A/N: Spoilers for all aired episodes, but anything further than that is mere speculation, as I am not spoiled for anything in the future. The songs used are Put Your Records On by Corrine Bailey Rae and L-O-V-E by Nat King Cole.

girl, put your records on

She has always had her constants.

There are things that she will always like: dancing and chocolate-covered cherries and getting her fingers all tangled up in blonde hair. Then there are the things she denies herself, like chocolate-covered cherries and falling in love. There are things that she knows – how to make guys drool and how to get unlimited breadsticks.

Her heart somersaults sometimes when Brittany's fingers knot into her hair, dig into her scalp, when her own fingers find a point on Brittany's body where she can feel someone else's heart hammering the same beat as her own – these are the ways she lets herself love, in quieter moments.

She hates, hates, Rachel Berry and her tights and her willingness to cry in public and the labels she bestows on people (who does she think she is to talk about Sapphic love?).

These are her constants.

The day Rachel finds her crying in the bathroom changes everything. It is the beginning of the end. Santana is tempted to punch out Rachel's sympathetic smile.

"I know you're not happy to see me, but at least I understand what you're upset about."

"Fuck you," Santana snaps, but not before snatching the proffered tissue from Rachel's hand.

A sympathetic hum leaves Rachel's lips. "I've personally felt this way about Fi – "

"Shut up." Santana could kill her, she really could. "Don't you dare compare your pathetic schoolgirl crush to – " She presses her lips together.

"To what you feel for Brittany," Rachel fills in softly, like it's a fill-in-the-blank question on the world's easiest and most obvious test. "To what you have with her."

"I don't have anything," Santana gasps, and her bruised heart just keeps on bleeding.

And that is how she ends up spending all of third period in the bathroom, sitting under the sinks with Rachel Berry's arm around her and Rachel Berry's hand stroking her hair and Rachel Berry's fingers wiping tears off of her cheeks.

Pacing around her bedroom, Rachel is the picture of a woman on a mission.

"Personally," she says, "I like to think of my life as a famous Broadway musical, but it is my understanding that most people in our age group prefer to picture their lives as movies."

Santana perches uncomfortably on the edge of Rachel's mattress, ready to take off at a moment's notice. "You realize your décor is a contributing factor to how little action you get, right?"

Rachel ignores her. "This is the climax of your movie, Santana. You need to be proactive. Find an ending that will move your audience to happy tears." She smiles, her eyes far away. "This should be a fairytale, not a tragedy."

"How do I do that?" Santana swallows hard. "I told her I love her. I sang her a song in front of the whole damn glee club. It's her call now. It's her turn and – "

Rachel walks over to sit next to her. "And?"

"I sang her a song," she says softly.

"Yes." Rachel nods. "It was beautiful. I really commend – "

"No." Santana cuts her off sharply, frowning and wondering briefly if Finn never got laid because Rachel spends the majority of her time using her mouth to talk. "I sang her another song, in private."

"Oh?" This time, Rachel waits.

"Songbird," Santana mumbles.

There is complete silence in the room for a moment, and then Rachel sniffles.

Santana's eyes fly to the other girl's face. "Are you crying?"

Rachel pouts at her. "That was very romantic of you," she points out.

"Yeah." Santana crosses her arms. "Well."

"What did she say?"

"She…wanted me to go on Fondue for Two. She said she'd ask me to prom."

Rachel squeals. "That's wonderful!"

"No, it's not!" Santana gets to her feet. "It would publicize our relationship to the entire internet, never mind the entire school. I can't. I just…" She blows out her breath. "I can't."

Rachel doesn't move. She sits there, on her mattress, with her legs crossed at the ankle and her hands folded neatly in her lap.

"What?" Santana growls when Rachel stays silent.

"Nothing, I'm sorry. It's just that…you're scared. You're scared of Brittany."

Santana glares. She waits for whatever comes next – gloating or laughing or something, because Rachel was the last person who was ever supposed to see her this way.

But it never comes. Rachel just says, "May I ask you a question?" At Santana's affirmative nod, she continues softly, "Why are you dating Karofsky?"

She bristles and shrugs. "I want to be prom queen," she says coolly. "Don't lie, Berry, you want Quinn to lose. You should vote for me."

Rachel glances down at the floor for a moment. "You can't be with Brittany if you're with someone else."

"That's not the problem. I – I can't be the girl who loves another girl."

Rachel's brows furrow and her jaw works a little and she looks so sceptical that Santana is vaguely taken aback. "You can't be that girl but you can be the girl who loves Karofsky?"

Santana flops back onto Rachel's bed and stares at her stupid ceiling. "Touché," she whispers, and she misses the way Brittany's pillows smell.

There is a party on Friday night.

Brittany texts her about going and it makes Santana's chest seize up when she thinks of Brittany in her pyjama bottoms with cupcakes all over and her white bra with the little pink hearts on it dancing in her room all alone and hanging out with her obese cat all night, which is what she knows will happen if she says she doesn't want to go.

She doesn't reply to Brittany's text. She drives to Rachel's house instead and parks messily in the driveway.

A man with little reading glasses and a friendly smile opens the door.

Santana's face is red and her breaths are shallow when she says, "Rachel doesn't go out on weekends, right? She's too lame for that?"

Rachel stands in the living room in a pair of blue-and-black polka dotted pyjamas and tells both her fathers Santana's entire life story, which is painfully mortifying.

But Rachel's dads are nice enough. They listen carefully and they give her the kind of tissues with lotion in them so they don't make her nose red. Santana sits between them on the couch, trying to make herself as small as physically possible, sniffling pathetically every once in a while.

Rachel's dads tell her that she is a beautiful girl. They tell her that she is brave.

Everyone in this house is so goddamn sincere that Santana is nauseous with envy.

She borrows a pair of Rachel's geeky pyjamas and they make cake together in the Berrys' kitchen.

It's rainbow cake. She's a little uncertain, but that feels strangely symbolic.

That night, she sleeps in Rachel's bed next to her.

"I didn't really have sleepovers when I was a kid," Rachel says cheerfully as she crawls under the sheets. Her hair is neatly braided and her cheeks are scrubbed clean and she looks – well, she looks cute.

Santana smiles a little wistfully. "Britt and I have stayed at each other's houses every weekend since we were kids."

Rachel smiles too, eager and bright. "When did you know?"

Eyes on the ceiling, Santana says, "She was my first kiss. It was supposed to be practice. And it wasn't – it wasn't like fireworks or some big moment or like I just knew right then. It felt good. We wanted to do it right when we had boyfriends. But when…I started hooking up with guys, it wasn't the same." She slides Rachel a look. "The real thing was never as good as practice. I liked boys, but I…I love Brittany."

"And she loves you," Rachel prompts.

"Yeah," she whispers into the darkness of Rachel's room. "I guess."

"Oh," Rachel breathes, like the whole world has suddenly come into focus, and then she hugs Santana so abruptly that she practically pounces on her.

Rachel's mouth tastes like her cinnamon-flavoured toothpaste.

She takes the kiss at face value for a moment. Rachel has nice enough lips and she kisses back. It's just a kiss: it feels good, and maybe it means something, but it doesn't mean too much.

And then Rachel blinks big eyes at Santana when they pull away from each other.

"You have a very nice mouth," she says politely.

Santana snorts. "Please, Sam takes the cake for that one."

Rachel giggles and it doesn't feel as weird as it should. They fall asleep at the same time.

"I can braid your hair for you!" Rachel offers enthusiastically the next morning.

"Um, no," Santana says, so she's entirely unsure of how she ends up sitting on the floor in front of Rachel's bed with the other girl's hands in her hair.

"I've been thinking about your dilemma," Rachel says after a moment of companionable silence.

Santana closes her eyes. She does Brittany's hair for her all the time – she loves to do it – and it feels like it's been a long time since someone returned the favour. "Hm?" she asks.

"You've sung to Brittany twice." Rachel winds an elastic hand over the end of one of Santana's braids. "I think you need her to sing to you."

"She's not going to come up with that idea on her own. Especially since I didn't go on her show."

"We'll find another way," Rachel says easily.

Santana presses her lips tight together. "Rachel?"

"Yeah?"

"You really need to stop wearing white tights and black mary janes. I mean it. It makes you look like you're five years old."

Behind her, Rachel sighs. But she says, "Okay."

Two days later, Rachel sticks her hand up into the air in that determined way of hers the moment they're all seated in glee club. "Mr. Schuester? I'd like to sing a song before you introduce the theme for this week's lesson."

He looks bemused, which is his general reaction to Rachel. "Sure. The floor is yours."

She marches to the front of the room. Her legs are bare under her red skirt, which is vast improvement over her prudish white tights. Santana smirks a little and settles in to wait for whatever Broadway ballad she's decided to sing to Finn this week.

"This song is…for someone," Rachel says, with this little secretive smile.

Santana glances over at Quinn, who looks deliciously enraged.

Rachel turns to the musicians, "Hit it."

And then she sings.

Three little birds sat on my window
And they told me I don't need to worry
Summer came like cinnamon, so sweet…

Rachel looks right at her. It's only for a split second, but it's there, it's definitely there: this mischievous glittering in her eyes, this sly tilt to her lips.

Maybe sometimes, we got it wrong but it's alright…

Mercedes and Kurt are swaying along to the beat, mouthing the lyrics. Finn is nodding along uncertainly and Quinn looks just as surprised as Santana feels.

Girl, put your records on
Tell me your favourite song
You go ahead, let your hair down

It's not a fluke or an accident now. Rachel is looking right at her, still smiling that private smile.

Sapphire and faded jeans
I hope you get your dreams
Just go ahead, let your hair down

Rachel tugs at the elastic that it holding Santana's hair up in a high ponytail, pulling it gently away so that Santana's hair tumbles messily down onto her shoulders.

You're gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow

Rachel is singing to her.

She feels frozen as Mike pulls Tina up out of her chair and spins her around under his arm. Sam follows his lead, holding his hand out to Quinn with a friendly smile, and she hesitates for only a beat before she lets him pull her to her feet.

They dance, and Rachel keeps singing.

Just more than I could take
Pity for pity's sake
Some nights kept me awake
I thought that I was stronger
When you gonna realize
That you don't even have to try any longer
Do what you want to…

Girl, put your records on

Rachel hits an amazing note and everybody cheers and laughs and claps, including Mr. Schue. Rachel reaches both hands out toward Santana and pulls her to her feet, her smile widening into a grin.

Sapphire and faded jeans
I hope you get your dreams
Just go ahead, let your hair down

Without meaning to, Santana smiles back at her. Everyone follows once Santana is on her feet – even Quinn is smiling – and they're singing along with the chorus and dancing around the room, but they leave the last notes to Rachel.

You're gonna find yourself somewhere, somehow.

Rachel is beaming when the song ends and everyone claps and Santana reaches out before she can doubt herself and hugs her.

Sitting alone, completely still for perhaps the first time in her life, Brittany watches.

She's in the hallway with her arms wrapped tight around herself.

"That was slightly badass of you, Berry," she says lowly.

Rachel tugs a book out of her locker. "Was that a thank-you?" she asks, smiling

Santana wins prom queen.

It is an empty victory. The crown is heavy on her head and she is lonely. Dave's arm snakes around her waist and holds too tightly. Quinn has this shattered look in her eyes that Santana wishes she'd never seen.

Except –

Except Brittany, standing in the crowd with the world's biggest smile on her face, hands clasped tight together, eyes full of hesitant glee.

I love you, Santana thinks.

"Thank you," she says into the microphone that Jacob Ben Israel shoves into her face.

"I'm sorry that I slept with Finn," she blurts to Rachel.

Rachel blinks at her, taken aback by the abrupt confession. She composes herself and says quietly, "Apology accepted."

"You're…you're a good friend, or whatever."

Rachel takes her hand and squeezes it. "Congratulations. I voted for you."

Her lips curve into a smirk, unbidden. "Of course you did," she whispers.

When Rachel laughs, the sound is so musical, packed with pretty notes. "You deserve to be happy."

Santana rolls her eyes and looks at the floor. "Finn loves you," she says, which is basically the exact same sentiment expressed in a different way.

"Hi."

Dave is in the bathroom. Santana is holding his crown in one hand, waiting impatiently and hoping he isn't telling his football buddies bullshit stories about their non-existent hook-ups.

And then all of a sudden Brittany is there.

Brittany, whose prom dress is exactly the same as Santana remembers it – they bought their dresses together before everything went to hell. It is a sea-shade of blue with thin little straps and a slit up one leg. With her hair down and wavy and with sparkling clips pinned in it, Brittany looks like a mermaid.

(She'd wanted to wear green, but then Santana had found a red dress she loved and she'd said we'll look like Christmas so Brittany had changed her mind because that – that's just how they are.)

"Hi," she replies.

Brittany tugs at her bottom lip with her teeth. "You look pretty."

Santana's smile appears and softens quickly. "Thanks."

"Aren't you happy?" Brittany's eyes are probing. "You won."

Her heart flies up into her throat and she swallows it back down. "Not really."

Brittany appears to consider this. "Dance with me," she says.

Santana can only stare at her.

"It's okay." Brittany nods once affirmatively and takes Santana's free hand in her own. "It'll be like when we were younger, do you remember? And we wanted to learn how to tango because we thought it was sexy? So we practiced. It'll be like practice."

Santana blows out a fast breath. "We're not going to tango, Britt," she says in a strangled voice, but she doesn't say no.

Five minutes later, she's on the dance floor with Brittany, one hand still curled protectively around Dave's prom king crown and the other gripping Brittany's fingers tightly enough to break bones.

Brittany makes a signal to Mike, who makes a signal to Kurt, who makes a signal to Mercedes, and it just keeps going until Sam makes a signal to the DJ.

The song changes abruptly from Bruno Mars to something old time-y. Everyone on the dance floor groans, but Santana is distracted by Brittany's mouth, which is currently forming words, words that it takes her a moment to hear.

"…was going to sing to you, like Rachel did, but Kurt didn't think any of Ke$ha's songs were appropriate for this moment in our relationship, and Ke$ha is what I'm best at and so – "

"You asked Kurt?" Santana says faintly. She is too scared to look around to see if people are staring.

Brittany nods, swinging their joined hands a little. "And then I asked my dad what a good romantic song was, and he said that he and my mom danced to this one at their wedding, and I wanted to dance with you so I thought it would be…" She searches for the right word and then shrugs. "Perfect."

"Britt – "

Easy as breathing, Brittany tugs Santana's arms to loop around her neck and then slips her own arms around Santana's waist. "C'mon, San, it'll be just like practice." They press together and they fit together and Santana has missed this more than she will ever admit.

Brittany's mouth is right by her ear, humming and singing along, "L is for the way you look at me, O is for the only one I see…V is very, very extraordinary…E is even more than anyone that you adore…"

Santana lowers her face to Brittany's shoulder, tastes her skin with her lips and breathes her in, squeezes her eyes shut tight and lets herself feel safe like this.

Two in love can make it, take my heart and please don't break it.

She lifts the arm holding Dave's crown and sets it messily atop Brittany's head.

It isn't like practice. It's real.

Love was made for me and you.

Her constants change.

There are still the things that she will always like: dancing and chocolate-covered cherries and getting her fingers all tangled up in blonde hair. And still (most of the time) she denies herself chocolate-covered cherries. She still knows how to play guys and she's still addicted to the breadsticks at Breadstix.

There are the things she adjusts to, like the stares in the hallways and an odd impulse to be friends with Rachel Berry instead of insulting her clothing. There are the things that are brand-new, like wearing her mortarboard in her graduation photos, the rush of winning Nationals, and the giggle-filled kisses she shares with Brittany all the way from backstage up to their hotel room, not caring for an instant who might see them.

She still hates, hates, Rachel Berry's collection of tights and her willingness to cry in public and the labels she bestows on people (Sapphic is still a stupid word), but she's not so sure that she still hates Rachel.

And she loves. She loves like it's forever, loves loudly and with purpose, pours love into every lyric she sings on a New York City stage, lets love slip into every hug she gives every member of glee club in the aftermath, loves Brittany.

And it's constant. It's real.

fin