(Author's Note: For those of you who follow Pas de Deux, I will update soon; give me a few more days to finish the thesis and your patience will be rewarded.

Many thanks to my new beta, terriblemuriel, especially for pushing me to dig in a little more at the end of the chapter.

Small note: the cookie secrets from last chapter are my real secrets, from my days in the US when I had a real oven and perfected the art of the chocolate chip cookie whilst grading. If you like to bake and want Santana's recipe, message me.)

Brittany outed you. You can't believe she outed you. Online.

When she said she was going to start doing an online talk show, she texted you the minute she posted, and you went to watch it. And then she fucking outed you.

Every hour or so you go back and check. The view count is clicking up by tens and twenties. You text her—britt wtf?—but she doesn't respond.

Why would she do that? You know she wants you to come out, but you never thought she'd out you so casually, so distantly. You feel so humiliated. Betrayed. Even more than when she spilled on the conference call just before Sectionals last year.

And fuck that blind item in the school paper. Everyone is going to know who it is. You feel whispers and looks cutting you as you walk through the halls. Your ears burn. You don't even know if you're imagining things.

It seems like every time you almost feel ready to come out, something pushes you further back in the closet. You know Kurt was right. You have to come out. But you think with a twist of guilt about all of those times you saw Karofsky—that douche you almost can't believe you're now pretending to date—throwing him into the lockers, and you did nothing. None of you did anything until it was too late. Now, that's going to be you. And you still don't have Britt.

Tormented with replays of cold slushies and the cold hard lockers you've so recently come into intimate contact with, thanks to one Lauren Zizes, you storm into the choir room and confront Brittany. She gives you an excuse—an excuse so Brittany that you almost believe it. You want to believe it. So you storm out just as suddenly, as if you're still mad, and feel terrible all over, and you decide in the end to believe it. It's easier to believe she can't hurt you like this, so easily, over and over and over again.

Maybe it's karma. But you're glad about how easily you forgave Brittany the next day when she runs into your arms, crying. She never cries. You've seen this only twice before: once after her childhood cat got hit by a car, and the other after her grandpa died.

Britt-Britt, what's going on? You cradle her head against your shoulder and let her tears darken your shirt.

Artie called me stupid, she whispers.

Everything inside you curdles. You stiffen. You're going to fucking kill that four-eyed bastard.

Jesus, Britt. What the fuck?

He asked me—about you.

You're frozen in place. You don't want to ask—not when she's like this—but oh god, what did she say?

He asked, she continues, if I was cheating on him with you. So I panicked and told him what you told me. That it's not cheating. And he said he couldn't handle it if you were giving me something he's supposed to give me, and said you were trying to break us up, and I defended you because he can't just say things like that about you. And then he—a fresh sob breaks over her—he called me stupid.

Oh, Britt. You're unfrozen now; you brush the locks of hair off her temples and cheeks, where they cling wetly to her skin, and hook them behind her ears. Britt, don't you dare listen to him.

San, I think it's my fault. I—I think I knew all along that what we do is—cheating.

Your heart twists. But in a way you're satisfied. Neither of you is pretending anymore that it doesn't mean anything.

No. No no no. It is not your fault that he called you stupid. Nothing you could do makes that okay. You keep stroking her hair, right there in the hallway, as if no one were watching. Brittany's tears push everything else to second place. Your thoughts tumble and collide in your mind like clothes in a dryer. You can't believe that she defended you like that—to Artie.

It is, though, isn't it, San? Cheating, I mean?

You think for a moment.

What do you want to believe?

She says nothing. But she draws in a long breath. Her tears have stopped. They never last long; they're replaced by something deep and quiet, and she looks as if lead weights had been dropped into her every limb and joint and fingertip.

You know the only thing that can make her feel better right now. It's something you can do, something you can handle. You don't even have to say anything: you just have to lie down on her bed and hold her until she grows soft and light again in your arms.

Britt? You keep stroking her hair with your thumb. Want me to take you home?

She nods.

Okay, you say. Let's go.

When she lifts her face, her expression is still heartbroken.

Hey—you boop her nose to make the next part seem casual—Love you.

A ripple of something you can't quite read runs over her expression.

Come on, you coax her, wrapping your arm around her shoulder to lead her away.

Love you too, San, she whispers, and you have to remind yourself not to smile.

After Britt has finally fallen asleep in your arms, you look at your phone. Eleven at night. No sweet lady kisses—for once, you're really glad of that. Lately, with your heart still stitched and glued back into some semblance of functionality, it's gotten hard to remember that your first duty is to be Britt's best friend.

She's done with Artie. Now it's up to you. It doesn't feel like you thought it would. You know you should be over the moon to have your chance, so why are you still so scared?

You slide yourself gently out from under her limbs, still draped over you. Careful not to make a sound, you gather your things and start climbing out through her window. You see your own car and remember she's left her own at school; you'll swing by for her tomorrow morning. But first, you need to go home and do some thinking.

When you get home, you settle into your cold bed, turn on your laptop, and start scouring YouTube for tracks from Rumours. It's some pretty good shit, even if it is twice your age. You want to find something for Brittany. Maybe you could just slip back into her bed, but you've decided you want to win her. To show her that this time, everything will be different.

Then you find a clip of Songbird, and it's all over.

You know your mother knows about you and Brittany—well, knows something anyway—but you don't want to practice with her in the house. So early the next morning, you sit in your car in the driveway with the track you downloaded repeating on your iPod and the printed lyrics in your hand. Learning the song doesn't take as long as you expect. Six repetitions are enough. You just hope you don't forget everything once Brittany is looking at you, the way you forget a lot of things lately.

After a last deep breath, seeing that it's time to pick up Brittany, you change the track and hide the lyrics sheet deep in your backpack, folded in half, like a sleeping thing.

When you take her to the choir room, just you and her and Brad—when you asked him if he knew the song, he just laughed, as if you'd asked whether he knew Heart and Soul or Für Elise—you start feeling your nerves creep over you, the way they did just before you sang Landslide. This time will be so much easier—and so much harder.

You sit her down and back away into the crook of the piano. You don't know what to do with your hands; they move like nervous birds. When you sing, you're surprised to hear your own voice, clear and strong, when inside you feel unsubstantial, like you're filled with a whirlwind of newspaper and feathers. Brittany watches you like she can't quite believe it. Like she's afraid to move. So you move closer. And when—the heartbeat rushing to your ears drowns the sound of your own voice—when you sing I love you, for the first time, you could swear she was close to tears herself.

And then it's over, too fast, and you're still looking at each other—it feels like the way she held you last night, like she's afraid to break the touch, to lose her anchor to happiness and drift back into the entropy and anguish of the world outside of the two of you.

At least—you think that's what it is.

Wait, she says. So why couldn't you sing that to me in front of everyone?

It's not what you expected. It stings. You think about Kurt's tough love speech. About the blind item. About the fear that feels like it's pushing back against your chest so you can't move forward. Either it's getting stronger, or you're getting weaker. Maybe both.

No, you tell her. Not—not yet. I'm not ready for that type of—public announcement. You walk back toward the piano as you try to explain it to her; try to pull something of yourself, something stronger, out of this morass of hurt and fear and love and longing.

Well—what if I went first? Brittany follows you right into the crook of the piano, looking as strong as you wish you felt. Come on Fondue for Two. Britt grins confidentially. I'll ask you out to prom—your stomach flip-flops—and, I'll tell you how I feel, and all you have to do is say yes.

You look at her, and it's like when she asked you to come sit with her on the bed for five minutes. You're not ready. You know you're not ready. But you feel her strength pull you to her, and it's like someone else, someone braver, is answering for you.

Okay.

Her smile is blinding. You pull her into an embrace: it's you who needs the anchor now. She feels like home.

It felt so easy to say yes in the choir room. But now it's time to leave for Britt's and do this for real, and you're sitting on your bedroom floor with your back against your door, studying your phone as if it were a loaded gun.

For a minute, your fear inverts itself into anger at Britt. You told her you weren't ready. Why is she pushing you so hard?

You didn't tell anyone about this. Especially not Kurt. You just couldn't deal with one more person's disappointment if you can't go through with this.

Prom. You imagine, for a moment, the two of you shopping for dresses together, getting mani-pedis. You think about taking her somewhere for dinner, somewhere with classical music playing and a wine list, taking all of her slow dances for yourself, and taking her home after to strip off your dresses and make mad passionate love to her the rest of the night.

Then the picture changes. You imagine yourself at the romantic dinner with the other patrons' eyes on you, wondering where your dates are. You think about slow dancing with her as your eyes dart around for hidden slushies, your ears cocked for whispers and jeers.

You flip open your phone.

i cant

As soon as you send it, your stomach turns; you taste the bile of your own cowardice. You despise what you are; you despise yourself for being such a fucking baby about it. But most of all—you despise yourself for hurting Britt, again, and know that this time, despite your promises to yourself, nothing is different.

It's like Songbird never happened. It's like you're back to the hallways after she asked to do a duet and you turned her down. She won't talk to you; she'll hardly look at you.

You know you're the one who's wrong, but you can't help it: it makes you angry. It was unfair of her to ask so much of you, so fast.

Like a rubber band stretched too tight in one direction, you find yourself springing back into the other. You're deeper in the closet now, clinging to the pathetic, futile prom royalty campaign with Karofsky. You even post the world's grossest rumor about having sex with Karofsky at a cemetery on the school newspaper's site. Even though the mere mental image makes you want to vomit. As if putting this out were going to erase what that stupid paper has already printed about you, on hundreds of sheets, in black ink.

Then Jewfro interviews you in the hall about it. He tracked down your IP and he knows you did it yourself. You freeze and try not to panic.

And then you see where you've frozen. Right in front of Brittany's locker.

You try not to look at her as you tell his waiting mic that your computer was stolen. But she's there, trying in vain not to watch you, but so heartbroken you don't even have to look at her to understand how much she's hurting. You know—because you know exactly what it feels like.

And yet your mouth keeps moving. Words about being happy with Karofsky are coming out. You're disgusted with yourself. Your fear is speaking for you now, your fear that keeps pushing you backward. Fear like a hydra: every time you thought you'd hacked it to death, it sprouts two new snapping heads.

So, you two are in love? Jewfro asks, clearly skeptical. Soulmates, so to speak?

Brittany's not even pretending not to look now. She's stopped putting on her makeup. Her eyes are directly on yours. All you can hear is your heart—or is it hers—like a pulsing current running through the floors and walls.

Forgive me, you beg her eyes, silently, desperately. Forgive me again. The way I forgave you.

And as you breathe in to answer, you pray she'll know who you mean.

Yeah. I'd say that was accurate.

As you walk away from Brittany without looking at her again, you feel a different kind of pressure in your chest. Not fear. It's a tugging feeling. Like she's clipped a leash to your heart and you're at the end of your line, and yet you keep pulling. You can stop and go back to her, or you can keep walking—and if you do, either she'll follow you, or she'll stay where she is and let you rip the clamp rip straight through your heart.

Turn around now, you tell yourself, lingering at the doorway of an empty classroom down the hall. Turn around and go to her. And for a minute it's just you and your heartbeat, like a metronome, ticking off tiny parcels of lost time. You imagine Brittany picking up the applicator again and smoothing eyeshadow into the creases of her eyelids. Swinging the door of her locker as she tries to remember which books she needs. Waiting for something that will never come.

You wanted to show Brittany that everything would be different. Now, you've lost your chance—again—and you hate yourself for it.