(Author's Note: Well, dear readers, this is the penultimate chapter. Pas de Deux Chapter 19 is next, followed by the two final chapters, which I'll release simultaneously.

Thanks to JJ, who always encourages me in the early stages and helps me with the tricky little questions that make all the difference. And a huge thank you to terriblemuriel - go check out her new fic, Zen and the Art of Relationship Maintenance, by the way; I've seen drafts of what lies ahead and it's well worth getting hooked - for her help, and her tireless patience with an alpha who's a little too precious about keeping her baby toes.

Speaking of terriblemuriel's new fic - funny anecdote: a scene in this chapter is coincidentally similar in theme and tone to a scene in hers, and we found a number of bizarrely specific parallels in sections written on the same day and around the same time. Seems we are developing alpha-beta hivemind.

Until the final chapter, my friends.)

When Britt's mom cracks down on her sneaking out every night, you begin to climb up the tree and sneak in through her window. You used to do it all the time in middle school; these nighttime visits have gotten less frequent these past few years, but you've climbed up a handful of times, deep in the night, to feel her soft hands soothe your skin when it burned from the fresh tracks of a boy's hands. It was desperate those nights. Fevered. Now it seems—can you say this with a straight face?—ridiculously romantic.

Same ritual, new bed. Your looking gets longer and longer. The way Brittany looks into your eyes—the way you look into hers—made you nervous at first. Now, it's natural—but not ordinary. It will never be ordinary, the way she switches a light on inside you and wanders the rooms of you, brushing everything with her fingertips just as she likes to every time she goes somewhere new: mapping the space, the topography, the flora. With you, she's not mapping; she knows her way already. She's simply exploring—because it's you.

And you? You let go. You fall in, headlong, and it's beautiful and terrible in the most delicious way. Like you're drunk—or on the precipice of climax. This is the only thing happening—just this, here—and you forget stupid things like before and after and the world beyond the confines of this bed.

Now every time, at the end, Britt leans in and slides her hands from your cheeks to your hair. She whispers, Santana, I'm going to kiss you. And then she does. The simplest, lightest kiss—like your dream-kisses in the night so long ago—and if you keep your eyes open she rewards you with a second soft kiss on your bottom lip.

You sneak out in the mornings before Brittany's parents wake up. Walking took too long the first time—you had to take a shower at warp speed and put on your mascara in the car at stoplights on the way to school—so you ride your old bike over now and lean it against the back wall. You used to love riding around the neighborhood with Brittany—back before you cared about things like scuffing your shoes or mussing your hair. Back when it felt like freedom.

It feels like freedom again, now, to ride alone. The bite of the night air, cut by your jacket and the anticipation of Brittany's warmth. Sluicing through the cold morning light, soothed by the tingling of your lips from a fresh parting kiss on Britt's temple as she slept.

This morning, you awaken to find Brittany's fingers still woven into your hair. Her mouth is slightly open, pink as a shell; that spot on her throat pulses slow and even with the heartbeat that vibrates her ribs where your hand rests. She sleeps with a sort of unshakable animal peace. You linger on the little things you can only see when she's sleeping: the honey-colored roots of her eyelashes, the tiny freckle just at the bridge of her nose, the turquoise vein that glows just above her temple like a shaded lamp. Stilling your breath, you listen to hers. Its rhythm interweaves with her heartbeat. You stay like that, stroking a rib delicately with your thumb, for a little too long—you can't stop watching her.

Sure, this whole feelings thing may hurt like a bitch—but letting yourself get mushy over watching Brittany sleep is one of the perks of admitting you're head over heels in love.

You tear yourself away from her long enough to check the time on your phone. Shit. You're going to be late to school.

Hey, Britt. You shake her awake. She groans. Britt-Britt, you coax. Time to wake up. We're gonna be late. I don't have time to go home so you have to drive.

Instead of opening her eyes, she pulls you in closer—by the small of your back. Not fair. Now you're the one who groans. Brittany smiles, eyes still shut, and you feel yourself getting wet from the way she skates her fingernails over your sleep shirt.

Britt, stop that. You bite back a moan.

Her fingers still and spread so her palm rests against your back. She scores her bottom lip with her teeth and scrunches her nose as she draws in a long breath. You feel her body stretching against yours—which does nothing for the frustration that's lodged itself inside you and is going to stick all day. Damn it, Britt.

Okay, she drawls at last, stretching out the final syllable as long as her body. She kisses your cheek, oblivious to your predicament, and rolls herself to the edge of her bed. You uncurl yourself to do the same.

I've got a dress of yours that you left over a while ago, she says, bounding up and springing to her closet. Hope you don't mind, I wore it a couple of times. But I washed it.

The thing about Britt is, she's hell to get awake, but once she's out of bed—at least, when the sun's up—she's chirpier than anyone has a right to be in the morning. She riffles through her hangers and drawers before tossing you the dress and a clean pair of her own underwear.

Your favorites, she notes, nodding toward the panties. And you do love these: blue, cotton, with little white whales all over. That is—you love them on her.

While she turns back to her closet to perform her own quick-change, you secretly bring first the panties, then the dress, to your nose and pull their scent in. They both smell like her laundry soap, and that unidentifiable Brittany smell that soaks into everything she wears.

After you slip on the dress and panties and pull your hair back into a ponytail—no time to wash it—that soapy Brittany smell radiates like a nimbus as the clothes warm against your body. The smell makes you shiver.

Today's going to be a long day.

That Jesse kid really is an epic douche. He's the male equivalent of Berry.

But when he says there will be auditions for the solo at Nationals, your heart leaps. Suddenly you want that solo more than anything—well, anything except Britt.

You're the first to sign up. It kind of makes you queasy to see your name right at the top of the list. Maybe you're turning into Berry after all.

But learning not to give a shit has to start somewhere, right?

San, I'm really proud of you, says Britt, later that afternoon. The two of you have changed up your routine a little. She's over at your house tonight, sitting on your bed as you play a few contenders for her over the sweet new speakers your dad bought you last month.

Why?

She shrugs. Because you're going for something you want and you don't care who knows it.

Grinning like a sphinx, she leans back to rest on her hands. Her knees drift apart a little naturally—shit, your body is still humming on low from this morning and she just cranked up the burner—as she deliberates over your potential audition piece.

I think… the Amy Winehouse, she concludes. Your voice sounds super sexy on that one. She stands up and stalks up to you like a tigress; her arms twine around your waist, and you beg yourself to keep it together. But it's been so long. She has to know she's torturing you.

Britt, you whine, and bite your lip hard to distract from the way her finger traces your spine. She grins. She sure does know—that bitch.

Sorry, she whispers, and lets her hands drop to her sides. Your eyes flutter to a close as she kisses your cheek—an inch from the corner of your mouth. Can I come to the audition?

I don't think so. You shrug. Sorry, Britt. I think it's just the other people auditioning who get to sit in.

Well—she grins again in that conspiratorial sexy way, and you feel another twinge, damn it—how about a private performance? She sits back on the edge of your bed and resumes that totally unladylike position. I mean, you need to practice, don't you?

A couple of practice runs later—Brittany gives you a few suggestions on how to use the stage space—you sit down next to her on the bed and lean your head on her shoulder. She takes your hand and traces figure eights into your palm.

Sexual frustration totally sounds good on you, she quips.

Ugh. Tease. You clamp down on her shoulder with your teeth—hard. She gasps and tries to pretend it was the start of a giggle.

Tonight, after you finish your looking ritual, she kisses you without warning. The kiss is not chaste or gentle. You can almost taste it on her: the tactile mirror of your own frustration. You moan into her mouth as her tongue parts your lips.

Once you're both panting and flushed, Brittany breaks off the kiss. She strokes your cheek with her thumb: a conciliatory gesture.

Soon, she promises.

When you're ready, you assure her. But she shakes her head.

No, she corrects you. When you are.

You're not sure what that means—but you suspect you're not supposed to ask. Instead, you look for the answer in her eyes. She smiles and answers the question that must be scrawled all over your face.

When you understand, she says cryptically, I'll know you're ready.

You audition first. Just like the order on the sheet.

Britt's right, as much as you hate to admit it: sexual frustration sounds really fucking good on you. It lends the sound keenness, edge, depth. The rumble, deep in your bones, of fundamental pitch. The sound really does seep from your bones. Amy, Alanis and Billie, after all, were your holy trinity during what you've come to think of as the Dark Month.

You wish Brittany could have seen you—you sing to her as if she could hear.

Then Jesse St Douche has the nerve to tell you that you didn't tap into the emotional truth of the song? Bullshit. He just has an epic hard on for Berry. You look back at Mr. Schue for help, but he's not looking at you anymore—just glaring at Jesse.

Useless.

The other auditions are good. Really good. But no one must be getting laid—not even Kurt—because you can't stop bitching at each other.

If only Britt could be here, she'd play with your hands. She'd find those half-dozen little places that dampen your anger as fast as turning a dimming dial. She'd skate her fingernails over your wrists and make you shudder and forget what day of the week it is.

After Berry belts out her number—damn her talent—Mr. Schue tells the four of you that you'll have to wait until Friday to hear who gets the solo. You roll your eyes and head toward the hallway to find Brittany.

To your surprise, she's leaning against the dark wall, just next to the door.

Britt? What are you doing here?

She touches your cheek to quiet you. Then, lowering her hand, she waits for the others to leave. Kurt and Mercedes nod at Britt in greeting as they pass; she nods back. Once they're gone, she grins and leans in close.

I was watching, she whispers, so close and soft her words are mostly breath.

From where?

The catwalk. She nods upward and shrugs.

You look at the flimsy excuse for scaffolding that probably hasn't been renovated to conform to code in a good twenty years. Your heart races with belated fear for her.

How the hell did you get up there? you hiss. That can't be safe.

San. She laces her fingers around your wrists like twin bracelets. It's okay. I have connections in the AV club. She winks; you relax your hands into her sliding touch as she presses your palms together between her own. You take a deep breath. It's like all of your anger and nerves and tension are seeping right through your feet into the carpet as Brittany's hands brace yours.

So… you were watching, huh? You let yourself smile. What did you think?

Brittany's eyes follow Jesse and Will up the steps, over the stage and into the wings.

I think if they don't pick you, they're the stupidest men alive.

You almost kiss her right then and there.

Before your looking ritual that night, you help Brittany study for her Spanish final, which you're taking early, thanks to Nationals. As you sit across from her on the bed and quiz her on a fat stack of vocabulary index cards—you made them for her yourself during class last week, while everyone else struggled to conjugate conditionals—you correct her pronunciation. Even though neither of you know it doesn't matter, since Mr. Schue's got no room to correct anyone's accent, it's a nice excuse to watch her mouth and touch her lips. You're not going to lie: your demonstrations of tongue positions are a little more—pyrotechnic—than they need to be. Britt bites her lip as she watches.

See, the T sound in English? Kind of like this. The tip of your tongue strikes the roof of your mouth. T. T.

She follows your lead. T. She nods.

In Spanish, it's… well, you have to show a little tongue. You wink, and Britt blushes. A sliver of tongue perches delicately beneath your top teeth. You show her in soft little puffs.

Thhh, she hisses, tongue slipping out like a snake's. You laugh.

Not quite. You show her again, leaning closer. It's kind of between T and Th. Your breath pulses. Then, in a flash, you see her finger dart to your mouth, slipping over your lips and teeth and sliding along the tip of your tongue.

Do it again, she directs. I mean, to show me how.

You strike the sound with your tongue twice, tasting the salt of her fingertip. Her breath is swelling and speeding visibly in her chest, and it's a pretty safe bet you're not going to get any more Spanish done tonight.

She gasps as you draw her finger into your mouth to the first knuckle. Your tongue slides over the tip, unhurried, and the corners of your mouth lift around her finger as her eyes struggle not to flutter closed.

Then she replaces her finger with her lips, and the flash cards drop and scatter on the bed, and she straddles you, her hips fitting naturally over yours like the right lid to a Tupperware container. You hold each other upright as her tongue snakes around yours—reminding you of how much linguistic talent Britt really has. Her hands play with the hem of your shirt.

Wait. No. Got to take it slow.

You whine into her lips as you lift her hands away, swaying and reeling like your body is fighting with itself—which it is.

Britt, you ask her, am I ready?

She frowns at you for a moment. Then, as comprehension dawns, she flashes you a soft—but deep—smile.

What do you think? she asks.

You look into her eyes. Something shivers in you.

I don't think so, you admit. I don't think I understand yet.

She kisses both corners of your mouth, then both of your eyelids, and every single one of your knuckles, like she can't quite pull away. You're both grinning like the love-drunk idiots you are, although you don't know what's so thrilling about choosing not to get laid.

Ugh—I'm my own cockblock, you groan as Britt slides reluctantly off your lap. She laughs, smoothing down her hair and shirt with her antsy hands.

I'm proud of you, she says.

You keep saying that. Frustration splits and rasps your voice.

She shrugs. Well, I mean it.

Soon, you say, taking her hand. It's a question and an answer.

Soon, she echoes, and nuzzles her cheek against your upturned palm.

Of course Schuester doesn't give the solo to anyone. Something about being together as a team, whatever. For a second you want to punch—something or someone. But then you turn to Brittany and see she's smiling at you, and all of a sudden you're strangely okay with this. It doesn't matter anymore. Maybe—you return Brittany's grin with a quick one of your own—maybe it never mattered. Maybe this solo was never the thing you really wanted.

Still—it kills you how happy you are to get a compliment from Berry. Must only be the fact that she almost never compliments anyone but herself. Anyway, you'll never admit it.

Are you okay? Britt asks you outside the choir room.

Yeah. Weirdly enough. You zip up your backpack after sliding in the rhyming dictionary.

She smiles. Really?

Yeah, you say sincerely. Really. And you're not lying—you actually are.

Her eyes flash like she wants to kiss you. She settles for slipping her pinkie into yours.

Will I see you tonight? you ask her, swinging your linked hands as you walk out the double doors and into the light.

Come over early. My parents are gone overnight to take my sister to her soccer tournament. She winks. Your body shudders with an answering twinge.

Sure, you say. I'll bring the chocolate chips.

Ever since the eighth grade—the first time Brittany's parents trusted the two of you home alone overnight—it's been your tradition to make a huge stack of chocolate chip pancakes for dinner, swimming in syrup and butter. You know you probably shouldn't be eating these, but it's not like Coach Sylvester can guilt you about it anymore, and these pancakes make Brittany crazy-kid-happy. Something you can never say no to.

Tonight, as you flip the newest pancake onto the stack and pop a broken edge into your mouth—with Brittany looking on from her perch on the island counter—the familiar smell of heated butter and toasted chocolate floods you with memories of your… other tradition when Brittany's parents are out of town.

It's like Britt can sense your body churning with want. You feel—rather than hear—her slip off the counter and pad over to you. The way she wraps her arms around your waist and rests her chin on the curve between your neck and shoulder is making it very hard not to burn this pancake. You flip it a little too hard; batter spits over the rim.

Let's make this the last one, she says into your hair, and kisses the back of your neck.

The two of you eat your pancakes in the den—you on the couch; Britt on the ground, cushioned by a couch pillow, between your knees—and watch Finding Nemo for what must be the millionth time. By the time her pancakes are gone, she's drenched in syrup: all over her face and hands, like a toddler.

Britt, you're a mess. You laugh.

Yeah, I know. She licks her fingers clean—you watch her tongue work the curves of her fingers and knuckles—and then she leans her head against your knee. It feels nice. The whole thing is just nice. Easy.

You finish your pancakes not long after and, since your hands are much cleaner than Britt's, you begin to play with her hair. She twists her head from side to side now and then to accommodate your fingers. You've always loved stroking Brittany's hair: flaxen and pale, the opposite of your own. As you let it run through the webbing of your fingers, comb out the strands like coils of silk, you can smell the warmth of it: sweet and floral. She washed it this morning. You can tell by the way it feels.

When the credits begin to roll, Brittany kisses your knee and pulls herself up to the couch, settling between your thighs. You can feel the divot of her spine press against your breasts and belly—and her hips pushing lower. She pivots her head, hooks your hair behind your ear, and trails soft kisses from your cheekbone to your lips. The kiss begins slow and sweet—her mouth tastes like syrup and chocolate—and heats little by little, until you have to pull away for a deep breath.

You're delicious, she whispers against your lips.

Mhm. You too.

Want to go upstairs?

You try to remind your body that she doesn't mean, well, that kind of upstairs. But your body won't listen. Everything is wiped from your mind—everything except Brittany: how warm she smells and how soft her hair feels between your fingers and how sweet her mouth tastes. She tugs your hand, and you follow, helplessly.

After stumbling into her room, you feel strangely nervous—god, why are you nervous?—as she pulls you onto her bed, on top of her, and kisses you until you're drunk and dizzy. All you can think of at this second is how goddamned much you love her, and what an idiot you are for ever thinking this—your body pressed to her body, your heart pressed to her heart—could be anything but right and perfect.

It's then—that moment exactly—when you understand.

Britt. You lift her face and look full into her eyes. They're darker than water at nighttime. Britt, I want to try something.

Her throat shivers as she swallows. What is it, San?

I want—to look into your eyes.

Okay. Do you want to roll over on our sides?

You shake your head. I don't mean—the way we've been doing. I mean, I want to see you.

Her brow knits. She tilts her head. Your cheeks flush; you didn't want to have to say it, but she's giving you no choice.

Brittany, I—I'm ready. I want to… to make love to you. And I want to look into your eyes.

You want to feel embarrassed at how pathetic you would sound, if anyone else could hear you. But you don't feel embarrassed—just vulnerable, and so anxious for her reply that your throat clogs with tears.

Brittany's face, still hovering over you, unravels. Her eyes gloss; she bites her lip, and she strokes your cheek with the back of her fingers over and over and over.

Yes, she finally whispers. Yes.

She lets you roll her onto her back. With her hair spread out behind her, she looks like a mermaid with curls haloed in water. Your shadow obscures part of her; a pale crescent emerges like a waxing moon. You tilt your head so her face is in full light.

God, you're beautiful, you whisper, touching her lips. She answers by kissing your fingertip.

Her skin, clammy from the heat, feels like damp silk. You stroke every strip of unclothed skin and follow your fingers with your lips. Brittany breathes deeply and evenly; you flick your eyes frequently back up to hers, which never stray from your face. You worship her neck, her throat, her collarbone, her shoulders. The insides of her wrists and elbows and under her arms. The backs of her knees. Her pulse. Her salt. Her perfume. She's perfect.

Sitting her up, you pull her shirt carefully over her head and unhook her bra. She submits to you, lifting and lowering her arms, arching her back. She lifts her hips so you can wiggle off her skirt and panties. Then she undresses you with the same slow care, kissing you after she removes each article.

The last time you were naked together like this was in the spring. That prelapsarian night: the night before she spoke those words that would unravel your whole universe. You can never stitch that old cosmos back together so neatly and ruthlessly. Tonight—just tonight—you're grateful for that.

You place a hand on her chest, and she lies back with her arms curved over her head. You can't shake the feeling that somehow—despite the heartbreak and lies of the past, despite the vertigo-inducing uncertainty of the future—in this moment, she belongs to you.

You stroke her breasts, trace the shallow suture of her abdomen, draw curving lines up her sides. Your eyes remain on hers: your hands know her body by heart; they learned in the darkness. At first it's strange to join the two—the old touching with the new looking—but the two sensations link faster and stronger than you could have imagined. It's like pumping up the electric charge that joins the two of you in a circuit.

Touch me, she whispers. She opens her body to you as your hand slides obediently to her hipbone, dipping into the hollow and following its channel until her mouth shutters. You can actually watch her eyes grow darker, swallowed by pupil, as if you've just dimmed the lights. Touch me, Santana.

The moment your fingers slip between her legs, she sighs and struggles to keep her eyes open. Your heart is even louder than her voiced breaths as you begin your slow circles—the way that will fill her gradually, so that when she tips over the pleasure will pour out in deep gorgeous waves. It's your favorite way to touch her.

Brittany's eyes grow viscous and contented. One arm remains curved behind her head; the other lifts to stroke your hair back.

You feel so good, baby, she encourages you, and the word baby on her lips surges straight to your heart. You're grinning like the world's biggest idiot and you don't even care.

God, what is this? You had no idea it could be like this. All this time, you were wearing blinders. You were keeping yourself wrapped in shadow. Now you've shed everything, see everything, and it could not be more beautiful. She could not be more beautiful: this girl who shared your childhood and your first kiss. Your best friend. Your first and only love.

Brittany's fingers trace lazy curlicues over your skin. She's not trying to keep you close; she knows exactly where you are, and she knows you'll stay. Her hips roll gently against your hand, work with you, following the pace you set with no protest.

When you see her body begin to flush, you slide two fingers slowly inside her. She answers with a little cry; her eyes flash as if registering an internal image. You're imprinting something of yourself in her: you're curling, contented, deep in her body. The heel of your hand takes over the work of your fingertips—keeping the same slow rhythm—until the hands that traced patterns on your shoulders suddenly cradle your head and mesh with your hair.

Stay, she whispers. Stay here. Don't leave me.

I will never leave you, you whisper.

And then she lets herself fall, with a shudder and a cry; her eyes pull you in even deeper than her body pulls in your fingers as you move with her, hold her, protect her. Your heart beats in your throat. It's like she's peeled something back, like if you touched her the wrong way you could kill her.

Santana, she whispers, and it's like the first time all over again, when you were initiates: your name on her lips a mantra, a prayer.

You kiss and kiss and kiss her then, your fingers still inside her, until she rolls you on your back to straddle you. She touches your wrist; as you pull out, she sighs and smiles.

That was… you trail off; your words can't come near this holy thing you've uncovered.

I know.

Her hands glide over your sweaty skin—exploratory at first, reacquainting herself, and then firmer, with purpose. She licks her thumb to stroke your nipples stiff; she skates her nails over that strip on your side—just below your ribs—that makes you moan. Your heart is wild and uneven as she climbs between your legs and you watch her watching you. Little by little, as her hand wanders over your waist to the trough between belly and hip, fear seizes you. You stiffen beneath her.

San. Her hand flies from your hip to your cheek; she strokes your cheekbone with her thumb. What's wrong?

I—I don't know. I don't know if I can do this.

Shh. Yes you can. She wraps your arms, one, then the other, around her neck. Hold on to me. I'll keep you safe. You'll see—it's easy.

You seal the ring of your arms around her shoulders. Your belly is stretched and open in animal surrender as her hands pass over it—and beneath your hip.

Stay with me, Santana.

You keep your eyes on her sure, clear ones as she seals her fingers between your thighs and begins to touch you.

It's the safest—and the most terrified—that you've ever felt.

Her eyes seem to shift focus, inward, then outward: she looks at you like she can't believe you're letting her do this. Like she's been waiting forever. She looks at you to make sure you're still all right, still with her.

She looks. She looks at you. She looks into you.

You're reaching the threshold too fast; you whimper, and, feeling you so close, she stills her fingers.

Do you want me inside you? she asks. You nod. She sinks her fingers in slowly; her mouth blooms as if it were your fingers descending into the quick of her again. You want that again now—the safety of touching her—but you know where your arms belong at the moment: holding on to your only anchor, who pins you to the bed with her eyes.

Now you're shivering, shivering like your back is bedded in snow instead of Brittany's sheets.

Let go, baby, she tells you. It's okay. I've got you. Let go.

You feel a cry empty your lungs as you free your body. You're plunging, sinking, and the only thing holding you is Brittany. She's a deluge; she's air; she's the darkness below and the sunlight piercing the waves.

After you return to the surface and she pulls you back, panting, to the warm shore of her bed, she covers your face in dozens of kisses.

You did great, she whispers, withdrawing her fingers. She cups your face and drinks deep from your mouth. Oh, San, she whispers against your lips, you were incredible.

You hold her hard against you, detaching your joined arms from their perch on her shoulders and lacing them around her waist. You rise and sink in unison, in waves—not to stir desire; simply because Brittany is there, bare and soft and slick against you. For a few more hours, you are hers, and you are safe. You long to disintegrate the border between her body and your body, between this night and the cold inevitable morning.