(Author's Note: Long ago, reader dsachao asked about the chapter titles. Yes, most—though not all—are allusions. Those of you who are interested will find a guide to them the end of the chapter.

There will be two more installments of this story: Chapter 19 will be published after Pas de Deux Chapter 18, and the final chapters of both stories, 20, will be published simultaneously.

Thanks as always to terriblemuriel and JJ, as well as to Tess from tumblr venuscomb, whose beautiful and intimate Brittana flash fiction is getting under my skin in the best way.)

You have to admit—Dave Karofsky is growing on you.

After what you did to Britt, it's impossible for you to lie to yourself the way it was so easy to do before. You're selfish. You're scared. You're angry. And part of you is afraid of the kind of happiness you might have with Brittany, the way your eyes ache when you squint at the sun. You're afraid it will be too much. Loving her will kill you.

It's letting yourself admit these things that makes you see Dave—really see him—for the first time.

You're in the Lima Bean, discussing prom royalty campaign strategies and Bully Whips business, when he looks at you a little too hard, huffs like an animal, and glances around.

Do you think you'll ever—he studies a stain on the table—you know, come out?

The sip of coffee in your mouth burns a path up your sinuses. You raise your eyebrows.

I'm serious. He looks back at you. I mean—say you were in love with someone.

Now it's your turn to stare at the dark ring branded into the table. You gulp, letting the bitterness cool on your tongue.

Sorry, he retreats. Maybe that's too personal.

No. It's okay. Your ears are hot. You shake your hair over them so he can't see.

I mean—it's a lot to give up, right? What if you came out—lost everything—and then that person didn't even want you?

Your stomach sours. You've had nothing to eat all day except the black coffee you've been sipping—it's hard to eat lately.

But then you lift your eyes back to Dave's face. He's not looking at you anymore; he's not looking at anything. His fingers worry the sleeve of his cup. And then you realize—he's not talking about you.

You have nothing to gain by calling him out. So for once in your life, you decide to be nice. The way Britt would.

Hey, you say. Awkwardness shutters your throat as you realize you have no idea what to say next. He looks at you, waiting. You try again. I—I think there's someone out there for… everyone.

How fucking stupid. How cliché. You bite your lip—a little too hard—and try one more time.

I think we all deserve to be happy. To try to be happy. I guess you—I guess a person has to figure out for themselves what that means.

He shrugs, his face a cipher.

You imagine the other patrons looking at the two of you. Miserable. Stony. Silent. The same expression on two faces. One thick, beefy boy in a letter jacket. One girl in jean shorts and a loose top that can't hide the whittled-down thinness of grief.

Brittany hasn't spoken to you in five days—not since Fondue for Two, and certainly not since the lockers. Then again, you haven't spoken to her either. Every time you type the first few letters of a text, your heartbeat floods your head and your hands, and you clear the screen.

You haven't really talked to Kurt lately either. Well—not the way you talked to him and Blaine that afternoon when you were so desperate and broken. How could you, since you've wedged yourself deep into the closet and locked the door? Thinking about Kurt makes you feel like a coward, and the last thing you need right now is to feel any worse about yourself than you already do.

Dave, on the other hand—you watch him pull a swig from his coffee like there's an answer at the bottom—he's even worse off than you. He has further to fall. Worse—he has no one to love him.

Textbooks and notebooks and pencils colonize your bed. You press on a temple and will away an impending headache, trying to concentrate on your third-to-last problem on matrices so you can be done—finally—for the night.

The cottony silence of your room evaporates when something strikes your windowsill. Once. Twice. You abandon the matrix and slide your pencil behind your ear. Shunting aside the curtains, you feel your heart jump before you even know you're seeing her—Brittany—in the darkness, lobbing pebbles at your window. She sees your face and examines the pebble still in her palm before slipping it into her pocket. Her hands follow suit. She's dressed in white and looks paler than springtime against the dark wet grass.

She's here. Beneath your window. Waiting for you.

Your fingers shake as you unlatch the window.

Brittany, you say. It's all you can fit through your tightened throat. But it's enough.

Come down, she says.

You rush downstairs. The night is cool; you pull a throw blanket from the couch and drape it over your shoulders. Then you leave your door open, staining the porch with light, and you go to her.

Britt smiles. Slipping the pencil out from behind your ear, she pockets it, then smoothes your hair with a softness too electric to be friendly. She slides her hand to your cheek.

I thought you were angry, you whisper.

I was.

She bends toward you, almost imperceptibly, but your body feels it like a rush of heat. You wonder if she's going to kiss you. Your heartbeat fogs your ears.

But she doesn't kiss you. She just pulls the blanket back over your shoulder where it's slipped—you didn't even notice you were cold—and then folds your hand into hers. Your eyes draw a line up the length of her arm. The line travels over her bare collarbone, her neck, her jaw, and reaches her waiting eyes.

Aren't you going to ask me to come inside?

Well—yeah. You flush. Duh. Come in.

As you cross the threshold of your empty house, you place a guiding hand between her shoulder blades, the way you usually do. But the gesture feels strange now. Wrong. You let your hand fall to your side.

Brittany settles into your chair and pulls one leg into her chest, watching you gather and clear your homework from your bed. Once everything is neatly stacked in the corner, she settles down on her side of the bed and props the pillow so she's sitting upright. You crawl beside her and—tentatively—rest your head on her shoulder. She adjusts to wrap her arm around your waist and cradle your head into the groove of her neck.

Neither of you has said a word since you came inside. But you feel Brittany's neck shiver as she swallows.

I couldn't stay angry, she admits. I tried.

You wait.

I wanted to be like you. Angry. Strong. Enough to stay away and—I don't know. Teach you a lesson.

You nod. Your knuckles trace lines over her shirt; she sighs.

I can get angry now, San. I can get angry with other people. You know? Like, since you—since we—

You hum and draw a spiral below her ribs with your fingertip.

But not with you, she continues. Not for long, at least.

Your fingers pause. Her voice has clogged. You lift your head and tilt her chin towards you.

No, she whispers. Don't kiss me. I'm—not ready.

You nod. Your heart cracks along its fresh fault lines.

She slips her arm out from underneath you. Readjusts her pillow. Slides down, tilting her body towards yours.

Can we just… hold each other? she asks.

Nodding, you shimmy down the bed and slip your arm beneath her neck, pressing her head to your shoulder. Draping an arm over your ribs, she pulls you in—painfully tight.

Brittany's breath dampens your shirt as you lie together, thoughtless, all heartbeat and air and flesh. You stroke her impossibly soft hair, hair that smells like jasmine and strawberries and nighttime, and seal your lips against the crown of her head.

Can I stay over? she whispers.

You close your eyes. You have no idea how you'll make it through the night without touching her.

Yeah, you tell her. Of course. Let me get you some pajamas. You begin to loosen your hold on her.

No, she chokes. The arm around your ribs crushes the breath out of you. Don't leave me.

Shh. Okay. I won't. You tuck her head back against your shoulder. It's okay. I've got you.

You're drunk off her: her smell, her soft hair between your fingers, the dampness where you press together, and her warm warm skin. She's here—Brittany is here—in your bed, in your arms. Every string in your body is tight, vibrating, freshly tuned. You want her like mad, and yet you don't want anything from her—don't want anything more than this: to feel the resonating, contiguous current that joins your body to her body.

Dave's eyes dart from you to every possible escape route as you hold the black dress on the hanger up to your body, pulling the waist against yours to eye the fit.

So? you ask.

He has the green, desperate look that Brittany's cat gets whenever she drags him near a bath.

It's… fine. He scratches his ear. I still don't get why I'm here.

You're my date, you remind him. We's gots to match. Those are the rules.

So, you can just tell me what you got later and I'll get a matching tie or whatever, he protests.

The truth is, you didn't want to go dress shopping alone. Too depressing. Kurt would've been a lot more help, but you know what he'd have to say about you going to prom with Dave. Especially since he apparently knows about Dave too—and Dave knows he knows. You'd give your favorite leather jacket to hear that story.

Are you at least going to be done soon? Dave whines.

You lift the other two potential dresses from his arm, which you've been using as your own personal hanger. Hell, if he's not going to offer any constructive criticism, he can still damn well make himself useful.

Just these three. I've got a feeling.

You say it just to bat away his impatience for a few more minutes. But as it turns out, you're a prophet. The last dress you try on is blood red, tight and satiny. The one. You zip it to the top and smooth it over your hips and thighs, and adjust your breasts for maximum cleavage. Admiring yourself in the mirror, you wonder again why a hot piece like you is doomed to lesbianism.

Even Dave cracks a smile when you come out of the dressing room, give a twirl, and ask what he thinks. Maybe you look so hot you turned him straight. More likely, though, it's your smug grin, which he knows means it'll all be over soon.

So that's it, huh? That's the one?

This is it.

It's hot, he concedes. Now let's go. He lunges as if he's been set loose from a trap.

Hey, chill out. You grab his wrist. I haven't even changed out of this yet. Besides, I still need shoes. And you need a tie.

He groans like a kid whose mother is forcing broccoli down his throat.

Come on. Don't be such a baby, you scold him—like his mother. No, seriously. You're, like, the worst gay guy ever.

He shushes you and whips around to see if any passing shoppers are listening.

Oh, relax. You laugh.

Well, I wish you would be more of a dyke, he retorts. That'd make this stupid shopping trip a lot less painful.

Touché. Your cheeks flush with warmth, but you won't give him the satisfaction of checking your surroundings. Whoever heard, heard. Nothing you can do about it now. Besides—you kind of like this Dave.

Sounds great, you say. Tell you what. Let's change out this—you tug at the skirt of your dress—for one in your size, and I'll wear the suit. I could rock that look.

Fuck you, Lopez, he says. But you catch the faintest hint of a grin at the corner of his mouth before he turns away. Now change out of that and let's find your damn shoes so we can get the hell out of here already.

You grin. If the two of you really were dating, that boy would be so whipped.

Every night, around half-past midnight, you hear the tap of pebbles against your windowsill.

You know, you could just text and tell me you're outside, you whisper to her one night beneath a tree, your bare feet damp from the dew on the grass.

I like this way better. It's like I'm Romy and you're Julia.

You mean Romeo and Juliet, you correct her. Which doesn't stop your heart from speeding up when you consider that she just compared the two of you to the most cliché epic—if tragic—couple in English literature.

Yeah. Them. She takes your hand and leads you to your own front door. It's a gesture at once silly and charming. Your feet are cold and itchy once you step off the grass and onto the paving stones. But it's nothing to the way Brittany's hand feels pressed in yours.

God, when did you get so cheesy?

The second night—or the third, maybe?—Brittany started this strange thing. As you're lying down face to face, she holds you close, her hands on your cheeks, and looks into your eyes.

The first time, it freaked you out a little.

Britt-Britt, what are you doing? Your voice vibrated against her hands. She was so close, so close, and yet she wasn't kissing you; the nearness of her was almost painful, like the bone-soreness of a fever.

Hush, she said, and you felt the rush of breath against your lips. Just let me look at you.

Because you can't say no to her, you softened into the blankets, into her hands, and let her look for as long as she wants. She's not looking for anything. Her eyes don't search. They don't have to. She's the only person in the world to whom you aren't a mystery. No, she just looks, as if she can't get enough of seeing you. As if she's embossing the image of you into her retinas: sketching the dark map of your irises so she can never get lost again.

On the Romeo and Juliet night, she's holding you like this, looking, when her eyes flutter shut for a moment. She wets her lower lip and slides her thumb over your temple.

Why didn't you come?

You don't have to ask what she means.

Britt, I told you I wasn't ready. I'm sorry. I—I overestimated myself.

I shouldn't have asked you, she admits. I knew you weren't ready. I was just—I wanted it so bad, you know? To go to prom with you.

I wanted it too. But Britt-Britt, do you really want our prom to be like that? With everyone staring and whispering and calling us dykes?

Who cares about them? she says, simply. I'd be with you.

You turn your head to kiss the palm of the hand still on your cheek.

You have to give me time, you beg her. Can you do that?

For a second, her eyes flicker, and she really is searching you. Finding whatever she was looking for, she sighs and gives a quick nod.

Not too long, though, she warns, and now it's your turn to nod.

The festival atmosphere at McKinley is like a narcotic cloud. It's hard not to get caught up in it—even for you. Posters. Chatter. Everyone discussing dresses. And when Mr. Schue tells everyone you'll be singing at prom, the bubbling boils over into full-scale pandemonium.

At your prom gown dry run, when Kurt announces he's going to prom with Blaine, you pull him aside and offer him a security detail, courtesy of the Bully Whips. It's the first time you've spoken alone since watching Cabaret in his room.

Why would you do that? he asks. The softness of his tone feels slightly menacing, and stings the way his snark never could. You want to say, for you. You want to say, because that's what I would want, if I were as brave as you are. But you're not that kind of girl—and he's not that kind of boy.

Because I'll get sympathy votes for Prom Queen, you improvise. I'll be, like, the law and order Eva Perón candidate. You nod to the screen that separates the two of you from the other girls, and smirk. Grimace and Stretch Marks won't stand a chance.

Finally, he smiles. Your smirk melts into a grin. It almost feels like you're sharing a moment.

Dave says yes to the security detail. After all of that shit that went down with him and Kurt, he damn well better. But he agrees so fast you feel a twinge of sympathy that you can't quite explain.

The thing is, you can tease Kurt. Banter. He's not like the others; you can dig in a little and he'll take it like a boss. You even trusted him once. But he doesn't trust you. Not even after you made it safe for him to come back. Worse—now that you've hung it all out there with him, it seems like he has this strange power over you. Only Brittany has the right to make you feel small and cowardly and guilty.

So you pretend your protection is generous—even though Kurt isn't fooled for a second by the prom campaign excuse.

Puck mentions offhand the first day you're on security detail that Artie's planning on asking Brittany to prom. You remember that you confessed your love—well, given, it was when your heart was freshly vivisected, and you'd been drinking, but still—and you almost want to thank him for the tip-off. But what could you do to stop it?

You ask her about it that night on your bed, when your eyes are locked together.

I turned him down, duh, she says, surprised you'd even asked.

Why?

I told you, I'm done with him.

You swallow.

Are you done with me?

She sighs, tilts her chin up, and kisses the tip of your nose.

You're different, she whispers. She kisses a slow line along your cheekbone, then stops. Your heart is hammering. Then she closes her eyes and touches her lips to yours.

You want to pull her body against you and kiss her with everything you've got. It's torturous bliss to have her lips just perched against your lips, her breath warming your mouth. But this is not your kiss: it's hers. So you let her hover there for a moment, keeping your lips soft and your eyes closed, just feeling her.

Finally, her kiss grows firm and sure. She slides one hand into your hair, pushing the strands to the back of your neck, and pulls you in. Gratefully, you close the thin ravine between your bodies: breasts to breasts, belly to belly, thighs to thighs. Your hand braces the small of her back. The kiss is simple—almost innocent—but you can feel how long she's wanted to do this, just as badly as you've wanted her to.

At last, with a few small, reluctant parting kisses on your bottom lip, she pulls away. You slacken and let her.

Let's not break each other's hearts again, San, she says. I want you, I do—you feel her words spread deep in your body—but I want all of you. It can't be like it was before.

It won't be, you promise her.

Good. Then let's take it slow. She smiles and kisses the corner of your mouth. Your whole body is charged, live, from her kiss, but you give her the only possible reply.

Okay.

Well—this is it.

The acrid smell of burnt hairspray fogs your upstairs bathroom. The tip of one last ringlet slips off the tongs of your curling iron. You check your lipstick and scrape a little more eyeliner below your bottom lashes. Stepping away from the mirror, you take a look. Not a wrinkle in your dress; not a stray hair or smudge. Perfect.

Brittany must be doing the same thing right now in her bedroom mirror a few blocks away. You smile, thinking of how she always applies lipstick to her bottom lip and rubs it against the top, then flicks her finger over her cupid's bow to wick away the stray smudge of color. Then you remember how you didn't say yes to her, and your smile melts away.

The doorbell chimes. Must be Dave. You let your mother answer. Isn't that what a girl is supposed to do on prom night?

The murmur of their conversation floats upstairs; you can hear the notes and the rhythm, though not the words, through the shut door. Dave's voice has taken on a charming cadence you've never heard before. His parent voice, naturally. It surprises you.

Your mother laughs genially; her chatter is warm and eager. There's been no mention, since the night she found you broken against your bedroom door, of what's going on between you and Brittany. The surprise and excitement that registered on her face when you told her you were going to prom with a boy and running for queen makes you suspect that she was hoping Brittany was a phase. Maybe she's just happy to pretend for a while—or relieved to not be forced to tell your father.

Well—showtime. You allow yourself one last centering sigh before beginning your grand prom night descent down the staircase—just the way a girl is supposed to do.

Dave is standing by your mother, collected and confident—luckily for him, your father's still at the practice—and looking up at you with just the right amount of rehearsed, chaste awe. Your mother touches his arm.

Oh, she's a vision, isn't she, Dave?

Absolutely, Mrs. Lopez. I'll be the luckiest guy at prom. He shoots her a million-watt smile. Oh, come on—this is just embarrassingly heterosexual. You feel your gag reflex kick in behind your tight smile.

After he ceremoniously slips a corsage onto your wrist and your mother shoots a few obligatory pictures in the foyer, you manage to escape. Dave takes you to Breadstix, where everyone else is going—well, everyone with a date. You try not to look at anyone and pick at your pasta, even though you usually shovel it in like they're about to take it from you. When Dave asks what's wrong, you tell him, nothing, you just don't want to test the integrity of the seams of your dress by stuffing yourself with carbs.

Brittany isn't there, of course. Who would she go with?

Dave comes with you to the choir room just before prom starts, to check over the set list one last time and warm up. Only Mercedes and Sam and Berry and that douche Jesse kid are there so far. Everyone except Jesse goes a little cold upon seeing Dave walk in, but they're at least polite enough to give him a lukewarm greeting before he skulks off to take a seat in the back row.

Mr. Schue comes back in with a warm stack of copies—the set list—and hands one to each of you. You fold it up small enough to slide into your clutch. You already know everything you're singing—and everything Brittany's singing.

As Schue and Brad begin to warm you up, the other members trickle in, couple by couple. Your eyes dart to the door every time you hear the click of approaching heels. Quinn and Finn. Asian fusion. Puck and Lauren. Then Artie rolls in. You're ascending into the octave that makes your temples buzz by the time Britt finally peeks into the door and tiptoes inside. Your voice wavers on the descending fifth when she smiles at you. Her acid-green dress. Red lips. That silly little fascinator top hat, perched in perfect ringlets—you wonder who curled the back pieces, since you know she can't do it by herself.

Sorry I'm late, she mouths to Mr. Schue. Then she comes to you and rests a hand on your bare shoulder. Her palm feels like a cool kiss.

You look beautiful, she whispers.

You too.

Sam and Artie and Puck, who are kicking off the set list, go off to perform their final sound check. The rest of you file down the hall—you and Brittany and Dave walk together—and join the early arrivers in the gym.

It's a long way from the gym where you and the Cheerios did drills and back handsprings in the winter. The whole space has transformed: maypole streamers, grapelike clusters of balloons, and so much damn tinsel you could cut yourself to ribbons if you fell sideways. You survey the crowd. Only the super lame people are here right now—them, and you.

For a moment, though, you forget everything—Brittany has clasped your hand.

San, it's like fairies came, she marvels. The same fairies who decorated for my sister's birthday party last year.

You know what she's trying to say, so you resist the urge to point out that you two were the ones who put up the decorations for Ashley's party. Or remind her about how you sneezed sparkles for about a week afterwards. Instead, you nod and hum.

Yeah. It's really something, all right.

Her hand is still in yours, moist and soft, and you feel your body blushing. You're not sure how much of it is from the thrill of her touch and how much from the fear that someone is looking. Finally, you slide your hand gently out of hers, fingertips lingering to brush the inside of her wrist, as if to say, I want this too—but not right now.

The three of you lean on the coat check table for a moment, silent and slightly awkward, since it's you who holds the trio together—by thin and strained strings.

Dave clears his throat. Uh, let me—get you ladies some punch, he says, tugging his jacket straight. You and Brittany nod and thank him.

Once he's a few strides away, you and Brittany pivot to look at each other. She doesn't put her hand on your cheek, but it's the same kind of looking: the kind you now practice every night in your bed. Your heart speeds from the strange intimacy of it here, outside your closed room, surrounded by others' eyes.

Will you dance with me tonight? she asks.

Britt, you protest, I'm up for queen. You can't ask me that.

She gives you that new look she has, that dark look that can unravel you, the look that holds a mirror up to your own cowardice.

Maybe, you amend. It's enough—for now. The look clears. She smiles.

By now, the thin trickle of students from the main entrance has sped to a fast-flowing stream, three or four students thick, and the room swells with chatter. Brittany squeezes your hand one last time and begins to pull away just as Dave returns, juggling three cups.

Back, he pants.

Oh, says Brittany, I was just taking off. Don't want to be the third wheel. She shoots you a final look so long and sad that your heart collapses, leaving a cavern in your chest that fills at once with that terrible image. Just as fast, she's swallowed by the swelling crowd.

You kind of hate to admit it, but after a little while, you're actually starting to have fun at this cheesy damn prom. So is Dave—you don't think you've ever seen him smile so much and so genuinely since you first met. You're cracking jokes, you're dancing, and it's all the fun of being with a guy without any of the bullshit.

You even dance with Brittany—only in clusters, but still—and admire the way she moves, like a joyful little sprite, pirouetting and gyrating and glowing. Dance after dance, she flits from corner to corner, from partner to partner, and a small proud part of you is grateful she's tied to no one tonight, just so she can fly in pure blissful freedom across the transformed gym.

Now and then, you glance over at the ballot box, where students shuffle over, scribble on the provided scraps, and drop them in. A few of them glance at you as they do it. You grin and nudge Dave. Hell—why shouldn't you have a shot?

Dance after dance passes. You and Britt do your rotations on the stage. Finn and Jesse get kicked out—which you have to admit, as a fan of blood sport, is totally satisfying to watch in a schadenfreude way. The ballot box closes. And finally, you and Dave take the stage with the rest of the candidates. You smirk at Quinn, who's now minus her plus one. You can't help but feel a little satisfied that, for once, she's number two.

When Principal Figgins reveals Dave as the prom king, you get a little dizzy. It worked, it worked, it worked. You're on top. You look around for Brittany, who meets your eye with a soft smile.

Then, Figgins opens the queen envelope and begins the announcement fanfare. You steady yourself. This is it. After the hell you've been through this semester, finally something good is about to happen.

But something's wrong. Figgins hesitates before announcing in a hushed voice:

Kurt Hummel.

The temperature of your blood drops fifty degrees. The room is silent. Flooded with silence. The kind you sink in, that fills your lungs.

For a moment, your eyes—like the eyes of everyone else in the room—shoot to Kurt. He has the expression of a child who's just fallen and split open a knee, right before the dam of tears bursts. You wonder what he's thinking right now, this weird brave boy, object lesson of everything you'd gain and everything you'd lose by coming out.

And then it hits you—your own split knee—the fact that the whole junior class would rather torment and humiliate a gay kid than vote for you. Another gay kid. That could be you down there, shielding your face from hundreds of cold eyes, dashing out the doors, away from a gym full of people who have just told you exactly what they think of people like you.

The flooded feeling in your lungs, in your chest, rises to your throat. Next to you, the place where Quinn was standing is vacant. You take that as a cue to flee into the wings yourself. Before you disappear, you exchange one final lost look with Dave, whose face is the strangest puzzle you've ever seen.

By the time you hit the hallway, Brittany is waiting for you. She looks so strong and certain that you let yourself weaken: you break down and begin to babble. She herds you down the hallway and into the dark choir room and listens, speaking very little, until you think of Kurt again and guess that they know you're a lesbian. But then she surprises you.

People don't know what you're hiding, she says. They just—know that you're not being yourself. If you were to embrace all the awesomeness that you are, you would've won.

Her voice is steady, sure, and you marvel again at this new Brittany. Well—not new, just grown: that same seedling courage you love, that calmed and centered you last year with the baby drama and has guided you down from a hundred little rages. Now that seedling strength is full grown; you can lean against it, and you do, gratefully.

How do you know? you ask.

Because I voted for you, she says, simply. And, because—she steps closer, and your heart speeds; for just a moment, you could swear she's about to kiss you—I believe in you, Santana.

You want so badly for her to close the space that separates you. To fold your wild heartbeat into her body and calm you. To kiss the breath and the panic and the coldness out of you. But she won't do that. She wants to you stand up and be strong—strong like her.

This prom sucks, you lash out, and she shrugs. Your nerve falters. Now what am I supposed to do? you ask.

Go back out there and be there for Kurt, she says. This is going to be a lot harder for him than it is for you. She offers you a tissue, and you dab away every patch of moisture and drop of mascara from your face. Her firm unhesitating tone makes you feel cowardly and selfish. You want to explain yourself.

Britt, that would have been us. If we'd gone together.

She glances down and riddles her lip with her teeth for a minute before replying.

You don't know what would have happened.

This isn't New York, you protest. This is Lima, Ohio. We have to remember that.

San, I get it, she cuts you off. I was there too. I saw the same thing you saw.

You shut up then. She understands. Brittany understands what could happen. And yet, she still wants this—still wants you. You're flooded with awe at how brave she is.

Come on, she says, finally. I'll walk you to the wings.

It's faster to perk back up than you had imagined. Kurt's acceptance and coronation does something to the room. As you and Mercedes sing, you watch the crowd transform, loosen, shift, grin. It's too miraculous a quick-change, but it almost seems like they're on his side.

Whatever Kurt whispered to Dave to make him run away from the dance was apparently pretty bad. When you've finished your performance, you look around for him; he's nowhere to be seen. You text—where are u—and he texts you back to ask whether you can find your own ride home.

You find Brittany dancing with Kurt and Blaine and Artie, and she pulls you into the group for the last half of the song—you're flushed with nerves, but you play along, careful not to dance too close—before she asks you what's up.

How'd you get here, Britt?

Drove myself.

Do you think I can get a ride home with you?

Brittany raises an eyebrow.

What about Karofsky?

He's—gone.

She nods, eyes darting to Kurt and Blaine as they wave and disappear to take the stage, then back to you, registering a question for later. Well, sure, of course I'll drive you home, she says. Do you—

A crackle of the microphone, and Figgins's voice cuts in.

Ladies and gentlemen, the last dance of the evening, he announces. Kurt and Blaine step up to the mics. The opening chords of Save the Last Dance warm the room.

Brittany gives you a long, careful look.

This is it, she says. This is your last chance. Will you dance with me?

Oh, god. You're terrified. You feel like a spooked deer: still, and entirely composed of heartbeat. You can't say yes, and you can't say no.

Santana. Don't be scared. She hooks your pinkie into hers and tugs, leading you to a quiet, dark corner where only a few couples sway, eyes locked on each other. Boy to girl, girl to boy. And then, there's you and Brittany. She leans to whisper in your ear.

No one is looking. It's okay. Just dance with me.

And it's true: no one is looking. Besides, now that you've lost the Prom Queen election, you've got nothing to lose. So you give her one tiny nod, and she rewards you with the biggest, warmest, sweetest smile you've ever seen; you have to remind your legs not to wobble like a newborn fawn's as she pulls you expertly against her.

When the music reminds you not to forget who's taking you home and in whose arms you're going to be, Brittany sweeps you into a turn and dips you ever so slightly. She's subtle, not-too-close, careful not to draw attention to the two of you, but you feel her body, her rhythm, supporting you like the deck of a sailboat beneath your feet. With a small quick flick of her wrist, she tilts your chin toward her, to remind you to look at her and not at the people around you. It works. You can only see her, hear her, feel her: her red lips, the rustle of taffeta, the way her body has warmed the metal of her belt where your hand rests tentatively before you lose your nerve and move it to her shoulder.

You're doing great, San, she whispers.

Careful not to look away from Brittany's eyes, you wonder what it would have been like to spend the evening like this. With her. What it would be like next year, if you could find the courage to come out. Would you be the Kurt standing stunned after the blow of the prom queen announcement, frozen by cold stares? Or would you be the Kurt now onstage, whose hand and voice are blissfully locked to those of the boy he loves?

Thank you, whispers Brittany as the song draws to a close. She releases you, and you stand just apart for a moment, not touching, but unwilling to look away yet. I'm so proud of you.

I love you too, you think, taking a deep breath and hooking your pinkie into hers.

(Guide to chapter title sources:

2. Brave new world: Shakespeare's The Tempest, Act V. "O brave new world/That has such people in't!"

3. The tree of good and evil: Genesis, creation story.

6. And everyone and I stopped breathing: final line of the Frank O'Hara poem "The Day Lady Died."

7. The fox and the lion: a quotation from Napoléon Bonaparte. "I am sometimes a fox and sometimes a lion. The whole secret of government lies in knowing when to be the one or the other."

8. Sea change: Shakespeare's The Tempest again, from Ariel's song. "Nothing of him that doth fade/But doth suffer a Sea-change/Into something rich and strange…"

9. Dangerous liaisons: English translation of the title of Choderlos de Laclos's Les Liaisons dangereuses, an epistolary novel revolving around Machiavellian games of debauchery and seduction.

11. After the deluge: adaptation of a famous (if apocryphal) Louis XV quotation: "Après moi le déluge" (after me the deluge).

12. Better to reign in hell: Milton's Paradise Lost. "Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven."

13. Babylon: the pagan land of exile in the Old Testament.

14. Lotus eater: Homer's The Odyssey. The lotus-eaters were inhabitants of an island who fed on the narcotic fruit. Associated with sleep and dream-state.

15. Secret and divine signs: Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass, "Among the Multitude." "Among the men and women, the multitude,/I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,/Acknowledging none else… any nearer than I am;/Some are baffled—But that one is not—that one knows me."

16. Match in a crocus: Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway, in a passage describing the heroine's adolescent love for another woman."Only for a moment; but it was enough. It was a sudden revelation, a tinge like a blush when one tried to check and then, as it spread, one yielded to its expansion, and rushed to the farthest verge and there quivered and felt the world come closer, swollen with some astonishing significance, some pressure of rapture, which split its thin skin and gushed and poured with an extraordinary alleviation over the cracks and sores! Then, for that moment, she had seen an illumination; a match burning in a crocus; an inner meaning almost expressed. But the close withdrew; the hard softened. It was over — the moment."

17. Lady Lazarus: the title of a Sylvia Plath poem. "Dying/Is an art, like everything else,/I do it exceptionally well./I do it so it feels like hell./I do it so it feels real./I guess you could say I've a call."

18. Holy palmers' kiss: from a line of Juliet's in the Capulet ballroom scene in which Romeo and Juliet meet in the eponymous Shakespeare play. "[P]alm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."