time you'll have the whole weekend off to recover, though."
Wide eyed and unsure why he's asking you instead of Karofsky, you just nod, grateful whatever the reason. Midnights don't really give you ample opportunity for O.R time, and ever since you were sabotaged a few weeks ago, your attending doctors haven't exactly been showering you with responsibility.
You'll take what you can get.
"I can do it, sure."
"Good. I'll see you at 8 AM." You nod and watch him walk away, feeling overtly anxious about what just transpired.
Your uneasiness doesn't dissipate throughout the evening, and without a certain someone there to assuage your trepidation, your mind wheels. Rounds move slowly. Even Rachel Berry's voice seems to bother atypically, and somewhere among yourself, you find an hour's sleep in the employee lounge.
8 AM comes quick.
You help with pre-op, and when the first surgery arrives, it lasts three hours. You're mainly a spectator, watching Dr. Yuik's quick fingers work skillfully, like a master hand-smith. The second surgery begins less than two hours later, and you're a bit shell-shocked when you're setting up and he says, "Lopez, you're running things."
"What?" Disbelief is the only state of being you can fathom.
"I'll be here assisting you, so just go slow," he assures you. Perhaps the certainty in his eyes gives you enough courage to nod your head, and when you say yes, he smiles knowingly.
It's a much less invasive operation than the one just performed, but it requires equal concentration.
But as you begin, you're almost thinking too much. You're obsessing over the tiny incisions being made in the abdomen, which are only small holes that allow room for your camera and ultrasonic dissecting device to be inserted.
You're not even doing anything yet and already, you're driving yourself mad.
When you get just past the spleen and descending colon, someone turns on the radio, and I Want it That Way hums in the background. You bite your lip and smile softly as your cognition clears, only to be restored with a sense of calm and easiness. Simple regard.
It stays with you as find the kidney and begin removing unnecessary tissue. The quick vibration of your utensil depletes the amount of blood pooling as you work, and you remain cautious all the while, measuring your cuts and keeping your hands steady.
An hour later, you're moving on to the renal area, and you're careful not to injure essential vessels where you work. Your hands are key. You must keep them exactly where they need to be.
Once you get to the gonadal vein, you begin to sweat, but you don't allow your fingers to lose their assurance. Dr. Yuik never has to intervene, even when you're ready to divide renal vessels, you never waver. You're actually surprised at how precise you are at stapling arteries and suturing incisions, like you've been removing kidneys for years.
"You're a natural," Dr. Yuik comments as you're working on the last stitch, pride written all over his face.
You probably shouldn't let him see how receptive you are to his recognition, or how much his words mean to you; yet, you can't hide it. You beam. Despite the light pounding in your forehead and your overworked body, everything feels right. Your heart swells infinitely from your accomplishments, happiness floods you. You've never stopped working for this moment. And now that you've found your niche, you don't think you will ever will limit yourself.
This is what you were built for.
While the O.R is not physically intensive work, the amount of concentration proves to be all too exerting. Your pride-high wears off rather quickly, and twenty-one hours later—the last eleven running on empty with only watered down coffee as a consolation prize—you're covered in sweat and blood, and all you want is a shower. A bed. Maybe a hot meal.
Fatigue is a powerful apparatus.
The sun clears the clouds, and it's brightness begins gleaming against the whitewash hospital walls. It's funny how precisely you remember this exact moment the day prior, and the memory makes your feet move like lead against the tiles. Your fingers are practically numb. Your body aches.
Yet, you can't help think if she could be here right now, able to give you even a glimpse of that smile—the one you always imagine is meant just for you—it would be enough to carry you.
And the reality of this, the fact that you're now consistently having these moments where you wish for her presence, possibly even long for it...
You're not certain what to make of it.
Even as you make the journey to your car, you walk five minutes out of your way to the cafeteria, chancing a glance near the cappuccino machine in hopes of finding her there. When you don't, you grab a small cup of hazelnut blend anyway, only because you've come to associate the smell with her.
It's filed and secretly stored with a list of all associative things Brittany Pierce.
Sugar,
or Snickers,
or that bright shade of blue that reminds you of her eyes,
or,
lengthy legs.
Just...
When you're settled in the driver's seat of your practical small sedan, you bring the pads of your fingers to your temples and rub harshly. You're so fucking tired, yet the idea of going home to an empty apartment for the next two days is entirely daunting. What would you possibly do for that long? And being now that you're fully aware of the growing ache in your chest that demands even more from you, you can't turn your mind off. You're filled with a vast longing that's substantially growing past the stage of want.
You urge.
You need.
You ache for routine.
You drive. You don't take your normal route. Your car directs the way to a different apartment, and when you find yourself standing on the other side of her door, foam cup still in hand, ready to collapse, she looks down at you, smiling sadly.
You realize fairly quickly how ill-planned this idea is on your part. Her hair looks perfectly curled at the ends; a light amount of make-up is dusted across her face; the jeans hugging her thighs are something too good for this world. Your memory couldn't even paint such perfection, and the vision standing before you makes you want nothing more than to internally slap yourself. She obviously has plans for the day, and here you're just showing up unannounced and expectantly. Leaning weakly against the doorframe, you conjure some sorry excuse of an explanation. "I'm sorry, I uh, didn't realize..."
Ready to turn around, you give up pretty quickly, but you're stopped when you feel her fingers latch onto your wrist. Tight gripped and unrelenting, her hand tugs you through the threshold, and you comply, entirely too tired to do anything else. Footsteps lead you. Your feet follow to the bedroom where your ass finds the edge of a bed. You sit and face forward, leaving your eyes to look up at her.
Either the heightened state of deja vu or fatigue makes quick of your thoughts, and suddenly, flashes come in holograms. Your memory strikes visions of a situation such as this quite vividly, but under entirely different circumstances. Liquid heat creeps across your neck, your cheeks.
Yet it dissipates quickly with the soft mattress beneath you providing ample comfort, and your eyes flutter shut for a slight moment. You fight to will them open again, and when she looks down at you this time, you want to tell her how pretty she is. The hint of mascara coating her lashes makes her eyes that much more noticeable, and even amid the fatigue-filled fog, the world twirls so beautiful under her gaze.
And it's so heavy.
"San," Fingers flutter against your jawline. You swallow thick, but can't fight your eyes to open again. Instead, you follow her voice. "When was the last time you slept?"
Soft touches trace your cheek's bone structure. It's possibly the sweetest way anyone has ever touched you, and you want to burrow inside the feeling.
"Hmmm..." Your shift ended at 6 AM on Thursday, and you slept for an hour before your 23 hour day on Friday, but you honestly can't remember anything else other than that. Just as you're about to explain this, you feel your heels slipping from their confinement. A soft thud hits the floor, and then your socks are peeling off next. You never knew how good cool air could feel against your skin. You bite your lips in anticipation just as a gentle tug comes from the elastic band against your hips, and a whisper fills your left ear.
"I'm just getting you out of these clothes, then you can sleep, okay?" Something soft grazes your cheek and you sigh with want, need, acceptance.
"Okay."
You dream of sugar fields and constellations.
When you wake to a warm, shampoo-fragranced pillow and a late night breeze flowing through the window, you think your dreams aren't that far stretched from reality. Every fiber of you is still faintly exhausted, but somewhere in between the world of sleep and wakefulness, you feel a silent contentment.
Her leg is draped over yours, her arm encircled around your waist, keeping you close. Despite being in only your underwear and a tank top, your body temperature is perfect, and the heat radiating from all around you is the likely reason why. A slight shift of movement pulls you a touch away, but Brittany's choice on dealing with the matter allows otherwise. Her grip tightens and she tugs you back closer, grasping your tank top with a careless regard. Your breath hitches, your breathing goes ragged as your skin presses tight against hers. You're face to face, closer than close, and as much as this moment frightens you, you can't remember a time you've felt more.
More.
You shift again, and that's what you get—more heat, less distance.
The breath from between her lips.
The dip of her hips.
The curve of her calves.
The thick of your thigh between her legs.
Her leg winds about your waist with determination. You're bold enough to stare freely, studying the gray contours against her cheekbones amid the night's scale, too tired to understand exactly why this person—this caliber of a woman—would deem you worthy enough of her affections.
Because she's so fucking beautiful.
You can barely stand it—about as much as you can stand the confines of limitation; you need her and you don't want to think about the consequences to that right now.
In a brazen-rushed stupor, you let your courage guide you through the darkness. You lean forward, and when you feel the tips of your noses touch, you press your mouth lightly against hers, tasting the cool sleepiness. It's gentle, sweet-intentioned, and you let it linger just a little too long, knowing she could wake at any moment.
It's then that her lashes flutter open and her eyes look back at you, unexpectedly and inquisitive. Your intention is to pull away quickly, but her shoulders arch and her mouth follows your every backpedal. You nearly gasp when a strong hand makes its way around the back of your neck, commanding control.
At first it begins with gentle speed—light pushes of her lips against yours, rather chaste; but then it manifests itself into something darker. Needier. The curious wonderment and desire for more requires harsher contact, and you're not in any place to deny it. You bring her mouth in deeper, and when her tongue flicks at your bottom lip and then begs entry into your mouth, you whimper at the contact because it's so much better than you remembered.
It's...
Just her.
Somehow the sound of your moan prompts a fervent tenacity, forcing her lips to slide over yours hotly, ill controlled; and when her tongue reaches your mouth for a second time, it's more demanding, searching. Less-than-gentle fingers thread through your hair while yours land on her hips, and the force of her palm keeps the kiss deep while your mouth keeps it hard.
Tingles...everywhere.
Rapt tongue.
Guileless motives.
Unsophisticated want.
The hot burn of desire that reaches between your legs when she openly sucks on your tongue, leaving your fingertips to grip harder on her innocent waist can only be defined as greedy. She rocks roughly on your thigh, letting out a high-pitched gasp, and you can't help but love this lack-of-sleep lewd sex-haze, even if you know where it's leading.
You're no stranger to the feeling.
Nothing lasts with sweet intentions.
And that's why you rip yourself away.
Wet, crimson-angry lips are swollen and raw, and lustful blue eyes are hesitantly gazing back at you.
And...fuck.
You'd fuck her filthy in this instant if you didn't care about what it meant after.
But you care.
So much.
She makes you hunger for things you've never wanted before. You have this innate urge to just curl back up next to her with your noses touching, falling asleep while continuing to give her the slowest, sleepiest of kisses. Then you want to wake up in the morning, still groggy but gratified, imparting the most meaningful, wakeful of kisses – the ones that leave you breathless for more. And if she'll allow it, you want to kiss her in nearly every moment in between, just so she knows how perfectly content you are to continue kissing endlessly. .
So when her lips connect with yours once more, you make certain it's gentle and with a means to an end. The soft smile you flash as you pull away is well-intentioned and quietly meant to ease her apprehensions.
And when her arm snakes its way around you again, her mouth releasing a contended sigh, you know you're going to sleep soundly.
You sleep deeply enough that when you wake, you have no idea what day it is.
Your bladder prompts you to finally get out of bed, and as your feet hit surface, you immediately feel the cold hardwood giving you goose-pimples. During your tip-toe to the bathroom, you feel a striking gaze against you, smiling at your ill-executed plan to avoid chills.
"I have extra slippers, you know."
You turn and look at her, lovely as ever without a stitch of make-up on, smiling mischievously at you despite her own dishevelment. You think it's unfair how she can make plaid flannel pajama bottoms exude sex, and overtly unusual duck slippers disgustingly cute. It's enough to warrant a pathetic smile on your end, and you just...
You have no words. Ever.
"Please tell me they aren't ducks."
She eyes you curiously. "And what's wrong with ducks?"
You bite your bottom lip and shake your head with a grin, "Ducks are fine, as long as they aren't on my feet."
She chuckles and aims her grin at you. "Well, you'll be happy to know the slippers in the bathroom aren't ducks."
You pretend to be relieved, but truthfully, you would've worn the stupid damn slippers. You probably would've worn them on your head if you thought it would make her happy.
But she doesn't need to know that.
"Thanks Britt."
"No worries. There's other stuff in there for you, too."
You thank her again and excuse yourself, finding your way into the small but clean space. Right away you see a neat stack of things sitting on the counter that are for you—folded up pajamas, a toothbrush, a towel, a bar of soap, and a pair of hot pink fuzzy slippers. You smile weakly again, a familiar warmth flooding through you.
Bless her. God, do you need a shower.
Twenty minutes of blazing hot water beating on your back is possibly the greatest thing you've ever felt, but the cause of your deliberate procrastination is truly derived from the way her shampoo slides between your fingers as you tangle it through your hair. It's that smell of clean; the way your hair becomes pliant and soft from conditioning.
The way it reminds you of her.
You turn the tap off and step out of the shower, dressing quickly because of the chilled temperature. Drying your hair proves to be a longer task than you originally wanted to take on, but you finish it nonetheless. The cushion of Brittany's fuzzy slippers ensconces your feet with warmth, and the softness of her cotton pajamas brushes lightly against your cool skin. It's an odd, but perfect combination of comfort.
Upon exiting the bathroom you notice how much colder the main living space is than it should be with the bay window hanging wide open. Crisp autumn blows freely into the room, and you laugh when you see her tucked into a ball on the couch, entirely buried beneath two sets of blankets.
"You uh...might wanna close the windows, Britt."
She shakes her head. "Nope."
"Why? It's freezing, woman."
She shrugs. "I like it."
"The flu?"
"No," she mumbles, ignoring your sarcasm, tucking herself further into the couch. "The smell."
You roll your eyes in attempt to ignore how fucking cute she is, and settle for plopping down beside her. It's then you observe clock on the wall. You kind of forgot about the world's existence, and now that you know it's 9 A.M on Sunday, you're painfully cognizant of it.
You slept the entire day of Saturday away.
The thought fleetingly hits you in the gut. And now you're so acutely aware that this isn't your apartment, nor is it your time that is being imposed upon, but rather, hers.
"Hey Britt?"
"Hmmm?" She keeps her head buried in the cushion, her voice sleep-filled.
"Do you uh, have stuff to do? Should I go?"
She and rolls over, finally looking up at you with furrowed brows. "Do you need to go?"
You bite your bottom lip and lift your gaze from her steadiness. "No, it's just, I don't want—"
"Then don't worry about it," she interrupts, her eyes still and narrowed on you. You're amazed how even when she's being assertive, she's still exuding this innate kindness.
You press your lips together tightly, feeling the need to explain, "I just didn't want to assume anything. I know it's your day off."
"It's lazy Sunday, San. Stop worrying so much," she smiles, crossing her right foot cautiously over the left, sure to remain beneath the blankets. You're suddenly jealous of a comforter.
"What is lazy Sunday?"
"It's exactly what it sounds like," She shifts again, moving herself upwards so her back lands against the armrest. "Sundays that are lazy."
You grin at her mischievous smile, secretly loving this laid-back demeanor. "So what do you on these lazy Sundays?"
"Nothing," she deadpans.
You raise your brow. "And you do this every week?"
"Just about."
Warmth escapes you, and you're kind of at a loss for words. A day of doing nothing is a foreign concept to you, let alone one of regularity. "Hmm."
She smirks at you knowingly, and again, you're in awe of how easy it is for her to read you.
"I started doing it about a year ago. I remember in grad school our professors would talk a lot about self -care and social workers getting burnt out, especially in fields like hospice or CPS. And I just kinda shrugged it off in the beginning, but I don't know..." she bites her lip and looks away from you momentarily, but when her eyes return, they fix on you intently. "Sometimes you just need you time. For me, that's a day in my pajamas. For Kurt, it's a night at the theatre. I just know I'm better when I'm not running on empty, and I'm glad somebody was smart enough to tell me early on."
Your heart pounds. Your throat constricts. You feel the implicitness of her words, and you feel the shame creeping up your skin. Suddenly keeping her eyes seems like a task you're not worthy of.
Noticing your discomfort, "Will you c'mere?" It's a soft request that's easy enough to comply with until she's situating herself, leaving enough space for you beneath the covers. Immediately, you know what she's asking, because since last night, you haven't exactly determined the boundaries of contact. You've blurred the lines and now she's looking to know what is and isn't okay.
You don't even know, to be honest.
But you can't say no to her. Not when she smiles so wide upon your acquiescence. So you allow your muscles to relax and you bring yourself close to her, sighing when her arms envelope you. Blankets are thrown over your chest, and suddenly, you're cocooned in nothing but warmth. The sweet smell of soap and skin constructs your mind's next reoccurring dream, and you cache it for your most intimate envisions.
It makes you inhale a little further.
"What's your favorite way to waste time?" she whispers against your ear, her chest pressed against you, creating enough heat to abate the cold.
It's such a loaded question.
"I—I dunno. It's not something I've ever done. I just don't think it's in the cards for me, Britt."
Her arms wrap around you tighter. "We always make time for the things that matter. You just forget that you matter, too, San."
Something about the way she says San, or the delicate content of her words makes you glad her eyes aren't on you. It's almost like guilty vindication. "It's not that. I knew what I was signing up for when I decided to go to med school. I'm a doctor, you know? I'm always going to be busy. That's just the way it is." You wonder if the lies sound as awful as they taste coming out of your mouth.
Truth be told, you didn't know what you were signing up for. Your dreams, your innate need to be the best—it's also been the precursor for your demise. You had no way of knowing you would have to put forth twice as much effort just to prove yourself, or that you would be working on a $38,000 residents' salary, putting in ungodly hours every week. Your insistence to be a surgeon is only one more thing dragging this process out, and even though residency is temporary, it feels as though it's been going on forever. You can't even begin to express how fucking exhausted you are.
You just want more moments like this—ones of simple happiness.
"But before you were a doctor, you were Santana first," she reminds you. And you feel her hand shift down and her fingers thread through yours, giving a gentle squeeze. "Just because you're always gonna' be busy now doesn't mean that goes away."
You don't know why you squeeze back, but you do, letting the silence fill your hollowed thoughts. After a pause and quiet consideration, you ask, "Has anyone ever told you how smart you are?"
You feel her smile against your neck. "Not really."
"You are," you assure her.
"Thanks."
She tucks her chin into the crook of your neck and her fingers begin gently tracing over your knuckles. "Hey San?"
You almost don't hear her in your realm of relaxation. "Hmm?"
"What is this?" You feel it more than you see it—the gesture of her holding your linked hands up in need of clarity.
Your chest swells, but it's not in a moment of panic. It's something beyond that; something stronger, yet more equivocal. Possibly guilt.
"Is it okay if I say I'm not really sure?"
She pauses before her hand tightens around yours again. "If that's how you feel, then it's okay," she breathes against you, assuring you with her caring gestures. The soft, satisfying kiss against your neck allows you to relax again.
Somehow you knew she would be okay with your answer, and her patience prompts you think about what she was asking you just a moment ago, about all your previous favorite ways to spend time. In truth, the then and now of it all seems futile, so infinitesimal. It's part of the reason you normally avoid favoritism. People change with time. We're always building to another juncture. If you are to decimalize life, if you are to measure it through a matter of moments, you're placing value in a realm of confinement.
Consciously, what's important to us has already been ranked. It's how we know of happiness.
Trust is accepting that happiness knows best, and in this case, you know it cannot put a numerical value on her worth. You think perhaps this constitutes as an emblem of truth—that there are no easy answers, because this is not a simple equation. She is not ephemeral. She is not inconsequential. This is beyond fleeting factors. She's an aggregation of every atom, every minuscule detail that matters, and it's this very notion that makes you tremble with fear. Because when you really think about it, when it reaches full fruition, it's so incredibly blatant.
Nothing else will ever compare.
This is your favorite way to waste time.
This is your favorite way to not waste time.
It's everything.