(Author's Note: Well, Dear Readers, this is the last chapter before the simultaneous release of the final chapters of The Only True Paradises and this story. Enjoy!)
After the prom, it's Santana who comes to Brittany every night—through her window, the way she always did as a lanky girl whose knees were secretly scraped beneath those prim skirts. The tree's branches are sturdier and thicker, which works out well, since Santana is bigger than she used to be.
"How do you open the window from the outside like that?" Brittany asks the second night, just after San climbs into her room. She peeks her head outside to study the latch and sees San's dusty dinged bike propped against the house. It's probably been years since she last rolled that thing out of the garage, and it makes Brittany grin to see it again.
"You just… click the latch. I'll show you how one of these days. Just in case you lock yourself out again." She smoothes Brittany's hair to one side, exposing her neck, and traces a line from her earlobe to her collarbone. "Happy to see me?"
Brittany turns to face her and kisses her once on each cheek.
"Always."
Since she lost her nerve to kiss Santana outside her house after prom, Brittany has made up for it by kissing her every night after she tames her. But holding back from doing more is getting harder and harder. She wants her so much that her mind slips back to it constantly. Her teachers are scolding her even more than usual. How can she keep her mind on angles and lines when the only ones she can think of belong to Santana?
Every time she's about to kiss San, she tells her out loud—I'm going to kiss you—for the thrill of watching San's eyes flutter shut in bliss and feel her sigh against Brittany's nearing lips. Brittany's lost in wonder again that she could ever feel this loved, this wanted. Artie always looked so happy to be with someone like Brittany. San, on the other hand: San looks happy to her bones to be with Brittany.
When they sleep, Brittany sometimes wakes in the night and turns or stirs, and San whimpers and pulls her back in, tight and desperate. She's still so afraid.
She's always been afraid. Her fear has just changed shape.
The hall sign-up sheet for solo auditions proves that Santana is no longer afraid of the same things. Brittany's super proud to see San's name, scrawled big and dark right at the top of the list. Number one slot.
"So you're going for it." They're trading out books at their lockers. Santana slams hers shut with a smirk.
"Duh. I'm going to be top bitch in Glee. Berry can suck it."
Brittany rolls her eyes. Well, at least San is owning up to how much she loves Glee. That's something.
Then San glances away, and her smile changes shape: soft and shy.
"Want to come over and help me pick my audition song?" She shrugs, like it doesn't matter, but Brittany knows the shrug—like the edge in Santana's voice—is meant for the hallway, not her.
"Sure. Take me home with you. I'll text my mom and steal something to wear tomorrow."
Santana beams.
Back at San's, Brittany sits on the bed, listening to San try on a series of songs. She begins with Billie Holiday's "Summertime." Her voice strokes it with a simple tenderness Billie's never had—a tenderness Brittany wants to keep to herself.
Next is the Fugees' cover of "Killing Me Softly." It fits right into the groove of San's voice. Would probably go over well. It's a good mix: a little of everything. Soul. Sweetness. Sorrow.
Finally, she sings Amy Winehouse's "Back to Black." It's angry, keening, ripped from somewhere deep, and yet Santana is somehow purring. It's liquid sex. Brittany feels her knees spreading as San licks the low notes, and oh god, this is actually turning her on. This might not be a bad pick, since the goal is to win over two men. Especially when one of them is nineteen years old and doesn't look like he's gotten laid in a while.
Then again, neither has Brittany. God, the things Santana can do with that mouth. She watches San's tongue flick against the edge of her lips as the ground seems to rumble underneath her.
Brittany lets her body vote for her. Two thumbs way, way up for "Back to Black." And because she can't be expected to just sit there after listening to that, she pulls Santana's body against hers and just breathes in the musky, earthy soul of the song still clinging to her skin. She begs herself to let this be enough.
"Britt," moans San, quivering against her, and Brittany curses herself for wanting to take this slow when every muscle in her body feels stretched tight; she's a chamber of strings tuned together to the key of Santana. She peels herself away.
"Sorry," she breathes out, though she can't help but leave a kiss just next to San's mouth before changing the subject. "Can I come to the audition?"
San sighs. "I don't think so. Sorry, Britt. I think it's just the other people auditioning who get to sit in."
"Well, how about a private performance? I mean, you need to practice, don't you?" She almost regrets asking right as the words leave her mouth. This is going to be the most delicious, awful torture.
It is. While Santana sings, Brittany is thinking about ducking into the bathroom to get rid of this ache. This must be what blue balls feel like. Her only comfort is that San looks just as desperate and shaken as Brittany feels. By the time she finishes the last run-through, San is practically growling.
"Sexual frustration totally sounds good on you," Brittany teases once Santana settles, exhausted, next to her.
The whole time she's taming San that night, all she can think about is attacking that mouth of hers. It feels like minute after minute of that hanging second just before they kiss. Her stomach is twisted in knots. Finally, she can't stand it anymore. She's only human. And when she dives in, she feels San's groan of relief into her mouth shaking loose the tight cluster of her insides.
It takes everything in her to pull away from that kiss.
"Soon," she says, breathless, as much for herself as for San, whose face shifts and tightens with frustration before she pulls herself together.
"When you're ready," says San.
Brittany closes her eyes and pictures the exact moment when she knew it was Santana, not Artie, who she was meant to be with. The moment she looked into Santana's eyes while slipping inside her.
Brittany is ready. She's been ready for a long time.
"No," says Brittany, shaking her head. "When you are." San bites her lip, puzzled, so Brittany adds: "When you understand, I'll know you're ready."
She kisses San's forehead, then excuses herself to the bathroom. She's only human, after all. And what she's holding out for is way too important to let her body get in the way.
The first thing Brittany does after she and San part ways at school the next morning is track down Lauren Zizes. She's rifling through her locker and smirks when she sees Brittany coming.
"Can you sneak me into the auditorium later to watch the auditions?" she asks.
Lauren glances both ways before giving a quick nod.
"Easy."
In a few hours, Brittany is following a thin pimply AV club boy along the catwalk over the auditorium. It's fun up here: fun to tiptoe soundlessly along the narrow path, scanning the rows of seats that look like crops from a low-flying plane. He directs her to a perch where she can see the stage perfectly.
"Here we are," says the boy. "Can you get back okay? It's just the way we came." He points to the dark door leading to the steps.
"Yep. Thanks."
She watches him pick his way back over the passage before turning her attention to where the sound of a swinging door announces that Mr. Schue and Jesse have entered the auditorium.
San's first. And god, is she ever sexy. Brittany reels, dizzy, over the flimsy scaffolding; she's afraid she'll drop from it like a dead bird from a telephone wire. Mr. Schue sits up a little straighter, but Jesse is just scribbling and looks bored. Brittany wants to slap him. How could anyone look bored with San singing like that?
She sticks around for Kurt and Mercedes—she has to admit, they both sound totally awesome—but tiptoes back during Rachel's audition so she doesn't have to watch Jesse sitting forward and looking equal parts love-drunk-dopey and turned on.
By the time Santana and Kurt and Mercedes file out, Brittany's back in the auditorium, next to the door, waiting.
San's body gives a little jump when she sees Brittany.
"Britt, what are you doing here?" she asks.
After the others have left, Brittany shows San the catwalk. San's face drains.
"How the hell did you get up there? That can't be safe."
"San. It's okay," she reassures her, explaining her assist from the AV club.
Santana's face relaxes, and then grows almost shy.
"So… you were watching, huh?" she asks, softly. "What did you think?
"I think if they don't pick you," she says, nodding toward the disappearing backs of Jesse and Mr. Schuester, "they're the stupidest men alive."
Tonight, as San helps her study for the Spanish final, Brittany lets things get a little too heated after San uses a pronunciation lesson as an excuse to suck Brittany's finger into her clever, sneaky mouth. All of a sudden, Brittany is in San's lap and sucking her face like she's getting paid to do it. She's only human, she's only human, and it just feels so good she can't stop herself.
To her surprise, it's San, this time, who breaks them apart, panting and starving. Her lips are dark and swollen from Brittany's eager teeth.
"Britt, am I ready?" she asks, her voice cracking. Oh. Brittany's heart melts.
"What do you think?"
San ponders for a minute, her eyes locked to Brittany's.
"I don't think so," she says, slowly. "I don't think I understand yet."
Brittany kisses San's hands and face and forces her hips to retreat from where they push into Santana's.
"Ugh," San grunts, although she's grinning too big to be that upset. "I'm my own cockblock."
"I'm proud of you," Brittany says. I love you, she thinks.
"You keep saying that." San's voice is sharp with frustration.
"Well, I mean it."
"Soon." Santana sighs.
"Soon."
Brittany films Mr. Schuester and Jesse's deliberation process to gather some intel. She even flirts a little with Jesse to see whether she can sway him—even though she doesn't have much hope, since even Santana's super sexy song didn't turn him on—but sure enough, he's only got eyes for Rachel. She wishes Mr. Schue would grow a pair instead of listening to this guy.
It's too late now. This thing's in the bag. Nobody else ever had a chance.
She wonders how—and if—she should break it to Santana.
A little while before midnight, Brittany's thinking over possible ways to prepare San for the bad news as she studies a book of constellations on the lawn. Jazz was extra hard today, and her muscles are just now starting to uncoil in the soft cool grass. Her flashlight beam travels in zigzags over the diagrams and blocks of text, and she clicks it off to look up, searching for Ursa Major.
A whizzing of gears along the sidewalk tells her San is rounding the corner on her bike. As she passes under the streetlight, Brittany watches a flash of yellow light stroke Santana's dark hair, which flies, loose and long, behind her.
She smiles at Brittany as she walks her bike up the lawn. After leaning it against its usual spot on the wall, she settles down face up next to Brittany in the grass. She slips a hand behind her head and kicks off her flats.
"Stargazing?" she asks.
"Learning constellations."
San readjusts to snuggle into Brittany. She interlaces their fingers.
"Teach me."
Brittany's eyes scan the veil of stars.
"Well, that one"—she points with the hand not wrapped in San's—"that bright star, there? That's the dog star. Sirius. And over there"—she traces a line of three stars—"that's Orion's belt. Orion's a hunter. That one's my favorite. Easy to see, anywhere."
"Well, then, it's my favorite too," says San, squeezing her hand.
"Why?"
"Because every time I see it from now on, I'll think of you."
Brittany rolls over and kisses her then. At this second, she doesn't need anything more.
The next day is when the solo is supposed to be announced. Brittany feels like she's eaten bad cheese when she thinks about how Santana will react after Rachel wins. It's going to launch her backwards, Brittany just knows it, and at this rate, maybe she'll never come out.
But then, Mr. Schue surprises her. Rachel doesn't get the solo after all. They're all going to sing together.
Brittany can't help it. She smiles at Santana with a relief San will never understand, because Brittany will never tell her what almost happened.
Better yet, Brittany's parents will be out of town tonight for her sister's soccer tournament. Which means chocolate chip pancakes, sleeping in until noon, and the whole long night alone with Santana.
San makes a huge stack of pancakes. After all the practice she's had over the years, she's good at it—now and then, she flips one like a chef—and Brittany watches in admiration from the counter, swinging her legs like a kid.
Since San tells her she can pick any movie she wants, Brittany goes for Finding Nemo. There's something about being home alone with San that reminds her of the old days. She remembers San's first gooey-burnt-lopsided attempts at chocolate chip pancakes when they were thirteen and stayed home alone at Brittany's for the first time. These ones, though, are perfect. She devours them and, as soon as the movie ends, she begins to devour Santana.
When their kisses start heating up too much for the den, she drags San upstairs. A little part of her reminds her to slow down, but another, stronger, lower part of her can't stand it another minute. San leaps on top of her, her lips sweet and hot and sticky from the pancakes, and suddenly Brittany can't even remember what the word "willpower" means.
Santana does.
After breaking the kiss, lifting Brittany's chin, and looking—hard—into her eyes, San swallows and hesitates.
"Britt." She sounds nervous. "Britt, I want to try something."
"What is it, San?"
"I want… to look into your eyes."
Brittany fights to iron every hint of frustration out of her voice. "Okay," she says, as softly as she can. "Do you want to roll over on our sides?"
That's not it. San shakes her head. "I don't mean—the way we've been doing," she says. "I mean, I want to see you."
Brittany can't figure out what she's trying to say—only that whatever it is, it's really, really important.
San swallows, gathers herself, and takes a deep breath.
"Brittany, I—I'm ready." Her gaze flickers between Brittany's eyes. "I want to… to make love to you. And I want to look into your eyes."
Oh god. This is it. The room disappears. Everything but Santana has been blown out, disappeared, like a candle flame. Brittany struggles to find her voice and pull it back into her throat.
"Yes." The word comes out as soft as a breath as she strokes San's cheek. "Yes," she repeats, firm and sure.
Santana rolls Brittany carefully onto her back. Little by little, her eyes stop flickering between Brittany's and grow still and calm and deep.
"God, you're beautiful," she whispers, her voice deep and thick. Her hair falls around her face and settles over Brittany's as she leans impossibly close. Her breath still tastes like pancakes, but now it's changed somehow: there's a tinge of what Brittany tasted on her breath the first time. That same longing and awe—even if Brittany didn't know, back then, what she was sensing.
She knows better now.
San begins to touch and kiss her all over. Slowly. Getting used to how it feels. Brittany doesn't mind. Her fast-burning need has softened to a patient smolder. She could wait for hours, now that she knows what she's waiting for.
When San reaches to undress her, Brittany helps, turning her limbs. Then she turns to undress Santana, who—unlike the old days—submits to Brittany's hands.
Back on top of Brittany, San runs her hands over Brittany's naked skin, unhurried and expert. No one has ever known Brittany's body the way Santana does. She knows every line of it without looking, the way she always knows the right word in Spanish when Brittany asks for one. The same way Brittany knows an old dance. But she can't remember Santana learning her body. It's like she's always known, like it came to her in a dream, like a language spoken to her in her sleep.
Santana is smiling, unguarded and easy, as her fingers glide over the familiar skin. Brittany sees, fully, for the first time, how much San enjoys touching her. Not just wanting—it's almost like she's in love with Brittany's body. Was their lovemaking always like this for her? Brittany thinks back over a dozen times when Santana's hands ran over her skin exactly like this, from their earliest nights in the shadows. Maybe Brittany was right all along.
"Touch me," she whispers. She feels suddenly eager to see the way San's eyes change when she touches her there. "Touch me, Santana."
When Santana does begin to touch her, it jolts something deep in Brittany—so deep and so strong it takes her by surprise. San grins wider at Brittany's reaction to the slow gentle circles she begins to draw between her thighs with two fingertips. It's the way San touches her when she's feeling especially tender, although she's never admitted as much to Brittany.
It's the most amazing thing. These past two years, all the lies and heartbreak in the shadows, clear away. This is the way they should always have been. This is how someone in love should look: the way Santana is looking at her right this moment.
"You feel so good, baby," she murmurs, and San answers with the simplest, happiest sigh Brittany has ever heard her breathe.
Then she eases two fingers inside her, eyes dark and wide and careful, and Brittany suddenly feels the urge to cry. It's too much—and not enough. San's fingers move deep, slow, just right, and her hips surge to meet them.
"Stay. Stay here." She clings to San's hair. "Don't leave me."
"I will never leave you," whispers Santana.
The words have barely left her lips when Brittany lets her body overtake her. She feels everything in her opening to Santana, begging her to plunge in. It's so dark and so bright at once, like when she rubs her eyes with her fists and sees a hundred fractured flickering stars. San's so close—she's dipped her face so close to Brittany's that Brittany can listen to her hard uneven breath—sweating against her, breasts flush against hers, rocking her hips to the primal rhythm of Brittany's. Her eyes are full of curiosity and wonder, like Brittany is a stretch of water at sunrise that she's seeing for the first time.
"Santana," she cries, and in that moment it's the only word she knows.
Once she comes down, they lose themselves in kissing—sticky hungry kisses—before Brittany eases Santana on her back, eager to give her the same gift she's just given Brittany.
"That was…" San bites her lip, flailing for words.
"I know," Brittany assures her.
She begins to explore Santana's soft dark beautiful body, basking in the San smell that rises from her like a warm halo. It's stronger and darker and sweeter than night jasmine. Over the years since that first summer, it's worn deep and smooth, the way perfume blends into flesh. Brittany is dizzy with it as she spreads San's legs with her body and slides her hand lower, and a new musky note breaks and blooms into the smell of her skin.
San freezes. Her eyes flash with animal fear.
Brittany retreats and touches San's face to gentle her.
"San, what's wrong?" she coos.
"I… I don't know." San gulps. "I don't know if I can do this."
Brittany smiles. "Shh. Yes you can." She reflects for a minute, and the answer comes to her. She pulls San's arms over her own shoulders so they form a circle around her neck. "Hold on to me," she directs. "I'll keep you safe. You'll see—it's easy."
Once San's arms link together in a solid ring, her eyes clear: liquid and tame. Brittany moves slowly this time, feeling Santana's quick heartbeat through a coat of sweat. She lets Santana get used to every inch closer, waiting for San's thighs to relax and spread for her, until her fingertips are just on the edge.
"Stay with me, Santana," she reminds her. Then, she closes that final inch. San sighs with more relief than fear as Brittany's fingers run along the warm wet seam.
Little by little, the fear melts from San's eyes. Brittany holds her gaze, braces her, keeps her promise. San's trust is naked and perfect. Her mouth opens, soft as song, as Brittany strokes her in a gentle rhythm.
Too soon, when San's neck stretches, begging, and her noises grow fast and breathy, Brittany eases to a stop. She doesn't want it to be over yet. Not before she falls hard, one more time, into San's dark dizzying eyes.
"Do you want me inside you?" she asks. Santana nods and bites her lip—only to release it with a cry as Brittany's fingers slip into wet swallowing depth. Santana begins to shake as Brittany slides, crooks, finds her, fills her. Her eyes begin to jump between Brittany's again. She's scared. She's too close and it feels too big. Brittany knows exactly how she feels—but it's time.
"Let go, baby. It's okay." Her voice gentles: a whisper, a lullaby. "I've got you. Let go."
San steels herself. Her eyes fix, steady and brave, and then she lets go.
Her moan rattles from someplace deep. Her body shakes so hard with the force of her orgasm that Brittany's afraid she'll shatter. Brittany's heart is beating so hard to see this far into the quick of Santana that she wouldn't be surprised if they folded in on each other, like two sheets of paper crumpled together in a fist.
Good girl, she thinks, bringing Santana down safely with gentle, firm strokes inside her.
Finally, bending to San's damp, glistening throat and cheeks and temples, Brittany kisses her, drinks her, sighs with her. It's everything, everything she knew it could be. Her heart is still beating so hard she wonders how she's still breathing.
"You did great." She kisses her mouth—that sweet, sweet mouth—and crushes herself against the girl she's head over heels in love with. "Oh, San, you were incredible."
By the time Brittany wakes up, curled into San's body, the sunlight washes bright and straw-colored through her curtains. The sun and San's skin have heated her body to a light sheen of sweat. Her arm clings to Santana's ribs, just below her breasts.
Tilting her head up, she sees San smiling down at her.
"Hi," she whispers.
"Hi." San smiles wider.
"Were you watching me sleep?"
"Mhm." She kisses Brittany's brow.
"How did I look?" She nuzzles San's neck, squeezing her chest.
"Beautiful."
They lie in silence, content and warm as cats in their patch of sunlight.
"Thank you," says Brittany, "for last night."
"You too."
Brittany draws a deep breath—and courage.
"Do you think"—Brittany's heart speeds—"maybe we could… you know, try out, us, in New York?"
She feels San's chest shiver beneath her head with a hard gulp.
"Britt, I'm doing my best here. Can we just—let last night be enough, for today?"
Brittany's heart sinks. Then, San clears her throat.
"All right. I'll… think about it." She reflects. "Maybe, if we win Nationals, we'll have enough buzz factor to get away with—"
"Stop it," Brittany cuts her off. "Don't do that."
"I'm sorry," says San, sincerely, after a beat. "I know this is too slow for you. I… I'm not as brave as you, Britt. I'm just not. You have to believe me that I'm doing the best I can."
"I know." Brittany brings San's hand to her own heart. "I believe you."
She does. She has to. Even if it means getting her heart broken all over again. Because her other choice is to let go.
And—she tucks herself deeper into San and closes her eyes against the late morning light—there is no way she is letting go.