Married. You're married. You're married to Brittany, the girl with the universe eyes, the girl who bumped into you on the sidewalk, and who turned your entire world upside down. It's been nearly two months and still, still you're hit with it sometimes. When you get out of the shower in the mornings, and she's back in bed— because she still insists on waking up to make you coffee before work, though you've insisted a thousand times that she doesn't have to— all tucked beneath the blankets, blonde hair splayed about on the pillow. When you go to bed before her sometimes, and she kisses you goodnight, careful not to wind her paint-covered hands in your hair. When you're walking, gloved hand in gloved hand, down the street, and you feel where her wedding band is, even through the barriers. When you come home, and see the name on your doorbell, B & S Lopez. When you're working, and Jonas casually mentions your wife on air. You're married, you're married, and those butterflies in your stomach, they love that word.
It's been a rough winter. It seems like every week, there's another violent snowstorm. You never remember a winter like this, certainly not in Philadelphia, and never back home in New York, either. You call constantly to check on your mom, but she's fine, the subways are running, the buses are mostly running, and her apartment is warm. You go with Brittany to stock up on canned goods and coffee and candles. The night before each storm, you hold her close in the grocery store as you shuffle through the crowds to fill your cart with milk and bread and meat and eggs. She likes to be prepared, your wife, and you're glad for it. You're glad that you can bury yourselves under blankets on the couch, you can lay your head on Brittany's chest, and Otis can sit up on the window bench, watching the raging winter outside beneath you. You're glad that she likes to prepare, because it makes you feel safer. As a kid, you'd gone days without heat in your building, your mom, she'd worried about you not having anything to eat, about you staying warm, and about getting to work in the bad weather. So this, having food in the cupboards, the love of your life holding you tight, it's the most secure you've ever been, and much as trudging through snow and ice to work in the early morning hours sucks, you get to come home to her, to your wife, and you know, winter's not so bad.
Winter's not so bad, until the power goes out. Because that's one thing, one small thing, that really makes Brittany more uneasy than anything else. The dark disorients her, you'd learned that early on in her relationship, when you'd noticed she sleeps with the hall light on, just in case she needs to get up in the middle of the night. It disorients her, and being alone without power, that makes it far worse, even in the daytime. The first time the power goes out, you're at work. You're in the last half hour of your show, and you and Jonas are bantering back and forth. He's teasing you about the Mets, because there's a snowstorm outside, and somehow he's on a kick about Opening Day, even though it's weeks away. You tell him you're married to a Phillies fan, and then he teases you some more about your dopey Brittany smile. It's all fun and games, until it goes pitch black in the studio, and you feel your heart lurch. There aren't any windows, and you literally cannot see your hand in front of your face. Jonas, he finds his phone before the generators kick on, and he illuminates the room with the flashlight, letting you find your own, with a text already waiting from your wife.
Is the power out there? Lost internet connection so I can't see if you're still on air :(
Her text message sounds calm, but you know her. You text her back quickly, you tell her that it's the same situation at the station, and you promise her, you promise her that you'll be home soon, and not to worry. Jonas, he'd picked you up for work, because he knows you hate driving in the snow, and once the generators kick on, you give your listeners an update, and you pass the show off to Carla, who does the mid-morning show. You're jittery, and not in a good way. Your skin crawls, when you're anxious, and Jonas, he gets that. Jonas, he grabs your bag and your thermos for you, and once your coat is on, he leads the way out to the car. In the five hours you'd been inside, the snow, it must have fallen another six inches, and you're glad, for once, that Jonas insists on driving one of those gas-guzzling SUVs that you usually ream him about. Together, you scrape the snow from the windows, though you can barely reach, and you're soaked pretty much all over, by the time you get inside, and he cranks up the heat. He's a careful driver, the safest you know, and still, even with the street lights out, he manages to get you home in half the time it would have taken you, had you driven yourself.
Jonas promises to send you a text when he's safely home, and before you head up to Brittany, you feel the urge to knock on Mr. Shapiro's door, just to make sure he has everything he needs. The two of you, you've grown on the old man, and he can't help but smile as he tells you he's okay, he can't help but smile as he tells you to say hello to Brittany for him, and you make him promise to knock on your door if there's anything that he needs later on. You run up the stairs then, and you open the door, finding Brittany, standing at her easel, layers of clothes and thick socks on, painting, painting in the natural light from outside, because you know it draws the nervousness from within her. It's routine, and it helps her feel secure. Otis, he stands close to her, and you know, you know, she's freaked out. You know, she's been desperately waiting for you to make it home. Normally, you flick the lights to tell her you're home, because you don't like sneaking up on her, but when you don't, you see Otis nudge her hand, you see Otis alert her of your presence, and she turns around, dropping her paintbrush in the water and breaking from her painting of a little girl in a garden.
"Santana." Her whole body sighs in relief when she sees you, and you step into her arms, neither of you caring that she has paint covering the front of her sweatshirt, neither of you caring about anything but embracing each other. Because you're home safe, you're together. You don't have to worry about food, or travel, or warmth. Because the blankets, she already has them stacked. And together, you'll stick it out, for the remainder of the storm. She breathes such a sigh of relief, and you stroke her hair, promising her, silently, that it's all okay.
Brittany, she's always prepared. You see the coolers on the kitchen floor, filled with the ice from your freezer and anything that will go bad—though you think, given how cold your apartment is without the heat, it would probably be fine anyway. Brittany, your wonderful wife, she already has layers for you laid out on the bed, and quickly, quickly, you change into them, ignoring the bite of cold, while she pulls on a clean sweatshirt, and watches you. That daylight, it's a good thing, but Brittany already has flashlights and candles and the battery-operated lantern strewn about the living room and ready for nightfall. You kiss her when you're dressed, you kiss her, and she plays with your hair. She's happy you're home, so happy, and you're just as happy too.
"Are you hungry? Do you want lunch?" She asks you, always, always wanting to take care of you.
"Grilled cheese and soup kind of day, isn't it?" You raise your eyebrows, and she shakes her head with a grin.
"For you, it's always a grilled cheese and soup kind of day. Will you. Will you light the stove for me though?"
"Of course not, c'mon, let's go make lunch together."
You're both glad for the gas stove as you turn it on and light a match over two burners. It's one of those things, the match lighting thing, that makes her nervous, and you know, you absolutely know why. She doesn't talk about it, she really doesn't talk about them, less now than ever, but you know that she worries, after years of being told she'll burn down the kitchen if she cooks. So you light it, and you pour the soup— from Fresh Direct, not from the Campbell's can— into a saucepan as she butters thick slices of bread and slices the Gouda she left out on the counter. She spreads blackberry jam between the slices— your compromise, when you like to eat kid food all the time, she can change it up a little. You work together, with occasional touches and smiles, no words necessary, until you've got soup in bowls, sandwiches on plates, and you're carrying them to the living room, prepared to bury yourselves under the blanket.
"It's nasty out there." You tell her, and she lets out a sigh.
"I know. Otis and I only made it to the corner when I took him out before, I'm just. I'm glad you're home, Santana."
"Me too." You kiss her. You kiss her, and you stroke her cheek, because you know she worries. "And I'm going nowhere until the power comes back on, and they clean the streets. So what do you want to do all day?"
"There are a few things I can think of." She laughs, and she pulls the thick comforter up, surrounding both of you. "But first, lunch."
The snow, it doesn't let up. Not while you eat. Not while you end up napping for two hours on the couch, Brittany's arms around you, never letting you go, though she never falls asleep herself. Not when you wake up, and you begin lighting candles, because it's gotten darker outside of the window, and it's really hard to see inside. But it's alright. Brittany, she makes more coffee, and you play Monopoly, killing a good chunk of daylight hours. And then, then it's dinner time, because you always eat early, and as she pours you a glass of wine, you just, look at her. You're sure she can see the hearts in your eyes. They're always pretty obvious, but you don't know why, but something about being in your quiet little upstairs apartment, where there's no background noise of heaters or electronics, or anything, really, beyond the wind outside and the occasional patter of ice on the window, it makes everything feel bigger, deeper, somehow. And your love for your wife, that's included, that's the most important of all.
"What?" She looks at you over the counter. Soft smile. Universe eyes. Her whole face bathed in the glow of a dozen candles lit there.
"Just love you." You say it, and you sign it too. Because that's mostly how you speak to her now, with both. Your fluency, it's improving in leaps and bounds. And you're glad for that, because, you've had a lot of thoughts in your head lately. Thoughts about needing to know how to help teach sign to someone else too, eventually, maybe. "And you look really pretty tonight."
"Santana." She casts her eyes down. You love that. You love it, how she's your wife. She wears the ring you bought her. She shares your name. But, you can still make her blush. You can still have this wonderful effect on her. And she has it on you too. "I. I didn't even take a shower before we lost the power this morning."
"So what?" You shrug, and Brittany, her face soft and adoring, she leans over and kisses you on the lips. "I don't think the water is what makes you beautiful."
"You're. You're just, too much." Her lips, she sucks them into her mouth, and you play with her fingers in the center of the counter. You twist her wedding band. You just, love her.
"For you, never."
She lets you make dinner, you know it's rare, since she loves to cook and you, really don't. But she's uncomfortable with the stove being lit with a match, and cooking in the low light, so you encourage her to sit. You encourage her to let you take care of her, and as you cook macaroni and cheese, the real kind, you tell her, with the bright orange cheese block that she doesn't make fun of you for buying, you catch her smiling at you, you catch her really, truly enjoying getting to watch you. When the food is done, you sit at the counter together, and you eat. As night falls, the temperature, it continues to drop, and you're glad you put on extra socks, you're glad Brittany put blankets in Otis' bed for him— though you know he'll sleep with you tonight, because you'll all need the warmth— and you're glad for the creamy macaroni and the wine, sticking to your bones, rushing through your veins.
Brittany's quiet. It doesn't surprise you. Even with the candles, even with you close by, even though she loves the snow, she hates storms. Snowstorms, rainstorms, all storms. She hates uncertainty, she loves her routine, she needs it. So while you feel safe and secure, with food and blankets, she still feels anxious, because she doesn't know when it will end, when your life will resume its normalcy. You text Jonas, just in case your phone dies. You ask him if he minds covering the whole show for you in the morning. Even if the storm lets up, you don't want to leave her. The power will probably still be out, and you just would rather be home with her. Once he texts you back, and you check in with your mom, who still has heat and power and food, though the storm is maybe worse in New York, you shut off the phone to conserve your battery. You put it away, and you come up behind Brittany, where she stands at the kitchen sink, trying to do the dishes without hot water. You come up behind her and you wrap your arms around her waist, you stand on your toes and you rest your chin on her shoulder. You feel her muscles, strung tight within her, and hold her, feeling them relax, just a little, in your embrace.
You stand like that for awhile, even after she turns the running water off, leaving the dishes to be cleaned properly when there's hot water again. You stand like that for awhile, just because you want to hold her and she wants to be held. You draw hearts on her sides, and she lays her hands over yours. You breathe in her ear, you let her feel the tickling breath, and you wait, you wait, until she doesn't feel so tense that she might snap in half. You wait until then, and you bring her away from the sink. You lead her to your bedroom, because you're fully set on distracting her, you're fully set on savoring this rare day where the world will give you no outside interruptions. Because as tumultuous as it looks outside the window, it's frozen your city, almost in time. It's encased you in your safe little upstairs apartment, and you want her to feel the same safety there that you do. You light the candles, bathing the whole room in soft firelight, and you watch her, you're always watching her, because she enchants you.
No worrying. You sign to her, when she sits down on the bed, and you stand before her. We're okay here.
She nods. She nods, and though those universe eyes have unshed tears inside, she believes you. She believes that you and her, you keep each other safe. She stocks the cupboards and piles blankets and warm clothes on the couch, and you, you touch her and kiss her and love her, because reassurance for Brittany, in this case, has no physical form. It's cold still, in your bedroom, but, it's okay. You have your own way of making heat. You have your own way of producing many things, when you're with your wife, and when you run your hands down her sides, she knows what you're doing. She raises her arms for you, she lets you pull her shirt from her body, and when goosebumps, they erupt on her torso, you pull her in for a searing kiss, you rub them away with the pads of your thumbs.
You're naked, both of you, quickly, quickly, because you can't waste time with the undressing, not when it's freezing inside. You're naked, and you lie on top of her, just, kissing her, letting your hands roam over her soft pale skin. You're covered with a white down blanket, not just your bodies, but your heads too. It's another one of those things, those things that make everything feel more intense. Because like the white snow that shuts you inside, this white blanket shuts you in your bed. In your bed, nothing else exists. Nothing but the two of you. Nothing but caressing fingertips, bruising kisses in filtered orange light. Your whole universe, underneath, is Brittany, Brittany. And you both exist in this moment, for no other reason but each other's pleasure, each other's love.
"Santana." She gasps, a breathy plea.
Your breasts, they press against hers, your lips, they kiss the shell of her ear. She's told you, shyly, a long time ago, how much she likes that, how much pleasure you give her just with that soft, brushing sensation, and you're sure to let her feel that, whenever you can. Your fingers, they scrape along her inner thighs, and you feel the inferno that comes from within her. You don't move your mouth to speak to her in return, but you make eye contact, you tell her without words, patience, patience, I've got you, I love you.
Her body, it trembles beneath your touch, and you suck the hollow of her throat, you feel her gasp again, because she knows, she knows your destination. She's desperate for you, but she knows, she knows, her patience will pay off. You move lower, you lave kisses over her collarbone, and she winds gentle fingers in your hair. She wants it off your face, she wants to see everything, and you smile into her skin, because this, the palpable presence of her want, it's everything to you. Her parted lips, her flushed skin, the little noises that escape her throat, they coil your insides, tight, tighter, until sometimes, you feel like you might snap without her even touching you. This woman, your wife, she's impossibly beautiful, impossibly sexy, and you know, you know, she feels it within herself to the fullest extent when you make love to her, and that, it's an amazing thing.
The path you make down her body, it lights up her skin. You swear, sometimes, that she glows when you do it. You swear, sometimes, as her fingers wind tighter in your hair, as the universe in her eyes grows blacker, blacker, preparing to burst open, that she actually emits her own light. It's in your head, you're sure, but it spurs you. It nudges you along as you take her nipple between your lips and she squeaks in response. It tugs you as you press her knees up, opening her fully to you and she hisses. It pushes you, as you breathe her in, all of her and she releases a long whine when you slide your hands beneath her body, and you bring her to your lips. Brittany like this, Brittany, unburdened, heaviness left behind, blonde hair fanned out on white sheets and eyes, those universe eyes, pleading as she moans and aches, it's radiance. There's no other word for it. Sheer radiance, in the bliss that overcomes your love.
"Santana, I—" The words, they die on her lips as her body arches up into you, as her thighs tense around your head, and they hold you there, they hold you to her, as waves of pleasure course through her entire body.
You don't stop looking in her eyes, not until they roll back, not until they close. That's when you always seek out her hand. You untangle it from your hair, and you take it in yours. I'm here, I'm here, you remind her with squeezes, when her world blacks out. Your tongue turns gentle, flat against her, it eases her down, it presses your every affection into her, until all at once, her tight strung body relaxes, and collapses against the pillows. She's beautiful like that. You wish, sometimes, that you had the ability to paint like she does. Because her body like that, her body after, it's art, truly, especially now, especially hidden from the outside beneath your blankets, especially when that filtered light makes everything ethereal.
"Sweetheart." You murmur it against her lips, letting her feel the vibrations of your endearment, after you crawl back up her body. She winds her arms around your neck, and she holds you there, she holds you close. She lets you feel the trembling aftershocks beneath her skin. And she kisses you. She kisses you deep and full of, just, everything there is to feel. It's your favorite part, the right after, when her eyes are still closed, when she's so soft and unguarded, when her body seems to melt into the bed, when she moans at her taste on your lips, and you breathe it all in, always.
Later, later, when you're both out of breath again, and you lie against her, your head finds its most natural place beneath her chin. She paints your skin with her fingers, hearts and spirals and lines. You listen to her heartbeat, slowing, slowing, back to its restful state. It's not late, not at all, you'd had dinner so early, and with the lingering effects of the two glasses of wine you had dissipating, you know you can't stay in bed for the rest of the night. You know you need to extinguish all the candles in the apartment, you know you need to at least blast your face with the bitter cold from the faucet, and wash up and brush your teeth. And most importantly, Otis needs to have dinner and go out. He's slept most of the day, with Brittany otherwise occupied inside, but, like his Brittany, he likes his routine, and you don't have to look at the bedside clock to know it's almost time.
"Have to get up." Brittany murmurs, words lazy, heavy on her tongue, just as you were thinking it, and you roll over up look at her. You're both still covered by the blanket, and you know, you know, the air is cold out there. You know it's going to hit you hard when you emerge. So you kiss her again, steeling yourself for the chilly blast of air.
"Stay." You tell her, and you draw the letters on her bare stomach.
She's sleep heavy, and she hates the cold more than you do, so you figure you can brave it just for an extra minute, you can grab more thick socks and flannel underclothes and heavy sweats. Because if she's going to brave the weather to walk with Otis, you'll brave it with her. Before she can object, you roll off the bed, feeling goosebumps erupt all over your bare body as you're hit with it. It's cold in your apartment, frigid, almost, without any heat, and you wrap a throw blanket around your whole self before going to the drawers. You're quick, quick, quick, grabbing all you need, and you turn around, you turn around to find Brittany's head peering out of the covers, watching you, her heart eyes visible too, in a way that makes your insides thrum.
You dress yourself quickly, and then, then, returning to the bed, you help to dress her, too. You don't know when you thought to start this, but, it's something you love to do, when she's still melted and sex-warm. To help her slide pants up her legs and arms in her sleeves. She always kisses you in places when you do it. Your nose. Your wrists. The inside of your elbows. It doesn't matter where, really, she just wants her lips on you somehow. And it's intimate, so intimate and intense, you have trouble describing it. But you know, you know it deep in your bones, that anyone can undress a person before sex, but it requires a great deal of trust to allow someone tore-dress you after. And Brittany's trust, your wife's trust, that's something that was hard-earned and well worth every effort. She smiles, that lazy smile, when you finish, right down to her socks, and you kiss her lips again, letting it linger there, until you hear a low whimper from outside the closed bedroom door.
"Otis is making noise." You tell her. "I'm not sure if he's crying because he wants to go out, or he doesn't."
"He's the most snow-loving member of this family." She purses her lips as she looks out the window, where snow still pounds down in the darkness. You just, kiss those lips one more time, because even in the midst of a massive snowstorm, you're still reveling in your newlywed bliss. "You don't have to come Santana, it's terrible out there."
"Which is why I'll never let you go out there alone. I think it was in our wedding vows. To have and to hold, to walk with you outside in blizzards.'
"I'm pretty sure that wasn't there." She laughs a little, and you pull her to her feet.
"That's okay, Britt. We have a whole lifetime to add to it."
She doesn't disagree. She hasn't, since you'd begun this thing you do. She's even started adding things herself. You love it, truly. You want to promise her the world, and in those universe eyes, you see she wants to do the same for you. And so, you begin wrapping yourselves up to go outside, all the warm things you can find, hats and scarves and gloves and boots. You blow out the candles. But you turn on the battery-operated lantern, because Brittany, she won't want to walk into darkness, even with you close by. You leave it lit by the door, and you grab a flashlight, you grab her hand, and with Otis in his boots, you make your way downstairs, and out into the whipping wind, and the swirling snow. It's strange, really, this isolated world, even on the usually bustling streets outside. You won't be out long, you know, Otis will go quick, because he knows Brittany won't want to stay. For a moment of time though, even as ice bites your cheeks, and you pull Brittany's scarf up higher for her, rubbing her red nose with yours, it's beautiful, amidst the chaos. It's beautiful, because it's just you three. It's beautiful, because you have each other, come rain, come sun, come a dangerous storm that steals away your power, and you hold your wife just a little closer, because you always will.