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Santana lets her jaw drop open a little bit as the ceiling starts to swim above her. She presses the back of her head into the pillow under it and tries to will the room to stop moving. Her body feels hot, and her mouth is already dry, like a prelude to the cottonmouth she knows she’ll have in the morning. That last shot of tequila Puck slid her was probably a bad idea. Whatever. Totally worth it.
The mattress dips, and Brittany slides onto the bed. Her fingers are blissfully cold as they stroke hair off of Santana’s sweaty forehead, Brittany’s mere presence comforting her more than she’d really like to admit.
“Drunk,” Santana slurs, licking at her lips. She closes her eyes, but it makes the spinning worse, so she’s forced to open them again, turning on the pillow to focus on Brittany’s concerned face.
“I know,” Brittany whispers, her hand still stroking in Santana’s hair.
“You’re not,” Santana manages to get out, squinting a little.
Shrugging, Brittany laughs softly. “I wasn’t at the party, remember?”
The room around Brittany’s face goes fuzzy, and Santana nearly laughs at the image. But she gets caught in the blue of Brittany’s eyes, the way the skin between her eyebrows is crinkled, and the noise stops short before it can escape her throat. A smile spreads across her face, and her eyes blink slowly.
Brittany licks her lips, looking at the expression on Santana’s face in confusion. “You okay?”
Santana nods a little, but the movement makes her feel worse, so she stills and smirks a little. “I’m solid,” Santana jokes.
“Are you gonna fall asleep?” Brittany’s eyes are darting over Santana’s face, like she’s searching for something, but Santana can’t figure out what.
“No,” she answers, “M’good.” It’s half lie, because her eyelids are heavy, and she wants to sleep so badly, but whenever she closes her eyes, she gets kind of nauseous.
Brittany worries her bottom lip between her teeth, and Santana feels a hint of clarity enter her brain - Brittany’s nervous about something. She wants to ask what’s wrong, but her brain feels like it’s trudging through mud right now, and by the time she gets her mouth open, Brittany’s left the bed.
She feels instantly worse for some reason, to be alone in bed again, and her hand reaches out to cover the space Brittany was occupying before, staring at it resentfully, while the sounds of rummaging come from across the room.
Then, what feels like hours later, but is probably only a few seconds, Brittany’s back, sliding on top of the sheets, and moving Santana’s arm as she lies down.
“I got something for you,” Brittany whispers, her tone sounding strangely worried. Long fingers wrap around Santana’s left forearm.
For some reason, the words get jumbled in Santana’s brain, and she can’t really figure out what they mean, but Brittany doesn’t wait for her to say anything. Next she knows, something cold is touching her wrist, and Brittany’s hands are warm where they’re touching her arm. When she gets her eyes to move down and focus on Brittany’s fingers, she watches her friend attach a small silver bracelet with a heart charm on it.
Brittany’s hands drop away from Santana’s wrist, but Santana keeps her arm raised in front of her eyes, focusing on its new addition. Blinking slowly, she watches the lights from her room flicker against the small heart, and through the haze of alcohol, she feels something flutter in her chest.
“I got one too,” Brittany says softly. A paler arm comes up against Santana’s darker one, and she sees the matching bracelet on Brittany’s wrist next to hers.
“S’pretty,” Santana manages to say, her eyes flickering a little bit. Sleep is pulling her head backwards into the pillow, and she’s having trouble fighting it.
Then, like a physical tug against her eyelids, something pricks against her consciousness, and her heart seems to realize what the bracelets mean, even if her head hasn’t caught up yet. Tears pool in her eyes, but she can’t, for the life of her, figure out why she’s starting to cry. Alcohol, she tells herself. Alcohol tends to make her weepy, but she’s only sixteen, and she’s got five years to nip that bad habit in the bud so she doesn’t embarrass herself once she can drink in public.
Her arm drops to the mattress, Brittany’s following, but before she can bring her hand back up and wipe at the tears on her cheeks, Brittany’s lips are brushing against the skin there.
“You like it?” Brittany asks, pulling away to look Santana in the eyes.
She’s able to nod without feeling like she’s going to vomit, and even smiles a little, but she can’t seem to keep her eyes open anymore, and the room is starting to finally still.
Brittany’s hands are back in her hair, and she’s scooting closer, pulling Santana’s body into her own, and murmuring something Santana can’t quite make out into the skin of her forehead. It’s a comfortable, warm feeling, and even though Santana’s dreading the hangover she’ll have in the morning, she looks forward to having Brittany there when she wakes up.
She falls asleep, head pressed against Brittany’s shoulder, and the feel of a smile against her head.
--
Everything hurts. Her head is pounding, the urge to retch is swirling in her stomach, and her throat burns like she spent last night screaming and chain smoking. Eyes closed against her headache, she frantically searches her memory of the night before just to make sure that isn’t the case.
That’s when she remembers the party, the way-too-many shots of tequila, and the part where Brittany practically carried her home and put her to bed. She cracks an eye open to find sheets empty next to her, but they’re tousled and twisted with the lingering memory of Brittany’s body. They’re still a little warm to the touch, and she breathes a sigh of relief when the door cracks open and Brittany walks in. She really hates being hungover alone.
Brittany smiles, striding over to perch on the edge of the bed and look down at Santana. “Morning,” she murmurs.
“Hi,” Santana croaks, observing Brittany through the narrow slits of her squinting eyes. She walks her hand across the sheets and waits for Brittany to take it, tangling their fingers together.
“Water?” Brittany asks.
Santana closes her eyes, and hums in agreement. Squeezing her hand, Brittany stands up and walks back to the door, leaving Santana alone once again.
Her cheek is pressed against her pillow, but she shifts up on her elbow a little bit to turn it over, sighing when her skin hits cool sheets. She splays her hand over the mattress next to her, and blinks her eyes open a little, yawning.
She must fall asleep, because the next thing she’s aware of is Brittany sitting back down next to her, glass of water in her hand.
“Sorry it took so long,” Brittany says sheepishly. “I forgot where water comes from.”
Sitting up, Santana restrains herself from rolling her eyes at her best friend only because she’s hungover, and Brittany’s handing her water, and smiling at her softly, and she’s embarrassingly grateful to have someone there to take care of her.
She sits up against her headboard and reaches out for the glass in Brittany’s hand when she suddenly notices a new weight on her left arm. Her stomach flips over uncomfortably as the memory comes rushing back, and she locks eyes with Brittany, her hand hovering in the air around the glass of water.
Blue eyes widen, but Brittany doesn’t say anything, just glances quickly to Santana’s new bracelet before looking to her own wrist. Santana follows her gaze to see a matching bracelet there. It feels like her heart stutters for a second, as she puts everything together.
There’s this look on Brittany’s face like fear, and Santana gets a sinking feeling in her gut.
“Friendship bracelets,” Brittany whispers, her voice breaking a little.
Santana swallows thickly and tries to ignore how much the silver heart on her wrist doesn’t feel like a friendship bracelet. A friendshipbracelet doesn’t remind her of the way Brittany’s lips feel against hers or what color blue Brittany’s eyes are when she’s turned on. It doesn’t make her think of all the things she shouldn’t know about her best friend. Like how Brittany likes it on top when she’s drunk or on the bottom when she’s sober.
There are too many feelings in the room right now, and her head already hurts; she just wants to drink the glass of water she’s being offered and watch cartoons with her best friend.
“Cool,” she mumbles, looking away. She grabs the glass from Brittany, their fingers touch for the briefest of seconds, but it sends warmth straight up Santana’s arm. She nearly fumbles the glass but recovers quickly.
Gulping the water, she’s happy she ultimately manages to not throw any of it back up. Brittany breathes this deep sigh of relief and moves up on the bed to lie between the wall and Santana.
It’s just like any other morning after. Santana moves down on the bed, and lets Brittany press into her from behind. A strong arm slides over her side, and a warm palm rests against her abs, soothing her churning stomach nearly instantly. Brittany’s chest presses against her back, and her breath ghosts across Santana’s neck.
The little TV that sits on a chair across the room clicks on, and Brittany keeps the remote raised in front of her as she adjusts the volume so it’s not too loud. She giggles quietly into Santana’s shoulder at whatever the animated characters are doing on screen, but Santana just closes her eyes and hopes her headache goes away.
But then Brittany shifts just a little, and the bracelet her friend has on slides against Santana’s stomach. Santana’s eyes fly open, and it takes her nearly to the end of whatever show is playing on TV to stop her heart from beating so fast.
--
A piece of cheap silver on her wrist doesn’t change anything. Or so Santana tells herself. At the end of the day, Brittany and her are just friends. Sex isn’t dating, and despite this voice in the back of her head that tells her she’s fooling herself, Santana likes their arrangement. It’s simple and clean.
So when she takes her bracelet off before she sees Puck next, she tells herself it’s only because it can get kind of rough with Puck sometimes. Just because the bracelet isn’t, like, significant or whatever, doesn’t mean she doesn’t like it. The last thing she’d want is for Puck to break it in a sex frenzy or something.
It doesn’t mean anything, even though Santana can’t fight how wrong it feels to take it off. She wonders if this is the way people feel about a wedding ring, sliding it off their finger before they cheat. Except it holds nothing near the significance of a wedding ring, and Brittany’s not her wife, and she’s not cheating.
It doesn’t mean anything, but for whatever reason, Santana misses it when it’s not there. It’s absurd, but when she takes it off, it seems to be all she can think about. Puck’s hovering above her, heavy between her thighs, and grunting hot breath over her face, but all she can think about is a stupid heart shaped charm sitting on her dresser at home.
Seeming to notice her lack of attention, Puck stills and gives her a confused look. It only takes a smirk, and a well-placed scratch of her nails to get him to start up again, but she vows to do something about her distraction in the future.
She figures the best thing, overall, is to just not take the damn thing off.
--
Brittany picks up this weird habit of playing with the thing while they’re in class, or glee, or just next to each other in random places. Pressed close to Santana, she’ll run her fingers over the chain, and flick her nail against the small heart.
Santana finds herself touching it too, without evening thinking about it - a subconscious habit that’d she try to stop if she were more aware of it happening. Brittany will do something particularly adorable that day, or, for reasons far beyond Santana’s understanding, a sudden wave of affection for her best friend will overwhelm her, and she’ll just need to touch it.
Brittany will be across a room, dancing with Mike, or laughing with Finn, and Santana will have trouble tearing her eyes away. Her fingers will twist the bracelet around her wrist, and when Brittany catches her gaze, Santana feels her cheeks flush a little. She’ll smile softly, and look away, but it will take her longer to stop playing with the heart hanging off her arm.
The worst is in bed, when Santana’s reminded just how much she and Brittany aren’t friends. Brittany has her hand down Santana’s pants, fingers stroking far too knowingly. Brittany’s lips hover above her own, teasing in a way that always makes Santana crazy. Licking her lips, Santana brings her hand up to grip Brittany’s neck and eliminate the space between them, but Brittany catches her hand, and brings it back down to the pillow next to her head, interlacing their fingers.
Brittany smirks, pressing harder with her hips, and sliding her fingers deeper into hot flesh. The breath gets ripped straight out of Santana’s chest, and as her orgasm starts to build at the base of her spine, tightening and twisting, she feels Brittany’s bracelet hit her wrist, snug against the hand holding hers to the pillow.
It’s a sharp, quick reminder, of who exactly is on top of her, whose fingers are so skillfully pulling hot, tight pleasure out of her, and it only quickens desire in the pit of Santana’s stomach.
Later, when she’s finally caught her breath again and Brittany’s tucked into her side, leg wrapped around one of Santana’s, Brittany plays with the charm on Santana’s wrist the same way she does most of the day. She runs her thumb over the surface, flicks it back and forth, or twists it around Santana’s wrist.
Santana sees the look Brittany gets on her face - this soft smile, eyes distant like she’s thinking about something far away - but she does her best not to read too much into it.
The bracelet gets heavier and heavier on her wrist the more she sees that look on Brittany’s face, and even though it’s been nearly a year since Brittany first gave it to her, the feeling she gets when she looks at it hasn’t changed.
She makes sure to fuck Puck even harder the next time she sees him. In a moment of desperation, she blows Matt at some party they’re at the weekend after that and feels a little more comfortable with the weight hanging off her wrist afterward.
Brittany stares at her curiously when she rejoins the party, rearranging her hair, lips swollen, and her latest activities written all over her face, she’s sure. Santana considers going over there for a second, guilt spiking quickly in her chest, but Puck is hollering from across the room where he’s practically leaning all over Mike, and she tears her gaze from Brittany and heads that way.
Puck hands her a cup of some fruity concoction he’s spent all night making, and Mike starts to tell her this story, barely able to the get the words out around laughter, but Santana feels Brittany’s eyes on her the entire time. Matt joins them a few minutes later, and any satisfaction she might have felt earlier bleeds out of her.
When she finally gives in and looks back over, Brittany’s on the couch talking to Finn, but Santana can tell she’s uncomfortable about something. Her leg is bouncing up and down nervously, and her fingers are absently toying with the bracelet on her wrist.
Santana bites her lip, turns back to her drink, and forces herself to believe that it doesn’t mean anything.
--
Santana’s not an idiot. Maybe she’s not going to be deemed valedictorian anytime soon, but she wasn’t born yesterday either.
So, when Brittany mentions singing a duet together, a super gay duet together, she knows what’s really happening. The silver at her wrist feels like it’s burning into her skin, and her stomach tightens up. The bitter taste of adrenaline pools on the back of her tongue, and she’s talking in reflex before she can even think about it.
Sleeping with her best friend is one thing. Publicly declaring their gay love or whatever, is an entirely different matter.
“And second of all,” Santana hears herself saying as she sits up. “I’m not making out with you because I’m in love with you and want to sing about making lady babies.”
It’s harsh. Probably too harsh to say to Brittany of all people, but Santana’s instincts have never really been good at taking other people’s feelings into consideration, even feelings she actually kind of cares about. Brittany’s pouting behind her, she’s sure, but she doesn’t dare look.
Days later she’ll kick herself for not looking. If she had been thinking, if she could go back and do this moment over again, she would have done something to placate Brittany like she usually does. She would have made something up about how they can totally sing later in Santana’s bedroom, or how she’ll sing a duet with Brittany next year. Anything to wipe the look off of Brittany’s face, and stop the way that this one stupid insignificant moment somehow changes everything.
But Santana isn’t thinking of the consequences. She’s thinking of the bracelet on her wrist, and the burning desire to get as far away from Brittany as possible. Her heart feels extra heavy in her chest, and she just wants to feel something else. The only way to do that, Santana’s sure, is to run away.
The idea that this moment would be somehow significant to her life never occurs to Santana. It’s why the next day, when she watches Brittany push Artie down the hallway with a look of resentment on her face, she’s nearly shocked into inaction.
It’s okay though, because Santana’s always been pretty good at cleaning up her messes. If Artie Abrams thinks he’s going to suddenly be a part of Brittany’s life just because Santana messed up, and through no effort of his own, well, he’s got another thing coming.
Taking care of Artie is embarrassingly easy. If there’s one thing Santana never fails at, it’s pushing people off a ledge. Figuratively, of course.
So, after giving Artie the “sorry, Brittany doesn’t love you and never will” talk, though not in so many words, she’s pretty convinced that the situation is taken care of. Brittany’s pinky is back to being wrapped around her own later that day, and they go back to sitting next to each other in glee, but Santana can’t deny the way something feels different. Like there’s this shadow creeping up behind her, waiting for the right moment to devour her. She can’t help but feel like maybe it’s not over yet.
And, lo and behold, a few days later, she realizes it’s not.
--
“You’re dating Artie?” She’d say that she doesn’t mean to wrap his name in a tone of disgust, but she’d be lying. Seriously. Artie? She’s so shocked, she can’t even come up with a good, insulting nickname for him.
Brittany just nods, but her eyes can’t quite meet Santana’s. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
This time, Brittany does look at her, eyes a piercing blue. “Why not?”
There’s a challenge in the way Brittany says the words, and Santana nearly flinches away, but she keeps a straight face despite instinct. “It’s a little below us,” Santana responds, eyebrow raised.
“Us,” Brittany says, her voice soft but harder than Santana’s ever heard it, “isn’t dating him. I am.”
It’s never been like that. It’s always been the two of them fused together, like one unit, their failures and successes equally shared. If Brittany takes a social nosedive, Santana gets dragged down with her. It’s been a silent understanding between them since they were kids. Hell, they’ve dated the same guys together, broke up with them together, done everything together.
She refuses to let her hurt show, despite the urge to cry burning at the back of her eyes. “Right,” she bites out, crossing her arms over her chest. “Your funeral then.”
Brittany turns confused eyes her way. “No, it’s a wedding,” she corrects. “And it’s not really mine, it’s Kurt’s, I think. I guess it’s kind of Finn’s too.”
Santana doesn’t really know what to say to that. “That’s not what I...” She drifts off, shaking her head exasperatedly. “You know what, never mind. Fine.”
They stare at each other for a moment longer, Santana not wanting to be the one to walk away first, but her feet disobey her heart, and when she turns on her heel and walks away, the scene feels way too familiar.
--
She actually manages to forget that Brittany’s dating Artie. Okay maybe that’s exaggerating a little, but aside from having to watch Brittany wheel him around and hold his hand in glee, it doesn’t seem like much more changes.
Brittany still locks her pinky around Santana’s, and she still smirks at her when they’re all dancing together, and after Cheerio’s practice, Brittany still uses long, strong fingers to dig the knots out of Santana’s back.
It gets to the point where Santana starts to believe that nothing has changed. The idea starts to soothe an ache deep inside her, and she feels her breath start to come easier.
They’re at Santana’s house, sprawled across the living room couch, watching a rerun of Jersey Shore when she finally gets a taste of the threat Artie poses to her life. Brittany’s laughing hysterically at the TV, and the sound of it makes Santana smile, feeling suddenly comfortable. She pushes back into the cushions and slides down a little, her feet propped up on the coffee table.
The show ends, Brittany’s laughter tapering off as she turns to look at Santana, cheek resting against the couch cushion. “What do you want to do now?”
It’s probably not supposed to be suggestive, but this is Brittany, and Santana’s only ever really had one answer to that question. She doesn’t say anything, just moves a little closer, eyes flickering down to Brittany’s mouth before closing the gap between them and pressing their lips together.
Brittany kisses her back for a second, before squeaking in indignation and pulling back abruptly, hand flying to her mouth. Santana’s eyes go wide in surprise.
“We can’t!” Brittany exclaims, guilt shadowing her face.
Santana furrows her brow, confusion and anger at being rebuffed mixing in her expression. “What, why not?”
“I’m dating Artie,” Brittany explains, but Santana sees the way Brittany licks her lips a little, gaze roaming down to Santana’s mouth.
“So?”
“So that’s cheating,” Brittany whispers, like she’s afraid someone is going to overhear them. “I’m dating Artie,” she repeats. “It’s cheating.”
Santana moves away, flopping back against the couch and sighing exasperatedly. “Oh my God, you have got to be kidding me.”
“I can’t cheat on Artie,” Brittany says, leaning a little closer.
“Stop saying his name,” Santana grinds out. She stares at the ceiling, blowing out a deep breath against the sudden urge to cry.
“I’m sorry,” Brittany says. “You’re my best friend, but it’s cheating.”
“It’s not cheating,” Santana suddenly blurts out, frustrated.
Brittany’s silent, but when Santana looks over, her expression is open and curious, and Santana just keeps talking before she can stop herself. “I’m a girl,” Santana clarifies. “I’m a girl so it’s not cheating.”
“Really?”
Santana nods solemnly. “It’s not cheating if the plumbing’s different.”
Skepticism crosses Brittany’s face, and Santana’s sure her friend is going to call bullshit on this one, but then something sadder takes hold of Brittany’s expression, and the air in the room suddenly goes thick and heavy.
Brittany reaches her hand out and strokes hair off of Santana’s forehead, fingers brushing lightly against her skin. Santana swallows thickly.
“Good,” Brittany whispers, but her expression looks anything but happy, “I don’t really want to stop kissing you.”
Brittany crosses the space between them this time, fingers sliding through Santana’s hair. She presses Santana into the couch and smiles softly in between kisses.
An hour later, after they finally make it to Santana’s bedroom, and they’re tangled, naked, in Santana’s bedsheets, Santana gasps for breath and wonders when exactly Brittany got so good at this.
Brittany crawls back up Santana’s body and smiles knowingly as she puts her head down on the pillow. Santana laughs a little, still trying to catch her breath. She feels lighter than air, happy, and free all at once, and she wonders if it would be possible to just never leave this bed.
Brittany shifts a little closer and runs her fingers down Santana’s arm, stopping to play with the bracelet on the wrist there. It’s all totally normal, and for a second Santana thinks maybe she imagined the part where Brittany was dating Artie and everything felt wrong. Maybe it was just a bad nightmare, and she’s finally waking up.
But then, a supremely guilty look shadows Brittany’s face, and before Santana can say anything, her friend is jumping up and out of bed, reaching for her discarded clothing, and pulling it back on.
Holding the bedsheets against her chest, Santana sits up a little. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve gotta go,” Brittany says, tugging a shirt over her head. A mess of blonde hair falls over her shoulders when she finally gets it on, and Santana nearly loses her breath all over again.
“What, where?”
“I just uh,” Brittany pauses for a second, staring at Santana with wide eyes, “I just have to go.”
“Britt,” Santana pleads softly, sudden understanding flooding over her. The metal against her wrist feels suddenly cold and uncomfortable.
Fully dressed, Brittany steps closer to the bed and kisses Santana hard. “Bye,” Brittany whispers. She’s out the door before Santana can even think to say anything else.
Flopping back down into bed, Santana swallows dryly.
--
She notices it accidentally. They’re walking down the hallway together, because despite all this sudden awkwardness that floats around them, Santana doesn’t really know how to function any differently. She steps into line with Brittany as naturally as breathing.
Only, this time Santana’s so hyper aware of Brittany next to her that she can barely put one foot in front of the other. Brittany glances at her, for just a second, and Santana completely misjudges the space between the floor and her toe.
It’s when she grabs for Brittany’s arm to keep herself steady, fingers wrapping around warm skin, that she notices anything is wrong. Her hand slides all the way down Brittany’s forearm to grip at her wrist, and when she feels nothing but bare skin under her palm where there should be metal, she nearly trips again. Her heart twists uncomfortably, and for a second she can’t breathe.
She straightens up and lets go of Brittany’s wrist like it’s scalding hot, swallowing hard. It feels like everyone is staring at her, even though it’s probably not true.
Despite being unable to think about anything but the way Brittany’s wrist looks like without her bracelet, Santana manages to shake it off and smile a little. She needs to get out of the hallway though, because her cheeks are burning with embarrassment, and she feels like her world just tilted to the side, threatening to topple her.
“Forgot something in my locker,” she croaks, hating the way her voice sounds. She struggles to control it. “I’ll catch up later.”
Brittany tilts her head to the side, confused. She moves an inch closer, the motion probably unnoticeable to anyone that isn’t Santana, but Brittany pulls back quickly, swallowing visibly and nodding. “Okay,” she says softly.
This time, Brittany turns and walks away first, Santana watching her retreat for just a second before moving.
--
She tries desperately to ignore the way it makes her feel, her chest tight, and her left arm heavy, but she can’t stop the way her eyes travel to Brittany’s bare wrist every time they’re together.
Out of spite more than anything, Santana tries to take the bracelet off, but the stupid thing won’t come off her wrist. Alone in her room, she struggles with the clasp, tears of frustration obscuring her vision a little.
It finally unclasps, falling off her wrist and into her palm. She stares at it for just a second before chucking it violently against the far wall. It’s too much for her to handle. Her wrist feels too cold immediately, and she feels off-balance, her arm feeling too light all of a sudden.
She thinks about putting it back on, if only to alleviate the empty feeling curling in her gut, but she restrains herself, settles for picking it up off the floor and setting it back on her dresser.
It’s dark in her room, but she can still see the bracelet as if it were a beacon of light across the room. It glares at her all hours of the day and night, and it’s almost ridiculous how obsessive she’s become about the thing. The cracking feeling in her chest keeps her awake at night, and in a few dark moments, she considers throwing the thing in the garbage just to feel something different. She wishes metal could burn. Maybe she could run over it with her car.
When she goes to school in the morning, she stops in the doorway before leaving her room. Her wrist feels naked, and even though she doesn’t want to put the bracelet back on, she doesn’t think she can go through school without it. She grabs it from her dresser and stuffs it into her pocket.
It practically burns a hole in Santana’s pocket the entire day, but there’s something comfortable about the burn.
--
It gets worse when she has to take her Cheerio’s uniform off. The uniform was like a well-worn suit of armor, and Santana’s barely gone a day without it since she was a freshman. She feels awkward and unprotected in her street clothes.
And for whatever reason, without the way Santana’s skirt used to sway in time with Brittany’s, she feels totally out of sync with her best friend. She catches their reflection in a trophy case as they pass and it’s like she doesn’t even recognize herself. She actually stops for a second, Brittany halting a few steps later, and she stares at the way they look next to each other.
It’s different, and for the first time in a long time, Santana doubts that they fit together.
“What’s wrong?” Brittany asks, moving closer. “Did you forget something in the trophy case?”
“Hmmm?” Santana’s so transfixed at the way they look in the faint reflection that she can barely register anything else.
A pinky wraps around her own and tugs, startling Santana out of her thoughts. “Are you okay?” Brittany asks.
“Yeah,” Santana says, her cheeks burning. She looks down and laughs bitterly at herself, embarrassed. “Sorry.”
Brittany smiles, accepting that easily, and moves to keep walking down the hallway, but Santana remains still, pulling her finger out of Brittany’s grasp. She watches as Brittany feels the motion and twirls to lock confused eyes on Santana.
She needs an excuse and she needs it fast, because she can’t bring herself to keep walking down the hallway next to Brittany right now. Not when she feels so out of tune with everything.
It’s really only because she’s desperate and panicked, but when Tina strides by them, Santana jumps at the familiar face. “I’ve got to talk to Tina about something!” Santana exclaims, watching the confusion deepen on Brittany’s face.
Tina hears her name and falters a step, but Santana’s already twirling towards her, looping her arm through Tina’s and pulling her down the hallway away from Brittany.
“Wha...what?” Tina sputters, looking over her shoulder to where Santana assumes Brittany is still standing.
“Just keep walking,” Santana intones lowly, glaring at passing students.
She pulls Tina around a corner and breathes a deep sigh of relief, shoulders sagging nearly immediately.
Her arm is still looped around Tina’s, and she notices that she’s practically leaning into the other girl. She pulls away quickly, wide-eyed.
“Did you actually need to talk to me?”
“Uh, yeah,” Santana lies, eyes darting around. “But I forgot what about.”
“Oh,” Tina says, looking skeptical. “Okay.”
“Right, see you later,” Santana says quickly. She walks a few steps away.
“Hey, Santana!” Tina calls out. Santana stops and turns, sending her a questioning look. “You okay?” Tina asks, concern evident all over her face.
Santana laughs, puts on the same facade she’s been wearing for months, and gives Tina her best incredulous look. “I’m fine...”
Tina smiles, but it’s a sad look, and Santana feels suddenly transparent. “Well, if you’re not...”
“I’m fine,” Santana repeats, smirking and turning to walk away.
“There are people that care about you,” Tina adds.
Santana stops walking, shoulders hunched for just a second, before moving again, and walking away.
--
“You look hot,” Brittany comments offhandedly one day. It’s the first time Brittany’s sat next to her during glee in weeks.
“Duh,” Santana says, squirming a little in her chair, and refusing to meet Brittany’s eyes.
“I kinda like not having to wear our uniform.”
“Totally,” she murmurs, crossing her legs. She runs her over her wrist, stomach tightening when all she feels is skin.
“You want to hang out later?” The question is uncharacteristically unsure, and Santana suddenly feels so much resentment for her situation that her face twists into a scowl.
She’s so ready to say that she’s busy, but before she can get the words out, Artie wheels into the choir room, his eyes going straight to Brittany, before settling on Santana, a look of worry on his face.
“Definitely,” she answers, staring straight at Artie. She turns to Brittany with a smirk on her face. “My place?”
Artie may have Brittany in all the ways that count in high school society, but it doesn’t mean that Santana doesn’t have a piece of her too.
When Brittany does come over, and Santana gets her naked in record time, she bites down harder than usual on that spot on Brittany’s neck that always gets a moan. Her fingers press harder into Brittany’s hips, and she kisses with more intensity than she has in forever. Without the bracelet on Brittany’s wrist, Santana can’t fight the all consuming urge to leave something on Brittany.
--
She starts dating Sam, and she thinks that just maybe, maybe, she’ll start to feel a little more normal, but it turns out to be far from the truth.
There’s something final about the whole thing; Brittany’s with Artie, and Santana’s with Sam, and this vision of her future, the one she’s had since she was a kid, starts to shift and change. She feels like she’s speeding in the wrong direction, and she can’t figure out how to make it stop.
Sam’s nice, and earnest in this way that completely annoys Santana, but he’s really her only option right now. Plus, he comes with the added bonus of wiping any form of satisfaction from Quinn’s face, and she doesn’t feel so alone anymore. There’s a buffer now between the knowledge that Brittany’s moved on and Santana hadn’t.
It’s a nice distraction, at least, from the way it feels to watch Brittany look so happy all the time. But it doesn’t really alleviate the emptiness inside of her chest, reflected in the bare skin of Brittany’s wrist, that makes her wish she could redo the last few months of her life.
--
She hates how significantly her life has changed just because she’s stopped wearing a stupid bracelet on her wrist. Maybe it changed long before now, and Santana just hadn’t noticed it, but now it’s like every little thing that happens is a glaring reminder of just how much everything is messed up.
There will be a moment, quick and fleeting, when she forgets. When, for a second, she’s not preoccupied with the idea that Brittany’sgone, and it’s like she can breathe again.
It’s like now, when Sam is recreating the battle of Hoth with the food on his plate, and Santana really, really wants to find it utterly annoying. It’s not like she hasn’t told him a million times that stuff like this does absolutely nothing for his cool quota. Except somehow, after repeated exposure to Sam’s complete dorkiness, she’s started to find it reluctantly amusing.
So there’s this laugh that’s bubbling up inside her, stopped short only by the completely disgusted look she’s trying so hard to keep on her face. But then, Sam starts making shooting noises, a high pitched pew pew pew leaving his mouth as he moves his food across the makeshift battlefield, and Santana loses it. Any control she might have had on laughter earlier leaves her.
Her hand shoots up to her mouth to contain the sound, and she tries to cough against it, but neither really works, and it’s not long before she’s practically doubled over.
Sam stops what he’s doing, and looks around the restaurant suspiciously for a second, but there’s a small smile creeping across his face.
In that moment, with Sam smiling at her and this laughter threatening to overtake her, she feels more free than she has in a long time. It’s like this weight has lifted up off her shoulders, and all the darkness from the last few months is washed away, and she thinks maybe, just maybe, that she’s going to be okay. Maybe she can move on.
But then, as she reaches into her pocket to grab her phone, Sam reaching in his own to grab his wallet, her fingers touch the metal of the bracelet she has stored there, and her heart drops just as quickly as it rose.
Later, after they drive home, Sam moves to kiss her goodnight, and without thinking about it, she moves out of reach. Her hand is on the bracelet in her pocket, and it suddenly just feels wrong. The weight is back on her shoulders, and her head feels dark, but she just smiles at him apologetically and rushes inside her house.
She stuffs the bracelet in her dresser drawer that night. It’s just too much to handle. It’s a constant distraction, and it hurts too much to have it close to her anymore. Out of sight, out of mind, Santana tells herself.
--
Unexpectedly, Brittany actually notices that Santana’s not wearing her bracelet one day. Santana’s reaching forward to grab a sheet of music from Finn in the front row, and Brittany practically twists her whole body around as her eyes flicker to Santana’s wrist. There’s a painful satisfaction in the way the skin around Brittany’s eyes tighten, and her lips press together.
For a second, Santana thinks Brittany might say something, but instead she just swallows and pulls her gaze away, smiling at Finn next to her. Something inside Santana untwists when Brittany pulls her hand out of Artie’s grasp and resettles in her chair.
The next day, Santana thinks about putting her bracelet back on before going to school. She holds it in her hand for a few seconds, debating. The look on Brittany’s face when she finally noticed Santana wasn’t wearing it mixed satisfaction with regret in Santana. She’s torn between wanting Brittany to feel every ounce of hurt Santana does and the empty feeling she gets when she’s not wearing it.
She ends up just putting it back on top of her jewelry box and leaving.
--
The worst thing about all of it, Santana thinks, is that despite this stupid ache in Santana’s chest and the way Brittany’s free a lot less these days, nothing has really changed. And when she says nothing has changed, what she means is that on a Saturday night, after one too many tequila shots - once again - Brittany presses her against a wall in the back hallway of Mike Chang’s house.
Everyone else is in the basement, dancing and having a good time. Artie is down there, unaware of where his girlfriend is, and Sam’s equally oblivious on the couch next to Puck, but Santana can’t focus on that.
Her breath is getting ripped out of her lungs by the long fingers sliding up under her skirt and pushing aside her underwear. Brittany’s mouth hovers over Santana’s, hot breath ghosting over her lips, and the wall behind her is hard against her shoulder blades.
Brittany, annoyingly skilled at this particular activity, practically smirks when her fingers find their way into hot flesh. Santana feels herself sink down against the wall, but Brittany grabs her free hand and pushes harder against her to keep her upright.
It’s suddenly distracting, to feel the way Brittany’s wrist feels against her own, devoid of the jewelry she’d gotten so used to feeling there, and it’s like for the first time since Brittany gave her the bracelet, she gets it.
Brittany’s eyes connect with hers, and for a moment, Santana thinks that maybe Brittany feels it too, a wave of strange understanding passing between them. It’s gone quickly though, because Brittany seems to recover, her fingers stroking down and in, pushing all of Santana’s buttons effortlessly.
They step away from each other, when it’s all over, and Santana rearranges her clothing. It looks like Brittany might say something, her eyes this sad blue, but Santana knows she can’t handle whatever it is. She already feels like she’s been rubbed raw, her skin burning everywhere Brittany touched her.
She shakes her head, smiles sadly, and walks quickly away before Brittany can even open her mouth. She spends the rest of the night making out with Sam like she has something to prove. There are too many feelings threatening to overwhelm her right now, and she’s desperate to ignore them.
When they get back downstairs, Santana finds Sam, and Brittany finds Artie, and for the first time in just about forever, Santana feels like she’s doing something wrong.
--
When Brittany says she wants to talk about feelings, Santana seriously doesn’t get it. She feels like the bracelet sitting on top of her jewelry box is like a sound-horn, blasting her feelings out in every direction. Brittany’s practically staring right at it, eyes fixated on it as Santana runs her fingers through blonde hair.
Absently, she wonders when it all stopped being enough for Brittany. When Brittany stopped understanding. She wonders how she missed the change.
Maybe it was her fault. Maybe she confused Brittany, who has always had trouble reading the intricacies of unspoken agreements and subtle understandings. Santana just always assumed, that of all the things that confuse Brittany, Santana was never one of them. It’s a little heartbreaking to realize that it’s not true, that Brittany doesn’t just know.
It might not be something Santana can easily admit, even to herself, but she always felt like it rode beneath the surface of every interaction, every hookup, every time Brittany touched the small silver heart on her wrist.
Love has never been something Santana easily understood, but she always assumed Brittany could do all the understanding for both of them. She didn’t think she’d ever be here right now, suddenly responsible for actually expressing herself to Brittany.
It’s not something she’s really comfortable with. She’s barely comfortable with dealing with her own feelings by herself, much less actually talking about them with someone else - even if that someone else is Brittany. But that hold she’s had on Brittany since they were kids seems to be slipping away slowly, and Santana’s suddenly desperate to get a stronger grip. She’s sick of feeling like she’s losing all the time and maybe it’s come to the part of the game where she has to pull out the big guns.
So she ends up doing something she never really thought she’d do. She sings to Brittany. In front of the entire glee club. And, okay, sure, maybe she hides behind Miss Holliday a little, and maybe she’s not exactly singing to Brittany because Brittany’s singing too, but that’s not the point. Brittany knows it’s for her.
Every ounce of emotion Santana’s spent so much time denying comes out in the song, and it feels like all her fears are painted across her face. It’s maybe the most scared she’s ever been in her entire life, but when she sees Brittany, all blonde hair and soft blue eyes, she thinks that maybe it’s worth it.
The bracelet, that stupid piece of cheap silver that wasn’t supposed to mean anything, weighs heavily in her pocket. She’d grabbed it before coming to school that morning, hoping it would make her brave, but for some reason it doesn’t do much to stave off her fears.
By the end of the song, she’s played her hand, and now all she can do is wait.
Brittany looks at her with a mixture of uncertainty and sadness. The air in the room feels heavy, and Santana practically shakes with anxiety. The next move is Brittany’s really, and for the first time in their friendship, Santana’s a little unsure of what that move is going to be.
But then Brittany’s arms are wrapping around her back, and she’s smiling at her, and for a second, Santana breathes a sigh of relief.
She’ll tell Brittany tomorrow. She’ll finally tell Brittany, lay it all out for her, and the spot in her pocket where the bracelet sits might start to feel a little lighter, might burn a little less.
--
It’s supposed to be their moment. It’s a little cheesy or whatever, but Santana’s spent nearly all night thinking about the way it’s all going to change after this. She thinks about what they’ll tell people decades from now about how they got together. They’ll laugh about Santana’s fears, and Brittany will joke about how cute it was, and they’ll smile at each other, hands clasped.
Santana twists her bracelet around her finger, planning. There’s a smile she can’t control on her face. She’s never really looked forward to the future like this before, like it was something she wanted to start now instead of in years. Artie, Sam, Finn, Puck, all those other guys will be a distant memory, and it will just be them - the way Santana’s wanted it forever. It’s always been Brittany.
The next morning, Santana feels a small flutter of excitement and hope in her chest as she makes her way to Brittany’s locker. Her bracelet is sitting in her jacket pocket, and she considers putting it on for the briefest of seconds, but she doesn't want to jinx anything. It stays hidden, but close, and it only bolsters the butterflies in her stomach. This is the beginning of everything.
Or so she thought.
She didn’t really think that it could be the end.
--
On some level, Santana’s sure she deserves this. It’s some sort of cruel karma for all the times she pushed Brittany away, or every time she tried to pretend like it wasn’t real. She had all these chances, and she failed to take any of them. It’s only fair, she supposes, that when she finally figures it out, Brittany’s long gone. Brittany’s given up.
It doesn’t stop her from being completely pissed about it though.
The moment she walks into her bedroom, she rips the bracelet out of her pocket. It’s in her hand for a mere second before it’s flying from her palm and sailing across the room. It hits the far wall with a tinny sound, before falling to floor.
She expected Brittany to wait. She expected Brittany to just be there. Santana thought she had all this time to figure it out, to accept what Brittany had apparently accepted long ago, and when everything fell into place, they’d be together, and everything would be fine.
Except here she is, finally ready to deal with everything, and Brittany’s blowing her off for Wheels. Artie shows up in the last five minutes of the movie and just steals the girl from right under her nose.
It’s not fair.
It’s not fair, and Santana’s so done with life being unfair.
She strides across the room to her bed and faceplants into her bed, shoving her face hard into the pillow lying there. She realizes, far too late, that it’s Brittany’s pillow. It’s only been days since Brittany was last in her bed, so a hint of Brittany’s shampoo still clings to the fabric under her nose.
Her finger grips the pillow case, clenches hard with the intent of ripping it out from under her, but she can’t. All she can do is press harder into it, inhaling deeply, before giving into the heavy sobs that have threatened to come out of her since her confrontation with Brittany.
She cries until she doesn’t think she has any tears left to shed, face still buried against the lingering memory of Brittany.
--
In the morning, throat sore from crying, and eyes puffy, she walks across her room and picks up the bracelet from her floor.
Maybe it’s over, maybe she needs to move on, but she just can’t get rid of this one stupid thing right now. She doesn’t think she can deal with it. It feels more final than usual to be parted from it.
With shaky hands, she gets the jewelry back on her wrist, swallowing thickly at the sight of it. Taking a deep breath, she turns back to her bed, strips the sheets and pillow cases off, and throws them in her laundry basket.
It’s a start.
--
The bracelet stays comfortably on her wrist at home, where there’s no one to see it, but she can’t bring herself to wear it to school. It makes her feel way to exposed, like everyone that sees it gets the significance. She knows it’s not true. Even Sam, her boyfriend, or whatever, seems completely oblivious to everything going on. He asks her why she doesn’t see Brittany as much as before, and he even goes as far as to suggest a double date with Brittany and Artie.
She thinks that maybe this is how people feel after a divorce. Like it’s wrong to be with Sam and have it on, but when it’s not there, she’s all the more aware of it and what everything means.
She can’t wear the bracelet anymore, but she can’t seem to let it sit in her room all day either. Maybe it’s desperation to hang onto that last piece of Brittany, or maybe it’s pure masochism, but she settles for keeping the bracelet in her pocket during the day - a constant reminder of everything she’s lost.
It’s probably not doing her any favors, because the mere reminder of the bracelet sends a wealth of emotions through her. Heartbreak, affection, fear.
Distantly, she wonders where Brittany put hers. She wonders if she does the same thing as Santana, unable to truly let it go, or if it’s at the bottom of some garbage dump somewhere, forgotten.
She thinks maybe she doesn’t want to know the truth.
--
Brittany’s confusion has always been something caught between adorable and ridiculous. Most of the time, it amuses Santana. After years of being best friends, Santana knows when to indulge Brittany’s stranger confusions, and when to brush it off with an eye roll and a laugh.
But this time, when the thing Brittany is so confused about is Santana, she can’t just brush it off, and she can’t find it in her to find it anything other than completely frustrating.
Did Brittany do anything wrong? Is she serious with this?
Santana basically offered Brittany something she’s never offered anyone, something Santana doesn’t think she’ll ever offer anyone else, and Brittany turned it down. So effortlessly too; no hesitation, no conflict. Brittany chose Artie like there was never any contest. Santana thinks that maybe that’s what hurts the most.
So Santana’s done caring about it. At least she’s done caring about it so obviously.
But Brittany is persistent in this whole we used to be best friends campaign. After the first time she brings it up to Santana, she doesn’t stop. It seems like every time Santana stops to do anything, Brittany’s there, pestering her about their friendship.
For whatever reason, Santana can’t seem to get the words she needs to say out of her mouth. She can’t seem to say we can’t be friends anymore no matter how much she knows she should. Because it’s the truth. If Brittany thinks she can have it both ways, she’s kidding herself.
It all comes to a head, when Brittany corners her after school, walking out to the parking lot. Santana speeds up to put some distance between them, but Brittany’s ridiculously long legs makes it easy for her to keep up.
“You’re walking too fast,” Brittany complains.
“Maybe you’re just walking too slow,” Santana mumbles. She raises her voice a little. “What do you want, Brittany?”
“We’re friends, Santana,” Brittany pleads. “Can we just be best friends again?”
Santana stops and twirls, sucking in a breath against the tears that want to fall. “Why don’t you get it? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
“Because you’re my best friend, and I miss you,” Brittany replies softly.
“No,” Santana denies. “Stop deluding yourself. Stop deluding both of us. We were never friends, we can never be just friends. Not anymore. You can’t have Artie and have me, and think that’s nothing going to change. It all changed, Brittany. Catch up. You chose Artie over me, and now you have to live with it.”
Blue eyes widen, and Santana fights the pull of regret that comes at the sight of Brittany’s confused expression.
Santana needs to be anywhere but here. “Whatever,” she sighs, shaking her head. She turns around with every intention of walking away and leaving Brittany to stand there in her own confusion, but she only makes it a few steps. There’s something deep inside of her, something that’s too much a part of her to ignore, that hates to leave Brittany there, wallowing in the misery of not understanding.
Exhaling sharply, she turns around and strides back. “I told you I loved you,” Santana says, low and serious.
Brittany nods rapidly, opening her mouth to respond, but Santana doesn’t let her say anything. “I want to be with you,” she chokes out, memory burning in her throat, “That changes things okay?”
Confusion fails to leave Brittany’s face. Santana swallows thickly. “You can’t be with Artie and be with me anymore,” she explains, “It’scheating.”
“You said,” Brittany starts, but Santana doesn’t let her finish.
Santana shakes her head. “It’s different now.”
“It’s not though,” Brittany argues, stepping closer. Santana barely stops herself from flinching backwards.
“Yeah,” Santana insists. “It is. You can either have Artie, or you can have me, but you can’t have us both at the same time. It’s cheating on Artie, and,” Santana pauses, her knees starting to feel a little weak. She puts her hand into her pocket and pulls out her bracelet, looking at it a second before grabbing for Brittany’s hand. She drops the bracelet in Brittany’s palm and closes her fist around it, letting it go. “And it’s cheating on me,” she finishes.
She casts her eyes downward, finding something particularly interesting on the pavement under her feet, before bringing her gaze back up and look at Brittany sadly. “So we can’t anymore,” she says softly. “You’re with Artie.”
Brittany’s silent, and Santana’s overcome with the need to be anywhere else but where she is right now. But when she turns to leave, Brittany reaches out and closes her fingers around Santana’s left wrist. There’s a sudden completeness that shoots straight up her arm.
She tries to pull away, get her arm out of Brittany’s grasp, but Brittany holds strong. “Let go,” she orders, voice low and serious.
Brittany shakes her head, glancing down at her hand with wide eyes. “I can’t,” she says, sounding almost surprised at the words. Blue eyes flicker towards the fist holding Santana’s bracelet, before looking back up. “I can’t, don’t.”
The sound of it spreads over Santana’s skin like an itch. She laughs bitterly. “Yes, you can,” she counters, pulling harder but still unable to break Brittany’s hold.
“I can’t, you’re my otter,” Brittany whispers, and the words hit like a punch.
For a second, Santana doesn’t know how to react. She understands Brittany’s meaning immediately, and her heart pulls back to a time when they were younger, and more innocent, and all Brittany wanted to do was hold on to Santana lest she float away.
“You can let go,” Santana bites out, stepping closer and lowering her voice as to avoid being overheard. She’s had enough of public displays of pathetic for one month, thank you very much. “You left long before I did. Just let me go.”
“I don’t want to float away, you can’t leave me,” Brittany replies, voice small and weak sounding.
That stops the words in Santana’s throat for a second, and she swallows thickly. “I told you I loved you,” Santana says lowly, glancing briefly at a passing student. “I told you I wanted to be with you. For real. Twice.” She nearly chokes on the words, hating the way memory boils up in her throat bitterly. “That’s the opposite of leaving.”
Santana feels like for all the times she may have run away, for that one singular moment by the lockers, when she finally said I love you, she was running, full speed, no regard for safety, straight towards the edge of a cliff, Brittany, standing there waiting.
“You can’t take it back,” Brittany whispers, shaking her head a little, eyes wide as they stare, pleading, at Santana. “You said it, and you can’t take it back.”
“I never said I took it back,” Santana spits out before she can stop herself.
Brittany doesn’t say anything, just shifts back and forth on her feet, and worries her lip between her teeth. Santana hates feeling like she’s being blamed, like it’s all her fault. She doesn’t even care if it’s true. She’s done being the one that’s hurt here.
“But just so we’re clear here,” Santana says, eyes narrow as she stares at Brittany. She sends up a silent prayer that she doesn’t start crying, but she can feel her voice threatening to break. “This is me leaving.”
With that, she turns on her heel and walks away.
--
It’s ridiculous how physical the bracelet’s absence feels. The difference between stuffing it in a drawer, her pocket, or her locker and actually giving it back to Brittany is painfully obvious. It feels like she made a mistake, like their non-breakup breakup is final all of a sudden, and her wrist practically itches at the thought of it.
She reminds herself that it’s for the best, that Brittany gave up on them a long time ago, and it’s time that Santana does too. She needs to move on. She will not be a teenage cliché, pining after her high school sweetheart long into adulthood.
A clean slate is what she needs. To start fresh and new, and to stop getting dragged down by the weight of her past.
So she breaks up with Sam.
He’s not as broken up about it as she’d like him to be. He’s more shocked than anything, but he accepts the news with a confused smile and a nod.
“I’m kinda still not over someone too,” he says.
“Too?” Santana asks.
“Well this is about Brittany, right?” Sam asks earnestly.
Santana scoffs. “This is about me, thank you very much.”
Sam laughs. “Okay, whatever.”
“Go away,” she orders, pushing him.
He obeys, but he shakes his head at her as he goes.
--
There are moments that Santana thinks that maybe she didn’t fight hard enough, that she didn’t put in enough effort to win Brittany. Maybe she gave up too easily, and if she had just stayed in the fight for longer, maybe she could have won.
But she dismisses the thought because this is Brittany and she’s Santana, and there never should have even been a fight.
--
“You broke up with Sam,” Brittany says in lieu of a greeting.
Santana rolls her eyes, and shutting her locker. “Hi to you too,” she says sarcastically.
“Why’d you do that?” Brittany’s eyes are earnest, and Santana hates it immediately. She turns to leave with a roll of her eyes.
“None of your business,” she replies.
Brittany pushes off the lockers and follows her. “Santana,” she pleads, soft and low.
Santana doesn’t think her name has ever sounded so broken before. “What do you want, Brittany?”
“Just tell me why you did that,” Brittany says.
“Because I felt like it, okay? I don’t answer to you anymore.” Her eyes go wide at the accidental admission, but she thinks maybe Brittany doesn’t catch it.
“I broke up with Artie,” Brittany blurts out, and Santana seriously almost trips. She recovers and steadies, but her heart just beats faster and heavier when she looks over at Brittany.
They’ve stopped walking, and Santana’s stunned into inaction for a second, before she shakes her head and laughs. “So?”
She can’t trust what the words mean, or what Brittany’s expression means, or that this news changes anything in any way. It doesn’t erase the past.
Brittany’s brow furrows. “So, I mean,” she scuffs her toe against the ground and bites her lip. “I broke up with Artie. We’re not together anymore.”
“That’s what break up means,” Santana says. “Some of us actually understand English.”
Brittany just pouts at that, looking unsure of herself. Instinct makes Santana want to apologize, to take it back and wrap Brittany in a hug, but there’s a vulnerability inside her that holds her back.
“Whatever,” Santana sighs. “I have to go home. I’ll see you around.”
She turns to leave, unsure of whether or not she actually wants Brittany to follow her, and actually makes it outside before Brittany catches up again.
“I broke up with Artie,” Brittany repeats.
“Yeah, like I said,” Santana replies. “Caught that the first time.”
They’re walking towards the parking lot, but Brittany grabs Santana’s wrist and stops them. She looks down to where Brittany’s holding on to her with a raised brow, but Brittany doesn’t let go.
“I want us to be together again,” Brittany says softly, stepping in close.
Santana swallows thickly. She hasn’t been this close to Brittany in a long time, and the feeling of it is nearly overpowering. “We were never together before.”
Brittany shakes her head, eyes a sad blue. “Yes, we were.”
“No, we weren’t.”
It’s only then that Santana sees it, hanging off the arm that’s holding onto Santana’s. A small silver bracelet wrapped around Brittany’s wrist where it’s been absent for so long. The wind gets knocked out of her, and if it weren’t for Brittany’s hold, she thinks she might fall over.
Then Brittany’s reaching into her pocket and pulling out the matching piece of jewelry, the one Santana gave her back. “We were,” Brittany whispers.
Santana’s eyes are wide, and the bitter taste of fear and adrenaline mix in the back of her throat. Brittany reattaches the bracelet to Santana’s wrist, and all she can do is watch as the weight to her left arm returns, tugging her heart down with it.
“I’m yours,” Brittany says. “I’m yours and you’re mine, and it’s been that way for a long time.”
“You left,” Santana croaks, tears starting to pool in her eyes. “You left me.”
“You taught me how,” Brittany says sadly. “You kept letting me float away, so I thought I needed to find someone else to hold on to. But I won’t anymore, promise.”
It only takes a second for the hope warring with fear to win; she thinks maybe the fear wasn’t really putting up a battle to begin with. The tears finally fall down her cheeks, but a weight seems to lift off her. “Promise?”
Brittany smiles and holds up her first, pinky extended. “Pinky promise,” she says softly.
Laughing around tears, Santana locks her pinky around Brittany’s, and her heart flutters at the sight of both bracelets restored on their wrists. She finally feels like something is complete inside her chest. “Pinky promise,” Santana replies.
With a tug of Santana’s pinky, Brittany pulls her forward and, leaning down a little, presses a long, hard kiss to Santana’s lips.
“Let’s go home,” Brittany whispers.
--
Santana pushes Brittany into the mattress and runs her teeth down her neck, smiling at the groan it pulls out of her girlfriend. Just thinking the word makes her have to stop for a second, nose pressed into the skin of Brittany’s collarbone, and take a deep breath.
For all her wanting, Santana didn’t really think she’d ever be here. It always seemed too far away.
But Brittany’s writhing under her, hands in Santana’s hair, pushing downward insistently, and Santana takes a deep breath to collect herself before obeying. She kisses her way down Brittany’s chest, down toned abs, and further until her tongue is lapping and sucking at Brittany’s clit. Brittany’s nails scrape against her scalp, her back arches up off the bed, and Santana wonders when something she’s done hundreds of times came to feel so new.
Brittany’s legs start to tremble, and her stomach tightens under the palm Santana has splayed across it. Brittany cries out and grabs the hand on her abs, interlocking her fingers with Santana’s, as her hips cant up, and an orgasm rips through her.
Kissing her way back up, Santana can’t help the feeling of happiness that keeps washing through her, a smile practically cemented on her face. She chuckles softly, enjoying the way Brittany’s eyes are wide open, jaw dropped like she’s shocked at what just happened. “You okay?” Santana asks, propping her head up on her hand.
“I forgot how good you are at that,” Brittany replies, her voice all scratchy and deep. The sound of it cuts straight to Santana’s groin.
“Thanks,” Santana says, amused.
Brittany brings her hand up to push hair off her forehead, and Santana catches sight of the bracelet on her wrist, looking simultaneously foreign and new.
“Don’t take it off again,” Santana pleads. Unable to look Brittany in the eye, Santana focuses on the bracelet.
Brittany’s palms settle on her cheeks and force eye contact. She pulls Santana’s head closer so their foreheads are resting against each other. “Never,” she says with conviction. “You neither.”
Santana shakes her head. “I love you,” she manages to say, even though she almost chokes on the words. She wonders if she’ll ever be able to get them out without almost crying.
“I love you too,” Brittany says, and the silence that follows the admission, the part where Brittany doesn’t say anything like but or I love him too is the sweetest thing Santana’s ever heard.
Santana lies back down, and Brittany rolls over to drape a leg over Santana’s, her arm sliding over Santana’s stomach, as her head finds its way to Santana’s chest. Santana traces her fingers over the arm on her stomach, and she can’t help but touch Brittany’s bracelet. She twists it and turns it, flicks the heart charm around, and the entire time, there’s a lightness in her chest that’s never been there before.
Brittany smiles against the skin of Santana’s neck, and for the first time in forever, Santana feels no urge to run away.