Santana knows that they've said so before, but this time it's really true: Today was the worst practice in the history of practices and Coach Sylvester is the biggest bitch in the history of bitches.
Coach has been on the warpath lately. Nothing seems to satisfy her, not even the best.
Brittany is the best.
In fact, that's just the problem.
Coach commissioned Brittany to choreograph the routine for their upcoming trip to Nationals and told Brittany to make it so damn complicated that no other squad could even come close to doing something like it. So Brittany did as Coach told her, and now the Cheerios have a routine so difficult that only Brittany and two of the seniors who have been in dance since they learned how to walk can keep up with it, and they've only got a week to perfect it before everything falls to shit and they lose their competition.
Coach refuses to back down from the routine, of course; she insists that they pick it up or she'll have them all flayed alive. In the meanwhile, though, Coach just screams at Brittany through her bullhorn, as though Brittany is really the one responsible for making everything impossible. "You're supposed to be one of my captains!" she screeches before assigning Brittany to run special laps.
Brittany ran no fewer than thirty-five "special" laps today and it was almost thirty-six after one of the JV girls nearly dropped Santana onto the gym floor after a botched throw. (Luckily, Santana has good balance and saved herself from falling; she would have died if Brittany had had to make another run because of her.) Now Brittany can't even walk straight; she can hardly walk at all, really.
So even though they haven't hung out much lately, Santana still decided to drive Brittany home after practice and stay at her house to take care of her, because even though Santana felt exhausted, she knew that Brittany felt worse than she did. After baths, menthol ointment, and fresh pajamas for both of them, Santana helped Brittany onto her bed before clambering up there after her. Within minutes, both girls fell asleep on top of the duvet, too spent to even turn down the covers.
Five hours later, they awakened in the same positions in which they had fallen asleep, considerably more rested but also hungrier than they had been earlier. It was two in the morning and Brittany's parents were in bed already. If they wanted food, they would have to fend for themselves.
"I'll make you something, BrittBritt," Santana offered, extending a pinky to Brittany before leading her, limping, downstairs to the kitchen.
Now Santana stands over the skillet, shaking the last omelet back and forth to keep it from sticking, the grease-slicked remnants of an empty bacon packet on the counter by her elbow and an open bag of shredded pepper jack cheese propped against Brittany's mother's spice rack. The kitchen smells of salt and sweet and every few seconds the hot air over the skillet pops, the omelet crackling as it cooks. Santana knows that Coach wouldn't approve of this meal, and especially of them eating it so late at night, but after how that psycho bitch treated Brittany today, Santana is in a "fuck Coach" kind of mood. Brittany sits at the table, a messy, half-empty plate in front of her, her face blank and hapless. Santana watches Brittany's reflection in the dark window over the sink.
"You okay, BrittBritt?"
Santana knows how Brittany gets when she's tired—she slows down, goes quiet, and her voice gets sweeter, if that's even possible. Like honey. So Santana just waits while Brittany takes a long while to chew the bite of omelet she already had in her mouth.
When she finally speaks, Brittany ignores Santana's question. "San," she says, "it's like two in the morning, right? We didn't eat dinner."
Santana gives the skillet another shake. "We're eating dinner now, Britt."
"But this is breakfast," Brittany mumbles.
"Well, yeah," says Santana. "I mean, it's breakfast food, but we're eating dinner… er, a snack or something."
"But it's night," Brittany reminds her.
"Yeah," Santana says, not quite sure where this is going. She pulls the skillet from the front burner, pushing it onto the unheated back stove.
"So wait," Brittany says, sounding sweeter still, but also a little whiny. "I don't get it. Is this breakfast or is it, like, dinner? Can we do this?" She whimpers and sets her head in her hands, as if her skull has suddenly become too heavy for her neck to support anymore.
"Do what, Britt? Eat breakfast?"
"Wait, what?"
"What?"
Santana doesn't even know what they're talking about anymore. She turns to face Brittany and Brittany stares up at her, bewildered.
"I'm just confused," Brittany moans, covering her face with her hands again. She runs her fingers roughly through her hair and growls in frustration or exhaustion or something. "We're eating breakfast, but it's not breakfast, and it's dinner, but we didn't have dinner, and it's eggs, and I just…," her sentence trails off. She sounds really, really serious, like she just identified a flaw in the latest plan for world peace.
"Poor Britty…," says Santana, offering her friend a sympathetic pout. She makes a comforting gesture. Pobrecita. She can't help it, though; she laughs.
Brittany spares Santana a sheepish look, hiding behind her hands as though her fingers are a mask. "Oh my god," she groans, embarrassed. "No, wait!" Her shoulders start to quake. Now she's laughing, too. "I only meant…," but she never explains what she meant. She starts full-on laughing and Santana does, too.
They probably wouldn't think this was so funny if they weren't so tired. But the thing is that they are tired—almost wasted with physical and mental exhaustion—so they do think it's funny.
Hilarious, even.
They haven't spent much time together recently, not since Brittany started dating Artie, not since Coach instituted epic practices daily after school, not since they've both been too busy to just hang out together like this, and maybe that makes it even funnier, too—the fact that this is such a them moment. That this is just their thing.
Pretty soon, they're both howling. Santana grabs onto the handle on the oven door and doubles over, clutching her already aching abdominals through her oversized Cheerios shirt. Brittany throws herself over the table, her face buried in her arms, whole body wracking. Soon, their howls devolve into little chokes of laughter punctuated every few seconds by an "Oh god!" or a wearied-sounding "Breakfast…" The fact that they're losing it like this is almost as funny as what Brittany said in the first place.
But when Brittany looks up at Santana, Santana sees that she's crying—not just teary from the laughter, but actually weeping, her lips trembling and her face pink. Everything in Santana drops. Nothing seems funny anymore, if it ever did. "Oh, Britty," she says, this time seriously, rushing over to the table, where she throws her arms around Brittany from behind, draping her body half over the chair. She presses into a deep embrace, her arms linked around Brittany's neck, her face snuggled into Brittany's hair. She doesn't know why Brittany's crying, but she can guess.
Even though Brittany is the one who did laps, Santana has spent this whole day running—running to catch up from where she'd fallen behind over the last few months, from where she'd let someone else stand in her place. Taking Brittany home, taking care of her, being with her… all of that was running. Without thinking of all the reasons why she shouldn't do it, Santana starts pressing little kisses into Brittany's hair.
"Santana," Brittany says and at first Santana worries that Brittany will throw her out. After all, Brittany has a someone now. Santana really, really shouldn't.
But no.
"Santana, it's okay," Brittany says, reaching up to pet the side of Santana's face. It's only when Brittany's hand rests on the back of her head that Santana realizes how fast her heart is beating.
Like she spent all day running.
"It's okay, I'm not sad," Brittany says, even though Santana can hear from her voice that she's still crying. "I'm just really, really tired, San. It's okay, though."
It's almost like Santana has spent so much time running today that she doesn't know how to stop anymore—like she has too much momentum—so she continues to kiss Brittany with little punctuated kisses that smack when her wet lips pull away from Brittany's hair.
"Hey," Brittany says finally, placing her hand on Santana's arm. "Be still."
Her last kiss lingers on the back of Brittany's head. But Santana does stop. She almost pulls away entirely, but Brittany doesn't let her go. Brittany presses her hands over Santana's arms, holding her in place, and scoots forward in her chair, silently inviting Santana to slide in behind her. It's an awkward fit with both of them sandwiched in-between the table and the chair back. Santana molds her legs around Brittany's torso, her arms still slung over Brittany's shoulders. It isn't very comfortable for Santana to sit like this, but then again, it is.
"Just be still," Brittany repeats. "Just stay here with me."
"Okay," Santana says stupidly.
It takes a few minutes before her heartbeat slows down. Before it matches Brittany's. Santana presses her chin over Brittany's shoulder and sighs. "Hey, Britt," she says.
"Hey," Brittany says. Santana can feel Brittany smiling where they have their cheeks pressed together. She can smell the almost-mint menthol rub on their skin and feel their muscles relaxing into each other. For a long time, they stay quiet, the clock over the trashcan ticking minutes away, the outdoors beyond the sliding glass porch door still and dark and vacant.
"It really is, though, San," Brittany says finally.
"What?"
"Breakfast. Confusing."
A beat.
"Hells yeah, it is."
They both laugh again and snuggle tighter.