Leisurely Saturday mornings are Santana's favorite part of each week—a nice cup of coffee, a newspaper or book, and just…quiet. She's reading an article about the newest up-and-coming stars to look for in current music—Shelby sent her the article because Mercedes is mentioned, but Santana's not reading it solely because of her boss. She and Mercedes have formed a special bond in the last weeks with her recording at the studio. They mainly talk to complain about Shelby, but Santana actually likes the girl. She has the same no-nonsense attitude she does, and she knows what she wants in life.
Mercedes has a couple of hits on the Billboard Top 100 right now, but it's nowhere near as successful as she'll be in the future…Santana can feel it. Mercedes has one of those brassy, unique voices that are rare to find. Part of Santana's disappointed that she'll be working with Shelby to create her new album, but it's not like she has her own studio yet. Plus, if Shelby Corcoran reaches out to you with a recording contract, you accept it. It's a guaranteed introduction to fame.
When she sees Mercedes's picture pop up on her phone screen with a small paragraph describing her, Santana can't help but smile at her accomplishment. It's a big deal, especially for someone trying to break into the music business.
She loves Mercedes, but she can't help but feel a little envious of her progress. Breaking into the music business is hard on its own, but Mercedes is finally there. She's finally in a position for her dreams to come true. And where is Santana?
Still stuck working for Shelby Corcoran.
She keeps telling herself that it'll pay off one day, but how long is that going to take? It's not like she's actively working with Shelby. As far as she's concerned, Sheby doesn't want any help—she surely doesn't act like it. No one's allowed to give any input at the studio. No one's allowed in the fishbowl, either. Santana's only allowed in there because she's Shelby's personal assistant—there in case Shelby were to need something she'd have to get out of her chair for. She can't help but think of Rachel and how her dreams have come true by now—even Quinn is almost there. And all three girls are the same age. Is she just late to the game?
Her thoughts are interrupted by the buzzing of her phone. When she sees Brittany's picture appear, she smiles and clicks on the "answer" button.
"Hey!" the blonde greets.
Her voice never fails to make joy swell in Santana's chest. Butterflies flutter in her stomach any time she's near the girl, and it's something she's never felt before. So, maybe if her career dreams aren't in fruition yet, this thing with Brittany might fill that space.
/
"Hurry up—we're going to be late!" Quinn exclaims, gesturing for Santana to walk through the door she holds open. Kurt's just on the other side, clapping in place with an excited smile. Santana almost wants to walk slower, just to rile Quinn up.
But Brittany's sudden hand on her shoulder quickens her pace as they walk into the large auditorium, shuffling their way down the aisle to get to the front row. Rachel's already there, looking around worriedly for her friends' presence. She can't see them over the sheer number of people in the room until they get within ten feet of her.
"Oh, thank God," she sighs. She puts her hand on her chest. "I thought you were leaving me here alone. And that would not look good for my reputation." She waves her hand down, sitting in her seat. "Broadway Star Attends Charity Concert Alone—Wishing She Took a Different Path to Stardom?" Rachel muses, reciting the imaginary headline she curated in that pretentious head of hers.
"That's assuming you'll make it to stardom," Santana taunts, earning a silent glare from Rachel as the lights dim. When she looks over to Brittany with a smirk, the girl has her eyes squinted in amusement but consideration. It's as if she's silently asking Santana, "Really?" Santana shrugs and gets comfortable in her seat, watching as the band members walk to their respective instruments and prepare for the first number.
A moment later, the stage dims, and a single spotlight illuminates Mercedes Jones. The crowd starts applauding loudly, including Santana, as she smiles and places her hands over her heart.
"Thank you all so much for coming," Mercedes speaks into the microphone. "Tonight, I want to start with one of my most recent singles—one that won't be on the album—just for you." She turns around and nods to the band, who start playing the intro to a slower ballad that Santana's heard nearly every day for the past month.
Santana concentrates on Mercedes and her voice as it rings through the venue, loud and clear. Her voice never wavers, even in the studio, but especially not now. It's her first time performing live—Santana's impressed that she's handling it so well. She knows she'd be a hot mess if she were in Mercedes's place. Sure, she's performed live in glee club, but that was different. She never got the center-stage solos—though, she never wanted them either.
She watches Mercedes perform, her demeanor shifting as the band plays a more upbeat track. When the set list gets to "Hell to the No," Santana can feel the energy radiating from the girl—the sheer passion. It was her music, and she was proud. And Santana's happy for Mercedes. She knows Shelby is, too, no matter how much the woman pretends to act indifferent.
During another slow number, Santana's attention is brought to the side of her thigh, at something new scratching there. When she looks down, Brittany's pinky is moving up and down her leg, but her face remains on the stage—a quiet smile on her face. Santana wraps her own pinky around Brittany's and squeezes a couple of times, keeping their hands between the seats. She looks back to the stage, at Mercedes moving around passionately, but the only thing she can focus on is the feeling of Brittany's finger wrapped tightly around hers. That, and trying to wipe the huge smile off her face—she doesn't want to look like a creep in the middle of a sad song.
After the final song, the lights in the auditorium reignite, and people rise from their seats with applause. Mercedes gives one final bow before making her way off the stage.
"That was amazing!" Kurt exclaims, jumping up and down in his spot. Brittany looks over at him and laughs, shaking her head at his antics. "Easily the voice of the generation."
"Hey!" Rachel says, holding her hands out to the side in offense.
"In pop," Kurt clarifies, widening his eyes once Rachel's gaze leaves him.
"You guys ready to go?" Quinn asks. When she gets four nods in return, she motions for Santana to scooch by her, leading the way.
When she reaches the end of the aisle, she turns right and walks close to the stage. Just to the side, there's a small trap door, and she pulls out the badges Shelby gave her earlier that week.
"Um, this isn't the way to the parking lot," Kurt states, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction everyone else is walking.
"We have VIP tickets backstage," Santana says nonchalantly. Kurt, Brittany, and Rachel's eyes widen as their jaws slack in shock. Santana pulls the lanyards out and hands one to each of them before pulling hers around her neck and opening the door.
"How many famous people do you know?" Kurt asks, looking around, amazed.
"I work for the record label she signed with," Santana answers, walking ahead, used to the commotion. Between Rachel being in Funny Girl and being Shelby's assistant, she's been backstage more times than the actual stars.
"I remember you mentioning that," Brittany speaks up.
No other words are exchanged until they reach the dressing rooms. A loud squeal reverberates from their left, and everyone turns to see Mercedes Jones running toward them, her arms held out wide. She wraps them around Santana once she gets within reach, and the brunette returns the hug, swaying from side to side.
Brittany purses her lips slightly at the contact, but no one notices.
"Thank y'all so much for coming!" Mercedes exclaims, removing herself from Santana. "I've been looking forward to meeting you guys! Santana talks about you all the time."
Four pairs of eyes shoot over in Santana's direction, causing heat to rise in her cheeks. She looks up at the ceiling, pretending to admire the various wires and metal booms that make up the framework of the stage. Quinn jokingly bumps Santana in the arm, eliciting an embarrassed smile from the brunette.
Mercedes notices the exchange and saunters up to Quinn, her hand outstretched in greeting. "Y'all seem close," she says, winking at Quinn. "You must be Brittany?"
Santana tenses and looks at Mercedes with frightened eyes. Quinn smirks and looks at Santana with a questioning expression. She looks back and forth between Mercedes and Santana, seeing the awkward disconnect. Mercedes catches on but looks confused. Santana can't blame the girl—she told her Brittany was a blonde, and here Quinn is, standing close, teasing her…and blonde.
"N-not Brittany?" Mercedes clarifies, looking back and forth between Santana and Quinn, her hand still outstretched.
"This is Quinn," Santana responds, motioning to her. Quinn sweetly takes Mercedes's hand and shakes it with a smile. "The other friend."
"Nice to meet you," Mercedes says, clearing her throat. She looks at Santana with an apology written on her face, but it was an honest mistake.
"But, this," Quinn starts, walking past Mercedes and linking her arm through Brittany's, "is Brittany."
"Ah," Mercedes tilts her head back in realization and shakes Brittany's hand. "Got the right blonde this time," she tries to joke. Santana introduces Kurt and Rachel afterward, the awkwardness from before wearing off as Kurt fangirls and Rachel has a long-winded rant about the different usage of breath control between the Broadway and pop styles of singing. Santana knows she's intimidated—it's why she's throwing in small jabs about Broadway being more difficult.
"What are you all doing tonight?" Mercedes asks.
"We were going to check out this new club down the street," Kurt answers. "Unless there's an afterparty we're invited to?" he squeezes his hands together in hope, and Santana can tell he's wishing for a repeat of the night of Rachel's show.
"Unfortunately not," Mercedes says, dropping her hands to her sides. "Not big enough for that type of celebration yet."
"Why don't you come with us?" Quinn invites, no hesitation in her tone. She keeps glancing back and forth between Mercedes, Brittany, and Santana, and Santana can practically smell her ulterior motives.
"I'd love to." Mercedes's face lights up, and she motions back to her dressing room. "I just need to get changed and grab my purse."
Everyone acknowledges her, saying they'll wait for her outside the venue so they don't crowd backstage. Santana is supposed to speak to Shelby while she's backstage, knowing the woman will want some type of assurance that Santana showed up, but she figures partying with Mercedes is proof enough that she attended. Quinn positions herself between Brittany and Santana while they wait, a full smirk never leaving her face, even as she speaks to Rachel and Kurt. Santana stays quiet, looking at her surroundings and patiently waiting for the much-needed alcohol that'll be entering her system in a half hour.
/
With the bass of the music pumping heavily in her chest and the warm burn of the alcohol at the base of her throat, Santana can finally feel herself loosening up. And not even from the awkwardness earlier—just in general. It's been so long since Santana let herself feel…free. She's always wound so tight—she has to be. She's never been one to party all night, get wasted, and have no cares about anything—something her parents say is typical for a girl in her twenties. She's never found the appeal.
Besides, Shelby wouldn't take too kindly to her coming in the next morning with a hangover.
But it's a Saturday night—she's free to do what she pleases. She's out celebrating with her friends…the old, new, and future. So if there's any night just to let loose, it'd be now. And after her second shot, she can feel her inhibitions lowering, her care depleting, and the dance floor looking ever so enticing.
They're all sitting in a horseshoe booth just off to the side of the club. Rachel and Kurt are laughing very loudly about something, Mercedes falling on Rachel's side as she giggles. They're definitely tipsy. Quinn and Brittany are pleasantly chatting about something, leaving Santana content with viewing her surroundings. Now and then, Quinn will send over a wink, so Santana's honestly glad the blonde's not sitting next to her—she'll hear enough of it later…she just wants to enjoy herself right now.
She holds her martini in her hand, propping her elbow on the table, and smiles at Rachel, Kurt, and Mercedes. They're all slapping each other's hands giddily, crinkling their noses at something one of them said.
"You're so bad!" Kurt gushes. "We could never do that!"
"Do what?" Santana intervenes, leaning toward them to hear more clearly.
"Rachel here," he pokes her in the ribs, "wants us to each create a mystery drink, and then swap with each other."
Santana smirks. That sounds pretty tame. "Do it," she says, shrugging. It's not something too crazy, and they all seem to be intrigued by the idea. Besides, swapping drinks is scandalous behavior for Rachel Berry—she won't even drink from a glass unless she's seen it washed, much less drink after other people.
"You really think so?" Rachel asks. "I don't even know what kinds of liquor there are," she pouts.
"Me neither," Kurt says, looking down in disappointment at the realization. "You think they'll let us mix win and tequila? I know those!"
"Absolutely not," Santana says urgently, shaking her head. She knows what the outcome of that'll be, especially mixed with the alcohol already in their system.
"But we wanna be fun!" Rachel argues, yanking on Santana's arm. "Be spontaneous, try new things!" She drawls out the words.
Santana shakes the girl off her arm while trying to keep her drink from spilling. She sets her glass down and holds up her hands. "All right! I'll just go order the drinks," she offers.
"Would you really?" Mercedes asks, lighting up.
"Sure." Santana rolls her eyes. She waits for the three to pile out of the booth one at a time, them needing to leave their seats before she can scooch out. She holds out her hand for Rachel, the brunette slapping her credit card in the center, before making her way through the crowd of hot, tipsy bodies to get to the bar.
She orders an old-fashioned, a cosmopolitan, and a whiskey sour—just a few classics. She picks drinks that she knows the three will like, but don't have too high of an alcohol content, just in case they want to play another round after these three. She watches the bartender get to work on the drinks, pouring various liquors into the bottle with a few other things and shaking it vigorously. He has a few orders to take care of before hers, but she's content with watching him work.
"Opening a tab?"
Santana hears a voice carry over the loud music and chatter, looking at the source to find a smiling Brittany standing beside her. "You know it," Santana replies, nodding her head. "Unlimited." She waves Rachel's credit card in her hand, raising her brows at the prospect.
Brittany laughs, leaning against the counter and holding up two fingers. The bartender gives her a single nod and grabs two shot glasses from the counter.
"Now, how is that fair?" Santana asks, watching as he pours tequila into the glasses and slides them to Brittany. "I have to wait for the show ponies' drinks." She waves her hand to the booth, where she can see the three still leaning all over each other, giggling.
"Well, do you mind the company?" Brittany asks, facing Santana.
"No," she simply responds.
Brittany smiles and looks down, kicking the foot of the barstool Santana's sitting on. "So you talk about me at work, huh?" she asks, jumping right in.
Santana feels heat flood her cheeks and looks up with an awkward laugh. "Uh…I guess you could say that." She subtly nods her head and purses her lips, not knowing how else to expand on the topic.
"Well, I, for one, am flattered." Brittany puts a hand over her heart with one hand and puts the other on Santana's shoulder. "Quinn told me you're pretty private about your life when it comes to other people."
Santana sighs. "Yeah. Call it a defense mechanism," she chuckles and watches the bartender, avoiding eye contact with the blonde. "Just always been the same, I guess."
"It's not a bad thing," Brittany defends. "Just means you hold things close to yourself. What's yours is yours, and frankly, no one else's business."
"Exactly," Santana says, turning to face the girl. She's looking directly at Santana, a familiar glint in her eyes that Santana's come to recognize fondly.
Brittany only looks away to grab the freshly poured shot glasses, holding one out to Santana. When the brunette takes it, Brittany clinks the glasses together, saying "I'll drink to that," before washing it down in one smooth swallow. Santana's shot remains in her cup, her attention focused on Brittany as she takes hers. Her facial expressions don't waver in the slightest—you'd think she just took a sip of water. She feels her stomach fill with butterflies at the girl's ease, and only breaks out of it when Brittany sets the glass down on the counter, looking at her with narrowed eyes. "Are you not gonna drink?" she asks.
Now Santana's nervous. She should've taken the shot when Brittany did—now the blonde's watching her as she swigs it back. There's no way she can keep her facial expressions that mild. She's not experienced enough with alcohol to be accustomed to the burn.
But she tips the glass back and swallows quickly, not letting the liquid sit in her mouth for longer than a second. The burn hits her quicker than she expects, and she looks away quickly, setting the cup down and allowing her face to contort.
When she looks back over, Brittany's smirking at her with a mischievous glint in her eye, a joke resting on her tongue. But, for whatever, reason, she doesn't say it. She remains silent until Santana's drinks are served, and she wordlessly helps her carry them to the table.
Santana sets the drinks down, much to the excitement of Kurt, Rachel, and Mercedes. She steps to the side, waiting for the three to exit the booth so she can enter, when a hand wraps loosely around her wrist. She looks down to see Brittany's hand resting there, and she quirks an eyebrow up at the blonde.
"Dance with me?" Brittany asks, motioning toward the busy dance floor.
Santana looks at her, skeptical. "I don't know, Britt…that's really not my—"
"It'll be fun!" she throws in. She's sending Santana such an electric smile, and Santana doesn't think she'd be able to say no to anything as long as she has that smile on her face.
"Okay," she relents, turning to hand Rachel her credit card before being gently pulled toward the dance floor. With her attention on the table, she catches Quinn's eyes, noticing a grin and a slight wave the blonde sends her as she retreats toward the dance floor. She tries not to let Quinn get to her, but her insides feel hot and fluttery when she thinks about what could possibly be going through Quinn's head.
The thoughts don't stay for long since Brittany pulls them into the center of the crowd and starts moving along to the beat. She grabs Santana's wrists and swings them from side to side with the music, giggling at how it's the only part of Santana that's really moving.
Like she's said before, partying isn't her thing.
Brittany pulls Santana closer and positions her arms around her own waist. After Santana's arms are in place, Brittany rests her own on Santana's shoulders, limply interlocking her wrists behind Santana's head. She starts swaying her body to the beat, coercing Santana to do the same. It takes a moment, but Santana eventually finds a groove, bouncing and swaying to the music with Brittany.
Brittany steps back and twirls, Santana holding her wrist as she does so, before they continue at their previous position. But this time, Santana feels a wave of courage wash over her—she doesn't know if it's the third shot or the environment. Without giving it a second thought, she runs her hands down Brittany's sides, inching lower and lower until she gets to the base of her waist. From there, she gently guides Brittany's body until the blonde's back is to her front, and she moves her hands to glide flatly across Brittany's stomach. Her raises ever so slightly with the movement, but Santana doesn't go anywhere near the exposed skin, despite the sudden urge to.
She guides Brittany back until their bodies are flushed together and locks her arm tightly around Brittany's torso. They continue swaying to the music, and with their close proximity, Santana can feel Brittany's breathing become uneven. She tilts her head to the side, her hair swaying out of the way, and moves closer, giving Santana a view of her bare neck.
Santana slowly inches closer, not thinking twice about who's watching or what it means, and presses her lips firmly to Brittany's neck, tasting the skin there. She can feel her heartbeat as her lips roam about the area she can reach, and she parts her lips slightly to start sucking. She places each kiss in a different spot, biting down on a few. She doesn't know how long she continues—at least a couple songs—before Brittany suddenly turns around, her eyes a shade darker than usual. She looks down at Santana's lips once, twice, before inching forward ever so slightly. She doesn't close the distance, leaving that decision up to Santana.
And, Santana, not wanting to leave either of them hanging, closes the gap. She presses her lips firmly to Brittany's, wrapping her arms around the blonde's neck to bring their bodies closer. She parts her lips and kisses her again, causing the pressure at the bottom of her stomach to grow even stronger. Brittany gently swipes her tongue on Santana's lower lip, asking entrance that Santana doesn't hesitate to give.
Santana can't think of a time she's done anything remotely close to this. Making out in a club, on a dance floor no less, wasn't something she thought she'd ever do—ever want to do. But, she guesses, if Rachel can be spontaneous in her own mild way, so can Santana.
But even the thought of second-guessing this whole thing in twenty-four hours isn't enough to make Santana stop. Who cares if it's out of character? All she can think about is Brittany's body pushed firmly against hers, her soft lips caressing her own, and how great she feels in the moment. So, even regret isn't enough to make her break away.
Because deep down, she knows she won't.