"Guess what I'm writing," Brittany says, but Santana can't guess, because it just feels like a lot of loops to her.
"I don't know," Santana shrugs.
"You'll mess me up if you do that," Brittany scolds, pressing down on Santana's shoulders so that Santana will stay still before adding another loop.
"Sorry," Santana says, not sure if she is or not.
Brittany ignores Santana acting rude. Instead, she hums a tuneless hum. "Guess again."
They're sitting on Santana's bed, Brittany cross-legged directly behind Santana, both of them in pajama shirts and sweatpants. They have a movie on, but neither of them watches it. Instead, Brittany writes lazy loops on Santana's back over Santana's gauzy, cotton sleep shirt with one finger. Santana flips through one of the girlie magazines her mother says she is way too young to read—which is so lame, because Santana is thirteen and definitely old enough to read whatever the hell she wants—and tries hard not to think about how fast her heart beats nowadays whenever Brittany sits close to her like this.
Santana pauses on her page and looks down at her toenails, painted with the very adult mauve polish she stole from the drugstore last weekend when she went with her dad to pick up his new glasses. Brittany drags her index finger over Santana's spine, continuing her string of loops. Santana inhales and smells the sweet, sleepy scent of bedtime Brittany just behind her. Her breath catches.
"I don't know, BrittBritt. What?"
"You really don't know?"
"No."
"Oh. I wrote 'HI SANTANA.'" Brittany sounds honestly disappointed.
Santana sighs and dog ears her magazine before pushing it away. "You can't do it like that," Santana tries to explain.
"Like what?"
Santana just gestures for Brittany to switch places with her. Brittany trundles half over the top of Santana to the front of the bed and Santana waits for Brittany to settle in, then presses a hand on Brittany's back, which burns warm like a hot rock beneath her open palm. "Like this," she says, dragging her finger in a trail of haphazard loops over Brittany's spine.
"San, you aren't even writing anything," Brittany says seriously.
Santana shakes her head. "Sorry." And this time she kinda is. Still, she has a point to prove; Brittany can't just expect her to read scribbles.
So.
After a pause, Santana drags a meandering fingertip down from Brittany's right shoulder blade, snaking it left, then right, then left again, making a point to hold it down once she reaches the dimple above Brittany's hip bone, just visible through the gap between her t-shirt and low-riding pants.
S
No sooner does Santana write the letter than Brittany names it aloud.
"S?"
Damn.
"That was an easy one, though," Santana protests. "I'm not done spelling the word," and so she continues, adding two low loops of her own.
ee
She writes them lowercase and in cursive before adding a question mark with a flourish.
?
"'See?'" Brittany says, as though it's the simplest thing in the world.
Was it really that easy? "Un-freaking-believable!" Santana says. She tries to sound mad, but she knows that Brittany can tell she's faking. Brittany goes back to humming and taps her fingers on the comforter.
Santana draws out more letters.
NO WAY
"'NO WAY,'" Brittany reads.
No use pretending anymore. Santana smiles now, genuinely amused. "How do you do that?"
Even though she can't see Brittany's face, Santana knows that Brittany's smiling, too, and not just any smile, but that little feline grin Brittany wears when she knows that she's one step ahead of someone. Santana continues to write, waiting for Brittany to answer her.
HI BRITT
"You just have to listen to how it feels, Santana," Brittany says gently.
"Listen to how it feels?" Santana parrots back.
HUH?
"Yeah," Brittany says. "Listen to yourself. Like, from the inside."
Santana thinks about what Brittany says. And for a second, Santana really listens, even though Brittany isn't writing on her now, just to see if she can do it.
At first, all she hears is the movie muttering in the background, set on a low volume, and faraway sounds from outside, like cars passing on the road. And below that? Brittany breathing. And herself breathing. She can't hear her heartbeat, but in some ways, she can feel it. Fast again. She hovers her finger over Brittany's shirt before lightly making another character, this one in dual graceful strokes on either side of Brittany's spine—one, two. Like angel wings.
"I don't get it, Britt," she says softly. Something trembles inside of her and she feels the need to stay quiet.
Santana writes another word just below her last character, her finger lingering at the very base of Brittany's back. She opens her hand and spreads her fingers, resting them on Brittany's bare skin. Now Brittany's heart beats fast, too. Santana feels its pace increase beneath her palm.
Brittany stays calm, though. "It's okay, San. The movie's almost over anyway. We can just go to sleep."
[heart]
SHH