an; Last chapter was quite the polemic one with a lot of mixed feelings for everyone. I feel like I need to say something, so bear with me.
Deciding to turn this story into a multichapter means embracing the problems and conflicts that come with any relationship over time. Life's just like that: ups and downs, warmth and cold, misunderstandings and mistakes.
I have no interest in angst. I am not going to write a sad story. Brittana is endgame and they will get together - I have so many things planned for them when they get past this! Patience. Wonderful things often take time and effort.
On with the story.
LXXX
Santana doesn't answer the phone for a day.
For two.
For three.
LXXXI
The days are long, one after the other.
She has to teach three different dancers and correct the mistakes they're making. That means three different sets of steps and movements and three different dance partners. It is challenging to be an assistant choreographer sometimes.
George arrives in faded jeans and a Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt. They exchange pleasantries – they aren't friends, and Brittany doesn't want to make small talk if she can avoid it – before Brittany goes over the steps with him.
They get in position and she lets him lead.
She feels mechanical.
LXXXII
She tries to understand what happened, but she can't.
Santana's voice echoes in her head, "I just wish you had told me that in person."
She tries Santana's number one more time, but is greeted by her voicemail again. She turns her own phone off and hides it in her bag.
She repeatedly hears Santana's drawn-out sigh before asking "What exactly are you trying to say?", and the sad acceptance in it.
She never meant it – she just wanted Santana to be closer, for them to be better together – she didn't want to be without Santana. She had gotten used to Santana's voice, Santana's messages asking about her day, Santana's fingertips tickling her lower back – she hadn't meant that they shouldn't see each other anymore.
"I just wish you had told me that in person," Santana's voice echoes.
LXXXIII
"Brittany!" The choreographer calls her name. Brittany jumps a bit, startled. Every dancer stops to look at her. Her cheeks warm up until she is sure her entire face looks like a tomato, and she clears her throat.
"I'm sorry. I was distracted."
"So I can see." He frowns a bit and snaps his fingers. "Let's start over, shall we?"
The dancers take the cue and stand in position. Mike shoots Brittany a worried glance, but she doesn't look back at him. She shoves her hands in her pockets and tries to pay close attention to her group.
She holds her phone inside her pocket, just in case.
LXXXIV
Rachel knocks on the door and opens it slowly, only sneaking her head and shoulder in. The light outside filters in and makes out the shapes in Brittany's room. "Are you okay?" she asks Brittany carefully.
"I just want to be alone for a while," Brittany answers, not getting up or sitting up or moving under the covers. "Just a little while."
Rachel nods, maybe - Brittany can't see that well in the dark – and closes the door.
She returns fifteen minutes later with a bucket of ice cream and her entire Sex And The City collection. "I'll be in my room if you need anything," she says right before she kisses the top of Brittany's head.
When Rachel leaves, Brittany reaches for the bucket and spoon.
LXXXV
It's Sunday night and she's going mad. She needs to see Santana, to look in her eyes and talk to her. The silence – she can't deal with it, not knowing what is happening, if Santana is okay, if they can be okay.
She takes a long shower, hot water cascading down her body, but she doesn't relax and her muscles don't give. Her muscles have been tight for days, ever since Santana hung up on her. Her shoulders hurt, her neck hurts, her head hurts – at all times, in all places – and she is losing her mind in doubt.
She washes her hair and blow dries it. She tucks her white shirt in her black slacks and wears a cream-colored, lace crocheted scarf over it. She looks at herself in the mirror and all she sees is exhaustion, so she puts on some makeup. She curls the ends of her hair and she sprays on some perfume.
She takes a deep breath before leaving her apartment.
LXXXVI
Quinn is wearing her workout clothes and she has a bag slung over her shoulder. Her hair is in a ponytail. She raises one eyebrow at Brittany, not fully opening the door.
Brittany puts a lock of hair behind her ear. "Is Santana here?" She asks before clearing her throat. Quinn just stares. "She isn't taking my calls."
The eyebrow remains raised, challenging, defiant. Quinn steps out and closes the door behind her.
Brittany looks at Quinn. "Please, Quinn, just tell me if she's there, if she's okay."
"You know, Brittany. I liked you. I really did." Her gaze is penetrating and hard. She takes a step towards Brittany. She looks at Brittany from head to toe. "Do you want to know what she was going to tell you when she called you?"
Brittany realizes she's been cornered. She shakes her head.
"When you broke up with her?" Quinn takes another step forward.
Brittany takes a step back. "I didn't—"
Quinn raises a commanding hand and Brittany stops speaking.
"She was going to tell you her grandmother had just been admitted to the hospital," Quinn informs her, looking into her eyes.
It's like being punched in the stomach. "I didn't know—"
"You didn't know because you never gave her the opportunity to say it, did you? You couldn't be there for her when she needed it." Quinn says, ferocious, a mother protecting her child. "Not everything is about you, Brittany. She wasn't picking up the phone because she went back home to be with her family."
Brittany feels like throwing up.
"But you know what? You're not my girlfriend. This isn't my relationship." She examines Brittany one last time. "I'm going to the gym. The door is unlocked. Suit yourself."
Quinn leaves.
LXXXVII
Brittany is terrified when she enters the apartment. It's silent, flooded with light. Her heartbeat bounces off every wall, every surface; she holds her breath, trying not to disturb the heaviness.
She hears clothes rustling in Santana's room.
She enters.
Santana has a black suitcase open on her bed. She's unfolding her shirts and hanging them up in her closet. She's dressed in a black tank top, jeans, and black boots. She still smells like honey and wood.
"Hi." Brittany tries, and Santana looks up at her.
She goes back to her suitcase, avoiding Brittany's eyes. "What can I do for you?" There's hostility underneath her words. It stings.
"I don't know." Brittany pauses. "I wanted to see you."
Santana enters the closet and puts a few shirts away. "Well, Brittany, maybe I'm the one who's too busy for this right now."
Brittany takes a few steps forward. "Quinn told me about your grandma." She reaches to touch Santana's arm, but Santana retreats. "I'm sorry."
Santana is still silent, taking a pair of shoes and entering her closet once more. Brittany waits for her.
Santana looks inscrutable. "You don't owe me any apologies. You can go now."
Brittany reaches for Santana a second time. Santana doesn't let her. "Please. I want to know if you're okay," Brittany says.
Santana closes her suitcase with a thud and zips it. She turns to Brittany. "Of course I'm not okay. My grandmother is at the hospital and she's hanging by a thread. My mom is by her side, waiting, expecting a reaction. I wanted to tell you these things." She takes a step in Brittany's direction – nothing else. "I wanted to see you and ask you if I should go before I boarded the plane, because my grandmother shut me out when she found out I'm a lesbian. She wouldn't want to see me after regaining consciousness, would she? She hasn't spoken to me in over a decade!"
It's like someone stabbed Brittany in the stomach and twisted the knife around slowly.
She didn't know – how could she have known –
"But you didn't want to know that, did you? You had to kick me when I was already down. Over the phone. I thought we were past that and that you would at least do it in person. I thought I had a right to defend myself. Of course I didn't. You weren't interested in my answer." Santana pauses, a little breathless, small tears pooling in the corner of her eyes. "I'm so angry at you, baby, I don't even know what to say."
It's the first time she calls Brittany by any kind of affectionate nickname.
Brittany tries, "I didn't want to break up with you."
"Well, what do you want, then? Because I think you wanted to break up with me. That's exactly what you wanted." Tears are now falling, and Santana doesn't try to wipe them off. "You're angry, too. Do you think I don't see your hurt and your disappointment? Do you think I don't notice that the time and attention I'm offering you aren't enough? Do you think I don't know you resent me for rejecting the "girlfriend" label for us? I can see it – I can feel it every time you look at me!"
Brittany is crying as well – she can't help it, her heart is breaking, Santana is coming undone in front of her and she's letting her, she's just watching it happen in disbelief.
"You're insecure – like I have the time or the energy to be with someone else. Why would I want anyone else? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? Have you? You're incredibly gorgeous, you're funny, you're interesting, you're caring and warm and – why would I even blink in anyone's direction?" She takes a sharp breath and sits on the bed. She runs a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry, Brittany, because I am doing my best. My life is not going to change overnight – and neither will I. So maybe you deserve something more, someone more committed, with more time, someone who's not me."
Brittany kneels in front of her, and this time Santana doesn't push her away. She wipes away Santana's tears with the palm of her hand and she runs her thumbs along the corners of Santana's eyes. Santana wraps her hands around Brittany's wrists.
Brittany shakes her head a bit, and her anger dissipates. "Silly." She joins their lips. Santana's salty, and wet, and giving; her arms go around Brittany's shoulders and she scoots closer, lips parting to Brittany's without hesitation. She's so warm to the touch; Brittany pulls her closer by the waist, kissing her upper lip, her lower lip, taking it between her teeth and pulling softly.
Brittany pushes Santana backwards, changing positions until Santana's back meets the mattress and Brittany settles fully on top of her, between her legs. She kisses Santana properly this time, tongue running along Santana's lower lip before entering her mouth. Santana sighs, running the heels of her boots against Brittany's legs, pulling her even closer.
Brittany runs her tongue against the roof of Santana's mouth before she meets Santana's tongue with her own and massages it, circles it, rubs their tongues together, her hips weighing against Santana's. She sucks on Santana's tongue before she goes to Santana's neck, placing wet kisses and sucking. She takes the back of Santana's thigh to pull her legs around her waist, and presses her hips down.
Santana takes a sharp breath and whines Brittany's name.
Brittany takes Santana's boots and her own scarf off, throwing them aside.
Neither of them are crying anymore, but she wouldn't be able to tell exactly when they had stopped.
"Baby, we shouldn't—" Santana tries to say, but Brittany bites an already sensitive spot on her neck, and Santana's sentence falls short, her head thrown back and her mouth half open. Her nails scratch Brittany's upper back hard and long under her shirt, and Brittany sucks harder in reprimand.
"I just want you," she says in Santana's ear before she presses her hips down one more time. "Just you," she repeats.
Santana makes a strangled sound and clings to Brittany, her legs tightening around Brittany's hips. Her nails sink into Brittany's lower back, pulling their centers against each other. Brittany kisses her, tongue against Santana's until they're both breathless.
She looks in Santana's eyes. Santana looks so quiet, so sad – are they breaking up?
Santana turns them over. She takes a few deep breaths and runs a hand over her hair. "Don't look at me like that. I can't think straight when you do it."
Brittany sits up, back against the headboard, and wraps an arm around Santana's waist. "Then don't." She kisses Santana, demanding, biting, until Santana cups her face and takes control. Her body presses Brittany against the headboard and her tongue takes over Brittany's mouth until Brittany is moaning and tugging her shirt up.
Santana's tanned skin is on display; her shirt on the floor feels like a relief. Brittany kisses her breasts over her bra. Santana gasps and holds on to the headboard. Brittany bites and sucks, palming Santana's lower back. "This isn't—" Santana tries once more, but Brittany has already taken her bra off, and there is nothing separating her mouth from Santana's skin.
Santana groans; her head falls forward, black hair cascading over Brittany's, and she bites her lip to refrain from making any sound. Brittany smiles at her reaction. She takes her time, her teeth over Santana's breasts, the tip of her tongue circling Santana's nipple before she finally kisses it, wet and slow.
Santana's hands fall from the headboard so one can grasp Brittany's hair, pulling, and the other can scratch Brittany back so hard it stings. Brittany hisses, but she doesn't stop; she switches to Santana's other breast and does the same, teasing the flesh with her teeth, placing wet kisses all around it, blowing hot air down the valley of her breasts, until the tip of her tongue meets Santana's nipple.
Brittany looks up at her. "Stop thinking, for a change."
Santana bites Brittany's lower lip, her hands on Brittany's chin to control the kiss. She nips Brittany's jaw line, and when she reaches Brittany's ear she whispers, "Stop telling me what to do." She takes advantage of the shiver that goes through Brittany's entire body to take off her shirt and her bra. "Because I do what I want," she whispers again, placing a wet kiss on the spot beneath Brittany's ear.
Brittany moans and arches her back against Santana, wondering when they had turned tables.
She unzips Santana's pants. Santana leaves the bed and stands up. She takes off her jeans slowly, looking into Brittany's eyes. Brittany watches and licks her lips at the black underwear, taking the opportunity to get rid of her own pants.
Santana raises her eyebrows. "Come and get it."
Brittany sits on the edge of the bed. Santana is taller than her like this, and she puts her arms around Brittany's neck. Brittany looks up at her. "Fucking tease," she says, kissing the valley of Santana's breasts, tracing patterns with her tongue. "Fucking tease," she repeats and pulls Santana against her, skin on skin, as her kisses trace a path downwards. Santana scratches the back of her head, holding her breath.
She tugs Santana's underwear down, until Santana steps out of it. Her hands palm the back of Santana's thighs until Santana is straddling her, legs wide open. Brittany touches Santana, running a finger over her folds. "God, Santana, you're soaked—"
Santana gasps and holds on to Brittany, eyes closed. Brittany strokes Santana's clit, one, two, three, four times; Santana pants in her ear, letting out small strangled cries between her shallow breaths; Brittany does it again and again, rhythmic and firm, until Santana's trembling in her arms. Brittany runs two fingers over Santana's folds, barely able to breathe herself – Santana's so intense, and this could be the last time, they have nothing, every single issue is still there, waiting for them—
"Jesus, Brittany, please," Santana mumbles, biting Brittany's shoulder. "Just do it—please," she's begging now, kissing Brittany sloppy and wet, and Brittany herself can't take it.
She enters Santana, slow, curving her fingers, and Santana moans in her mouth, biting her lower lip. "Harder," Santana tells her, and Brittany obeys. Santana's tight, and she clenches around Brittany's fingers, hips moving, lips parted. "Yes, baby, just like that," she says, forehead touching Brittany's.
Santana sinks her nails on Brittany's back – when did she let them grow that long, because it hurts – breath mingling with Brittany's, a drop of sweat running between her breasts – Brittany just keeps at it, like she wants to, how she wants to – until Santana comes undone, shivers, tenses and relaxes, cheek burning hot against Brittany's.
Santana's shivering from head to toe. She whimpers when Brittany's fingers leave her, licking her own lips. She looks at Brittany and blinks a few times, as if disoriented, hands cupping Brittany's face. Brittany kisses her soft and slow. "Let's go to bed," she tells Santana because they are in no condition to talk.
Santana tries to argue; Brittany kisses her again. "Let's go to bed," she repeats, and she waits until Santana nods to pull them both under the covers. "Everything can wait," she says as Santana rests her head on her collarbone, an arm over her stomach.