Title: Summer Days, Drifting Away
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce, Sam Evans
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: General ones for the series through S2.
Summary: A fill for a series of Bramtana OT3 friendship prompts: It's summer; no one knows about Brittany and Santana--save for Sam.
It’s an accident, stumbling in the way he does. He could say that about his life in general—one big accident after another, from the girl who broke him to the home that vanished out from underneath him—but this really is a mistake. He’s sure, from the moment it happens, that it will result in his demise.
In a very real, very bloody sort of way, probably. Because, when Santana’s involved, the odds aren’t great for going gently into the night.
He’s just sort of kicking around the park one evening, watching the sun set behind the browning trees, thinking about how weird life has gotten since he moved to Lima. Not that his family will be staying much longer, he figures, given the way his parents have been discussing things like poor employment opportunities and Aunt Sarah could get us on our feet. Aunt Sarah lives over in Kentucky.
Kentucky is not at all his goal in life, but if it means living in an actual, honest-to-God house again, he guesses it will do.
Anyway, he’s just wandering aimlessly, firing stones off into space, and suddenly, there they are. He doesn’t recognize them at first as anything more than shadows moving together in the brush—definitely can’t tell that he knows them, that he dated one of them, but when he does…
He lurches backward, maintaining just enough presence of mind not to crash over a branch and give himself away. It’s Santana he sees first, with her dark hair dragged back from her face and her long legs slinking out from barely-there cutaway shorts. She’s all tank top and bared skin, her eyes fluttering as the second shadow moves against her, lips snagging on her neck and sucking softly.
The second shadow, with its blonde hair and rosy cheeks—sunburnt, he notes belatedly, eyes wide, both hands clamped over his mouth—is tall, pinning Santana to a tree. Legs and tapered hips and holy shit, summer is suiting Brittany the way it should every girl with a California complexion and ice-blue eyes. The kind of girl he’s always had a soft spot for, way down deep.
But his soft spots have always led to heartache and struggle, and this one seems very decidedly to belong to his ex-girlfriend—the one who left him for a guy who could have Hulked out and squashed him flat—so he figures it won’t do to dwell.
It probably isn’t any better to stand here gaping at them, but he can’t seem to tear away. Not with the panting little sounds that slip past Santana’s parted lips, and the hitch of her breath and hips in the same motion when Brittany’s slim fingers skid up the back of her shirt and press firm to her spine. He can see them in perfect outline from here, can make out the length of Santana’s neck as her head tips back against ridged bark, and the practiced stroke of Brittany’s tongue as it smooths up to her jawline, and the sheer relief that escapes them both when they come together at last.
He’s never seen girls kiss before outside of a furtively-viewed computer screen, and it’s somehow amazing and startling and kind of weird all at the same time. They kiss the way he’s kissed them both, in a way—Brittany’s head tilting, Santana’s lips suckling at a soft pink tongue, breathing harshly through their noses as they move—but there’s something different about it. Something in the way one of Brittany’s long-fingered hands skates across Santana’s cheek and holds, her thumb swiping the skin gently, and the fierce response of Santana’s fingers digging into a mass of blonde hair made even blonder by the June sun. The way they move together, hold together—hips thrusting gently, breasts mashed together—makes his head buzz with energy.
And confusion. A lot of confusion, because these two are straight—or were straight, or were something, something that involved him, and Artie, and he knows Puck has had a crack at them both. All of which would imply that they’re all about the dudes, but this seems to scream otherwise. Especially when Santana actually giggles as Brittany dabs a kiss to the edge of her mouth, giggles and then groans when a toned thigh slides between both of hers and angles high.
They do this like it’s perfectly natural, like it would be weird not to, and he can’t seem to look away—not even because they’re beautiful together, though they undoubtedly are, but because there’s something here that he’s never seen before in his own relationships. Or in anyone’s relationships, come to think of it. It’s something totally brand new, and he feels almost honored, to bear witness to it.
Except honor sometimes comes out in a surprised little squeak when one is watching one hot girl push another’s shirt up over her bra and, yep, Santana is so going to kill him.
He’s running before his brain can catch up, and he likes to think he’s pretty fast—starting quarterback and all that—but it turns out they’re faster. Or, more accurately, Brittany is faster—and almost preternaturally strong in comparison to what he’s used to. She catches him by the back of his frayed Toby Keith t-shirt and tugs, and it’s all he can do not to gag and scream like a girl at the same time.
“I’m sorry,” he babbles before Santana can take the first swing. “I’m so sorry, I swear I won’t tell anyone, just don’t cut off my balls.”
He doesn’t know why he’s saying it. The last thing he should be doing is giving her ideas.
She presses her hands to her hips, eyes blazing beneath messy hair and arched eyebrows. “Like you’ve got any to begin with.”
Brittany laughs a little, and Sam gets the weird sense she’s not laughing at him so much as because Santana said it. “Hi, Sam. How’s your vacation?”
Terrific, assuming you let me live, he thinks, opting to mutter, “Swell,” instead. Santana cocks her head, fingers gripping her own hipbone with a ferocity he finds more than a little intimidating.
“Never struck me for a perv, Trouty.”
“I’m not,” he protests, squirming loose from Brittany’s light grasp. “I swear, I was just walking.”
“And sporting a hell of a boner,” she points out acidly. “Must really like walking.”
He scowls despite his tenuous situation, fighting the blush that creeps up to his ears, because hey—he didn’t exactly plan for this. “You’re making out in public,” he accuses, regretting it a little when she takes a sharp step toward him.
“And you’re a weasly little—“
“Santana,” Brittany interrupts, draping a casual arm around her shoulders. “Stop it. Sam’s nice.”
He is, really, although he guesses creeping on his friends doesn’t really fit the bill. Embarrassed, he slumps a little, shoving his hands as deep into his grass-stained jeans as he can.
“Sorry. I really didn’t mean to watch. Just was surprised, is all.”
Santana’s glare softens just a little, her head instinctively rotating toward Brittany’s shoulder. “Whatever. But you aren’t going to go blabbing?”
“Hell no,” he swears, thrusting two fingers into the air in a classic salute. She rubs a hand across the top of her head and sighs.
“Whatever. Creep ass.”
She says it, but five minutes later, they’re all walking out of the park together—out, and toward her house, and he’s not quite sure how he got to the point of watching old 90s flicks on Santana Lopez’s couch, but the point is, he’s alive. Alive, and, apparently, invited.
It was an accident, but occasionally, accidents aren’t so bad.
Being friends with Quinn isn’t really his favorite thing anymore; being anywhere near Quinn, really, although after the whole “cool with him living in a motel” thing, she started to grow on him again. Sort of. Just enough that, when she calls him up and asks if he’s feeling ice cream—her treat—he’s feeling just muggy enough to say yes.
It’s sticky out in that gross, ugly sort of way, and his shirt is plastered to his ribcage, and her hair is all frizzy on top the way he’s never seen on her, and it’s only because he’s so worn out by the thick air around them that he starts talking at all. Normally, he doesn’t do the share-and-care thing with Quinn—she’s an okay friend every once in a while, but once a chick cheats on you, you sort of lose your will to open up—but she happens to be the one closest to understanding what he’s going through. Maybe the only one on Earth.
Nobody else is best friends with a pair of secret lesbians.
“Santana and Brittany,” he begins around a near-desperate lick of his vanilla cone, and she cuts him off with a snort.
“Yeah, heard you were hanging with that crowd.”
Two doesn’t really constitute a crowd, he’s pretty sure, but she’s wearing that arch look she gets when she’s feeling particularly scornful. He laps at his cone for another minute before trying again.
“Totally,” she drawls, leaning back on her hands. He watches her tongue flick out, tracing the edge of her popsicle. It makes him shudder a little, remembering; he pulls back instantly, focusing his attention on a far-away point on the horizon.
“You don’t really see them much anymore, huh?”
“I see them around,” she says casually, like she doesn’t care, like it doesn’t bother her that they were once so close and now barely speak. He wonders if she ever feels like they ditched out on her—for each other, he notes, wondering if she knows about that, too—and if she resents them for it. It seems like Quinn’s got an awful lot of resentment in her that she never really talks about. Maybe it would help, to let it out.
But Quinn’s not the sort of girl you can force it with. He shrugs it off uncomfortably, squirming when a sticky dallop of ice cream careens down the side of his wrist.
“They’re cool,” he says again. She sighs.
“Santana’s a bitch,” she informs him, “and Brittany can be, too. I’d be careful with them. Not to say they’re not great when they want to be, but—“
He nods, mostly to shut her up. They can be bitchy, he’s learned—mostly about other people, but sometimes even about one another. Bitchy, and ridiculous, and Santana’s violent streak runs mantle-deep. But they’re also goofy, and sweet—mostly with each other, but sometimes with him—and he likes the way they fall asleep sometimes with their arms and legs all tangled up. Like they’ve got faith that every time morning rolls around, they’re going to find themselves together. And, lately, like they’re okay with him being there for that, even though no one else should be.
He can’t say that to Quinn, and he knows it; the minute he lets their secret out, he’s gone, his ass out on the curb (and probably very much detached from the rest of him). He knows this. Santana has made it perfectly clear on more than one occasion.
It’s a secret that sucks to keep, in a way, because it’s such a huge part of them—Santana-and-Brittany, but him as well, all three of them together—and it would be awesome to let someone know about it. Even someone as frustratingly reckless as Quinn, who makes less and less sense with every passing week.
He wonders why he even came to her in the first place. She’s clearly not their best friend anymore.
He’s actually about eighty-five percent sure that position belongs to him now.
They finish their ice cream without saying another word.
He doesn’t make a habit of inviting people over—except for Quinn, for babysitting duties, and sometimes Kurt, when he’s mortifyingly in need of fresh clothes—but after a couple of weeks of bouncing from Brittany’s place to Santana’s and back again, they start pushing at him. Santana demands to know if he’s ashamed of them. Brittany asks if he’s got a pool. He doesn’t, but apparently, he’s run out of time to pretend he lives in some unreachable void.
The motel he stays at is crappy. There’s no way around it, no way to paint it with prettier colors and sparkles and play pretend. It’s a crappy-ass place, the kind you stay at because the landlords don’t give a shit about anything at all, and because the payments come cheap, and because his parents barely have a twenty between them half the time these days.
Plus, there’s no air conditioning. Which blows way more than he’d have expected before the dead of summer kicked in.
Santana takes one look at his room, pronounces it “street-rat chic,” and flops down on the mattress like she owns it. Brittany asks him if he gets room service. He’s not sure she understands what “homeless” implies.
“There’s not much to it,” he insists nervously, raking his fingers through his hair. It’s too long again, shagging uncomfortably down the back of his neck and into his eyes. Santana raises an eyebrow, reaching for Brittany and dragging her onto the brown-and-orange bedspread.
“Motels are in,” she tells him smoothly, and he knows it’s a blatant lie, but that’s sort of what she does now. To prove they’re friends, he supposes: lies for him, instead of to him.
Being Santana’s friend is more complicated than most, but much less complicated than being her boyfriend. He likes it okay.
He sinks down in the crappy chair propped up in the corner, feet set wide against the raggedy carpet. It’s unnaturally hot in here, and he can hear the people next door fighting again while their kid screams his head off, and he wonders why they would even want to put themselves through this. Not when they could be dicking around Santana’s doctor-bought home, or Brittany’s hippie-décor place. Or anywhere else.
They don’t seem interested in bolting for the door, though; Santana is kicking her flip-flops off, and Brittany is tucking her head against Santana’s chest, eyes glued longingly to the cracked TV. They’re making themselves right at home in a place no one should have to live—not for months—and all because it’s his place. He’s almost positive it would be beneath them otherwise, a crappy shack to throw eggs at and mock to their friends.
But he’s their friend, and it’s practically his home, and they don’t seem to mind it at all, somehow. He never would have guessed that a month ago.
It gets to be a thing with them. He wonders if it doesn’t have something to do with Santana avoiding her parents, or Brittany ducking her little sister, or the simple fact that no one is breathing down their necks here; whatever it is, it’s a thing—their thing—and he just sort of goes with it. Because fighting Santana and Brittany is pointless, a two-against-one venture that always out-votes him, and because he guesses they’re right about it being kind of “chic.” Or not, but they make it better. Dragging over Santana’s mom’s blender to make smoothies for Stevie and Stacy (Santana turns up her nose and makes a big show of being charitable, but Brittany whispers to him that it was her idea in the first place), and running up and down the stairs at midnight until they just about die laughing at the old lady across the way who glares daggers from her window, and collapsing exhaustedly on the brittle lawn in the middle of the afternoon. They do the kind of stuff kids are supposed to do on summer vacation, and yeah—they’re doing it all at his fucking motel, which shouldn’t be his at all—but so what? They’re still doing it, and with him, to boot. Why should he be ashamed of that?
On a Wednesday, with Santana carefully trimming his hair to a human length as he sits dead still, Brittany tells him, “Your house is the coolest.” And he believes her, because it’s Brittany, and Brittany doesn’t sugar coat shit the way most people do. Brittany just says what she thinks.
He really, really likes Brittany, in that moment.
It comes up by mistake one night. They’re stretched out on Brittany’s front lawn after dinner—Sam’s arms hooked behind his head, Brittany’s wrapped around a dozing Santana—and they get to talking sort of mindlessly. When Santana’s awake and running things, conversation is quick and biting, filled with sarcasm and other people, but when it’s just him and Brittany, they can talk about anything at all. Cars, or movies, or Fruit Loops; she doesn’t care, and he just likes talking. It’s nice, to hear the sound of his own voice and know not everything has changed—that he can still be him, whoever that happens to be on a given afternoon. Poverty doesn’t steal everything away.
It comes up without him meaning for it to—Quinn, and Finn, and how it all went down. Brittany wasn’t paying much attention at the time, he guesses; too busy worrying about Santana, and Artie, and whatever else was floating around in her head. He didn’t understand her then, and still doesn’t today, but he gets that life can be distracting. You don’t notice other people’s problems so much when your own are threatening to drag you under.
He says it out loud—“She cheated on me”—and even though it’s been the truth for months now, the syllables still fit uncomfortably between his teeth. They twist and jerk in his mouth, leaping away from him even as he spits them out, and his chest tightens. You’re not supposed to get cheated on. Not when you’re nice, and you care, and you haven’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t supposed to happen to him, and sometimes, he still can’t believe it really did.
“She cheated on me,” he repeats softly. She fires him a sympathetic little look over Santana’s hair, fingertips tracing endless sigils into tan skin.
“She does that sometimes.”
He feels kind of stupid about that, about trying with a girl who had already had some other dude’s kid while dating a perfectly nice (he thought, back then) guy, but people deserve second chances. The Bible says so, and so do all the best people in the world, including his mom. Second chances are for when the first one got a little fumbled, and that’s fine. He didn’t do anything wrong, in giving it his best shot.
“Quinn’s just looking,” Brittany tells him, but when he asks what for, she only shrugs. “Maybe she’ll let you know, if she ever finds it.”
He doubts that. He doubts a lot of things about Quinn, whose presence in his life is so confounding and awkward.
“She cheated on me,” he whispers, tasting each word in pieces. “I should probably be over that by now, huh?”
She shrugs again, then stills as Santana makes a muffled noise of irritation. He watches her drop a kiss against dark hair.
“It wasn’t cool,” she says at last, eyes fixed on the clouds drifting along above them. “Cheating wasn’t cool. Especially the way she did it.”
“You did it, too,” he points out—and feels like kind of a major asshole for it when she glances his way fleetingly. Her lips twist.
“Yeah. I did.”
She doesn’t say it was different, doesn’t make any excuses at all, and he’s glad for that. He knows she probably thinks it didn’t count so much because it was Santana, because Santana always comes first for her, but if she’d actually said so out loud, he’s not sure he could handle it. Artie was too good a guy, too good a friend, and when you boil it down, cheating always sucks. Always, even if you’re doing it for God and country. Or True Love.
He’s glad she doesn’t make excuses.
“Finn’s a jerk,” he says instead of pushing it, and watches her shoulders push a little against the grass as she shifts to get comfortable. Santana sighs into her neck, nails bright red against the green of her tank top. “For doing that to me. He was supposed to be my friend.”
“Total jerk,” Brittany agrees. Edging him along without really involving herself. It’s what Brittany does when someone gets mad, when something needs to come out, and he likes that. He likes being able to just listen to his own anger without feeling all guilty and shit about it.
“It happened to him,” he goes on, tugging at the hair at the back of his own head in frustration. “He knows what it feels like. She hurt him, too.”
Brittany hums in acknowledgment. He sits up and thunks his fists against his knees.
“He’s such a tool.”
Maybe it’s unfair, to be so pissed about this so much later—after Finn made it up to him, after they both apologized, after it’s been put away in a little box for good—but he can’t help it. There’s this surge in him whenever he thinks about it, like sick electricity, making his stomach all acidy and gross. Quinn was his girl, and maybe she never loved him, but she said she did. She said she cared, and all it took was Finn and his big, goofy smile, and everything just—
And then his parents lost the house, and now he’s here. Poor, and raggedy, and ranting to his best friend (who, in all technicality, sort of took another girl away from him) about how much his life sucks.
It’s pretty pathetic, now that he thinks about it.
They fall silent for a little bit; he picks out a cloud shaped like an airplane, and then an actual airplane, and then a seagull. She lays there, mouth soft against the crest of Santana’s hair, breathing in time with her. It’s peaceful everywhere, except that dark little hole in his chest that never quite seemed to fill back up again.
“I could kill him for you,” she tells him, her voice kind of gravelly and calm. His head jerks over, eyes wide.
“Yeah?” He’s grinning slowly, fingers picking at the grass between his feet. She winks, gesturing down at the sleeping girl in her arms.
“Sure. We’ve even got a secret weapon.”
Right on cue, Santana snores.
Stevie and Stacy are about the greatest kids in the world, but when it comes to tucking them in at night, things get kind of stale fast. They’ve been hearing stories from him for years—ten for Stevie, eight for Stacy—and even his greatest impressions make them roll their eyes now. Which is really depressing, because Sean Connery and Matthew McConaughey should never get old.
He knows they’d be laughing gamely at his old jokes and nodding along at plotlines long memorized for the rest of time, if he made them, because that’s just the way they are, but all the same—it’s lucky Santana and Brittany have come along. They’re just the kind of change-up the kids—and Sam himself—have been needing for a long time.
Although they don’t exactly let Santana tell the stories anymore. Not without adult supervision, because Santana’s idea of a “bedtime story” is to regale his wide-eyed brother and sister with the tale of the time she slammed Noah Puckerman’s dick in her car door.
(Sam’s pretty sure no one should be hearing that story ever again. Also, he’s not sure how Puck survived that experience to fuck another day. He makes a mental note to ask sometime when Santana’s not around.)
So, Santana doesn’t get to tell the stories anymore, but it turns out Brittany isn’t just good at making stuff up; she’s excellent. Writing-novels-for-kids excellent, and if she had any grasp at all on grammar (or the attention span to surpass a hamster’s), he’s pretty sure she could have the world’s most awesome career laid out for her. As it is, her stories are the ones that get Stevie’s vote, and Stacy’s, and usually Sam’s as well.
You can only tell the Three Little Pigs so many times, but with Brittany, the Giraffe Princess goes ninja-warrioring with her best friend, the Leopard Pirate, and they find Aladdin’s lamp, and it’s just a hell of a lot better than anything he can come up with.
(Santana gets kind of huffy whenever the kids cheer and clap for more, but he sees the way she scoots in closer to Brittany, tucking her chin against a slim shoulder and grinning proudly.)
Brittany is going at it with exuberance today, all wild hand gestures and big eyes, and the kids are eating it up. Stevie’s got his knees drawn up to his chest, letting loose a low, Oh! whenever the story zigs in a new direction; Stacy is holding Santana’s hand between both of hers, beaming so hard, Sam’s almost tempted to call her the Joker. He leans back against the wall, arms folded, and laughs when Brittany pitches her voice low to do the part of the Brontosaurus Repairman.
The kids don’t fall asleep for a good thirty minutes after the story is complete, but he doesn’t mind. They just keep asking questions—Stevie wonders if the One-Winged Falcon ever got his jetpack, and Stacy is totally fixated on the gripping love story between the Giraffe Princess and her swashbuckling Leopard—and Brittany fields them all with unshakable cheer.
“You’ll have to wait and see,” she teases when Stacy demands a wedding in the future. Santana makes a little noise that might be a chuckle, her eyes fluttering shut when Brittany bends to kiss each forehead in turn, landing on hers last.
That’s the part he likes the best, he thinks as Stacy slaps a wet kiss to the back of Santana’s hand. The part where they’re just kids, and they get it—Santana and Brittany—better than most of the adults he knows could. The part where Brittany’s lips swipe across Santana’s chastely, her arm steady and protective around Santana’s middle as they push themselves from the mattress, and neither kid cares even a little bit.
Santana doesn’t let this happen in public, around anyone except Sam and his family, and he loves that. It’s sad, sure, and it makes him super angry to even consider what people at school might say to them—but the fact that Santana only lets her guard down here, with him, with them—
That’s special. Really, really special.
He catches her around the waist once the door is shut, the Buzz Lightyear nightlight blazing reassuringly by the kids’ bed. She pushes at his shoulders instantly, rolling her eyes.
“You’re getting all touchy again, Steven Tyler. I know we’ve talked about this.”
He grips her tighter, snuggling against her cheek with his own stubbly one and laughing when she punches his bicep hard.
“You’re awesome,” he tells her happily, because it feels sometimes like she doesn’t hear it often enough. Brittany nods.
“You really are.”
“Duh,” she grumbles, trying to hide the smile that builds gently at the edges of her mouth. “But I’m not the one telling stories that could make Tolkien weep,” she adds, snagging Brittany’s hand and pulling it to her lips. Sam smirks.
“Your stories could make anyone weep.”
“If someone would stop crippling my creativity,” she sniffs haughtily. Brittany’s snort is loud enough to wake the whole complex.
The look on Santana’s face when she walks in on them is priceless, and even though it’s August and they’ve been hanging out daily all summer, he wonders if she loves him enough not to scalp him on the spot. She’s great, and he’s learned she’ll do almost anything for him—even put on an impromptu performance of The Princess and the Frog for his siblings on a rainy day—but this is a line they haven’t yet danced across.
She tends to get pretty touchy about sharing Brittany with people.
Not that this really constitutes sharing; it’s just that her mom dragged her off on some shopping adventure (“Torture,” she’d announced witheringly, throwing a dramatic hand across her forehead), and Brittany doesn’t stay awake during movies that don’t involve talking animals. It’s not like they’re doing anything, but all the same, when she charges through his door to find them snuggled together on the bed—Brittany tucked against his side, her leg slung across his lap, breathing evenly—he’s half-certain she’ll go into a patented Snix-rage.
Again: sharing really isn’t her vibe. And he has the sense she never really forgave him for drunkenly making out with Brittany all those months ago at Rachel’s house. Santana’s got a real strength for grudge-holding.
He widens his eyes pleadingly, waving his hands as carefully as he can (so as not to jostle Brittany, who has this weird habit of punching people when she’s been woken abruptly) as she stalks into the room. Her eyes are narrowed, her feet inching with predatory care across his carpet. He wonders if Brittany would make a feasible human shield.
“What,” she begins, and he flails again.
Her eyebrow twitches, as if to say, You’re shushing me? He flushes.
“We were watching Fern Gully,” he hisses anxiously. “I thought she’d like it.”
Santana glares at him for a long second, and then—without warning—plops right down on his left foot. He bites down on a low howl, willing himself to remain perfectly still. Brittany barely shifts.
“She hates that one,” Santana says coolly, reaching out to rub the soft ends of Brittany’s hair between her fingers. “The pollution thing scared the crap out of her when we were kids. Always goes right to sleep, just so she doesn’t have to hear the song it sings.”
“But—“ He bites his lip. “It’s Tim Curry.”
“Right?” She shrugs, gaze lingering momentarily on the place where Brittany’s arm rests against his chest. “She didn’t tell you?”
He shakes his head. Santana smiles.
“My girl. Always playing brave.”
It’s the first time he’s ever heard her say something like that, putting into words this thing that is so obvious to him. They’re always touching and kissing, falling asleep together, splashing in the community pool together, doing everything as one single entity—but he’s never heard her say it out loud before. That Brittany is hers the way she is Brittany’s, the way he’s known ever since that night in the park.
“She’s pretty amazing,” he says softly, attempting to edge out from under the long, grasping body. Santana shakes her head, amused.
“Uh uh. You got yourself into this mess, Wonder Lips, you’re gonna have to ride it out. She doesn’t wake until she’s good and ready.”
She kindly leaves off the part about accidental black eyes. Getting Brittany-punched isn’t something that just slips a guy’s mind.
He reluctantly sinks back against the pillows, doing his best to ignore the sweat pooling beneath his shirt. It’s fucking hot in this room, and Brittany is like a beautiful human furnace, and he’s really regretting this whole movie idea. Except for the part where Santana is grinning at them both like she actually finds them cute or something. That part’s great, if only because it leaves both his nuts right where he likes them.
She’s really not as scary as he used to think. To him.
“She is, though,” he hears her murmur, almost too quietly. “Amazing.”
And yours, he thinks, but doesn’t need to say. Her eyes are practically singing it, the love and the want and that strange warmth he never imagined she could possess. Her eyes say it all, and the only thing he needs to do is sit back and listen.
“You both are,” he tells her, relieved when she doesn’t try to deck him the way she normally does. She just shrugs, tugging her hair back into a rough ponytail.
“I know,” she says, and clambers over his legs to stretch out on what little is left of the mattress. Her arm drapes across him, hand closing around Brittany’s upon his chest, and her eyes slip shut.
He sighs. “Santana?”
“Shh,” she mumbles, forehead nestled—too warm—against the shoulder of his t-shirt. “Shopping’s exhausting.”
“You were gone for two hours,” he reminds her, wriggling awkwardly in a desperate bid for cool air. She kicks at his kneecap warningly.
He has no choice but to drop back down again, blowing the hair out of his eyes as her breathing gradually eases out. It’s his own fault, he figures, for putting himself in this situation: the best friend to a pair of total lunatics, the kind who tell his siblings stories, and drive his neighbors insane, and love each other with a ferocity he can only imagine. It’s his own fault, for loving them the way he does. That was pretty well asking to be smothered to death.
Also, he probably should know better than to watch movies on a bed.
But whatever; he’ll live. And the summer will cut onward, in its mad, dizzyingly strange little arc. And he will continue to wake to the two of them, sun-kissed and laughing and tangled in each other.
It strikes him suddenly, the knowledge that Kentucky is very much missing this.
He kind of hopes fall never decides to come back around.
There’s a time and place for everything
and I believe it’s called ‘fan-fiction’.
- Summer Days, Drifting Away