(Author's Note: Thanks so much for the reviews, etc! I'm surprised by and grateful for the response to this story. The sweet messages are much appreciated.
Believe it or not, Brittany's is a lot harder to write than Santana's, since I have to simplify my vocabulary in this version to a crippling degree. I think I might need to enter a 12-step program for multi-syllabic words.
"The Only True Paradises" is coming back eventually; I'm just waiting for the Glee Gods to grant us a bumper crop of Sapphic material.
Out of curiosity: I've revealed my own belovèd, no doubt - maybe I just read too much Woolf, okay - but which style do you, Dear Readers, prefer?)
The moment she and Santana walk through the school doors the first day of sophomore year and smell the scrubbed hallway—like wax and lemon and pencil-shavings—Brittany knows this year is going to be different.
Santana teaches Brittany her locker combination again, but Brittany can find her own classes this time. She knows these halls; she rules these halls. She feels like a balloon, bobbing against the ceiling, looking down at all of the biting and scratching and stomping on the floor and knowing no one can reach her.
At least—not as long as Santana holds on to her string. Santana is never, ever going to fall.
Brittany and Santana are in Celibacy Club now because Quinn's the president. They laugh about it behind Quinn's back. Brittany wonders: how is Quinn going to get good at sex if she doesn't practice? Still, it is fun to hang out with the other Cheerios when Coach Sylvester isn't breathing down their necks and drilling them into the ground.
Santana only really lets herself take off her Head Bitch armor when it's just her and Brittany. Not even Quinn can see her like this. That weird edge in San's voice when she talked about Quinn before is gone; Brittany finds herself liking Quinn more now that she's not a threat.
Until Quinn asks Santana to try out for Glee Club with her.
Brittany convinces Santana to go for it—and to bring her along. One stupid club isn't enough to drag them down from the top of the pyramid. Mostly, she can't stand the idea of San doing it without her.
When they get the chance for extra points with Coach Sylvester, all the better. Brittany's been wanting a good dance solo. She's the best dancer—better even than Quinn and San—and it can't hurt to have Coach's attention.
The funny thing is that in Glee, she gets to dance for fun, without anyone correcting her. The steps are baby-easy, the kind of thing she was doing in Modern and Jazz a year before she even met Santana. The singing part is harder, but nobody minds if she's not the best, especially since that Rachel girl who never puts down her hand in Brittany's English class does enough talking and singing for everyone.
Brittany had avoided everyone in this club before, but it turns out that some of them are really nice. There's an adorable gay boy, Kurt, with enormous sky-colored eyes, who she just wants to take home and cuddle and dress like a doll. And Tina, who wears weird clothes, but who worships Brittany's dancing and learns new steps as fast as Santana. After a few more football players join, it gets even more fun.
Then, of course, there's Mr. Schuester, who is super nice to her—unlike any of the other teachers here, he makes sure she feels cared for. Almost the way Santana does.
It almost makes Brittany wonder about why she's spying for Coach Sylvester, who has never treated her half as nice as anyone from Glee.
But the best thing is that Santana is openly touchy with her in front of everyone. San acts like what happens in Glee doesn't count. They've finally cashed in some bitch-points for freedom, and here no one will knock them down.
When Quinn gets knocked up, things change—fast.
Brittany's always relied on how Santana sees the world. If she sees something differently from Santana, she figures she must be wrong. But this time, she realizes that she's the one who really understands what's going on. With San so jealous and shaken, Brittany finds herself standing up for Quinn—who she really does feel sorry for now.
Is this what it means to grow up?
Ever since she got her license, Santana has been driving Brittany to the dance studio after school. Sometimes she stays, working on homework or putting on makeup in the corner, or just sitting against the wall and watching. She almost always watches during ballet to make sure Brittany's coach isn't being too hard on her.
On the days that San watches, Brittany works harder. She commands every muscle; she feels so much more beautiful in motion when Santana's eyes are following her across the room. She rarely says anything to Brittany afterwards, but sometimes she'll squeeze Brittany's hand or ruffle her hair, and that rare gorgeous grin will spread over her face like it's caught fire.
Brittany's also figured out that if she can get Santana to stay overnight after a ballet class, she can almost always score some sweet lady kisses.
The first time Brittany gets Santana to have sex in the daytime—she even lets Brittany undress her, for once—all Brittany wants to do is look at her and look at her. She never realized how beautiful Santana's skin is: dark and warm against Brittany's sheets. Brittany wants to taste all of her skin. She starts with her breasts—Santana bites back her moans, but can't stop her chest from rising to meet Brittany's mouth when she sucks each nipple.
With a little convincing, San lifts her hips to let Brittany take off her panties. Then Brittany scoots between Santana's legs and studies the place she's touched so many times but never seen. It's dark and wet and smells like the woods after it rains. She dips her nose closer and draws in a deep breath before Santana's voice calls her back.
"Going to stay there all day?" Santana looks afraid—afraid of what? Brittany wants to tell her how beautiful she is, her lean body stretched over the bed, her hair spread over the pillows. She glows like she's been polished, but she smells earthy and musky and fresh and sweet all at once, and Brittany's heart suddenly feels like it's swelling far too big, like there's no more space for her lungs to take in air.
"Sorry, San," she says. Then, she dips her mouth to the warm wet place for the first time.
Santana gives a sharp cry of surprise. Brittany half expects Santana to stop her. It wouldn't be the first time she's stopped her from doing something, since Brittany can't seem to figure out the rules. But instead, she relaxes into the bed and lets her legs drift apart.
In some ways, it's not much different from touching Santana. Brittany already knows what makes her feel good, where to linger and at what speed. But doing it with her tongue feels so much closer, rawer, than with her fingers, and tastes even better than it smells. She keeps a hand on Santana's waist to feel the twitches of her stomach that will tell her when San gets close. San gives herself up completely. She even stops biting back the moan Brittany always sees her hold in when she's getting close to the edge. When she comes, she tastes brighter and sweeter—like something inside her has been let free.
"Oh, Brittany," she whispers as the last waves pass through her. She's twitching with aftershocks before she realizes what she's said, and as Brittany slides back on top of her, she watches San's face darken with embarrassment. San looks at the window. Brittany lays her head on Santana's clammy chest and smiles as San slides her fingers through her hair.
Brittany feels strange. They've had sex before, but it's never made her feel like this—like Santana has grabbed her heart and is squeezing it as hard as she can, like any minute now it will burst like a grape, and she'll die. She just wants to melt into Santana and never, ever be away from her again. She wants to tell San but doesn't even know how to start.
"You came, right?" she says at last.
Santana snorts. "Really, Britt?"
"I knew you came." Her stomach flip-flops. "You said my name."
"Should I have said someone else's?"
Santana still sounds scared; her voice is too hard, and it feels like she's shaking a little beneath her aftershocks. Maybe she's just cold. Still, Brittany has to try to tell her.
"I really like you, Santana. Not like boys. Like…" She struggles, but the words won't come. She's feeling less and less brave. Santana's body stiffens underneath her.
"Like best friends," Santana finishes, firm.
Brittany feels her heart crumple in Santana's fist. She looks up: San offers her a fragile smile and pulls her up for a kiss.
As soon as Santana rolls her on her back, all Brittany wants is to get lost again, to forget what she tried to tell Santana, to forget that beautiful, terrible feeling.
"Touch me," she begs Santana. "I need you." And Santana kisses her again and begins to touch her.
Now she can learn to feel safe again, since Santana's not afraid anymore.