A/N: I love these two. Title courtesy of Miley Cyrus/Timbaland (it fits, okay?). I may/may not write a follow-up to this at some point. Reviews are love!

we belong to the music
(we don't answer to you)

--

God bless the perv that invented these.

Quinn Fabray used to say that, referring to their Cheerios uniform skirts, the words leaving her glossy lips on a giggle that sounded much more like a snicker if you listened closely enough.

That was the old Quinn Fabray, celibate (according to the club she headed), her body long and lean and flexible, a silver cross dangling from her neck, captain of the Cheerios, straight As, the perfect daughter, queen bee of William McKinley High School, far too beautiful and popular and ambitious to be considered a Lima loser.

New Quinn Fabray had her Cheerios captainship and uniform snatched away, and in favour of it she's wearing baby-doll dresses in an effort to hide the evidence that she is most certainly not a virgin; she's got a B minus on her last math test, has been kicked out of her parents' house to live with the boyfriend who's not even the father of her baby, she's a member of Glee Club, which is the geekiest school group around – the pretty glow pregnancy has granted her skin and the silver cross that still hangs around her neck are not enough to allow her to keep possession of her crown as the high school's top dog; they are barely enough to keep her from being labelled a Lima loser just like every other student in the school.

A lot has changed, particularly for Quinn, but Glee Club became such a…a family (she'd never admit this aloud to anyone) that every single thing that happened to Quinn seemed to affect them all with echoing impacts.

So, Santana supposes, a lot has changed for her, too. But one thing that hasn't changed one bit is her agreement with that sentence that Quinn used to giggle (snicker) at what quickly became hypocritical Celibacy Club meetings.

God bless the perv who invented these [skirts].

She loves her uniform. It has about twelve different control panels embedded into it that allow her to eat those three slices of pizza at lunch and waltz away from the table pretending she doesn't have to go to the gym like all the other girls. It stays on easily when she flips and jumps out on the field, so she looks good effortlessly. The red and white look good against her skin. The slits go up high enough to make any guy drool, leaving little to the imagination whenever she bends over – and there always seems to be a reason, on any given day, to bend over. She never clashes with her best friend; they always match. And walking through McKinley in that uniform gives her an undeniable sense of power – since the days of new Quinn Fabray, it gives her the most power.

But, were she to be totally honest – and she rarely is; Santana Lopez has her bitchface down to a frightening science but she's not a liar, she's simply a withholder of certain items of information – those are not the only reasons she would owes a quick prayer of thanks to the perv who inveneted these skirts.

Because Brittany wears them too.

Part of it is innocent; Santana likes (loves) the easy way they're constantly in sync, in their lives, not just their Cheerios routines. They walk the same way, a steady rhythm of their feet and their hips, skirts bouncing against their legs. Their matching uniforms simply reinforce who very synchronized the two of them are in every aspect of their lives – hell, they even text the same way, a smooth slide of their phones, concentration on their faces as they type. Santana can text Brittany across a classroom, see the smile that lights up the blonde's face when she receives the message, and know that that same stupid half-smirk, half-grin will be reflected on her face seconds later when she receives Brittany's reply.

Quinn, or at least old Quinn, would peer over her shoulder, demand knowingly, are you talking to a boy? and Santana would always snap her phone closed, cross her arms, say yes. At the time, she felt fleetingly guilty over the lies, but that all changed when Quinn slept with her boyfriend and got knocked up. Santana doesn't share easily – not her boys, not her secrets…not her Brittany.

And that is another reason she owes the perv who invented these skirts, the way Brittany's matching outfit feels like it marks her somehow, like Santana has laid her claim to this girl who looks like she belongs at her side. The two of them walking down a hallway has a magnetically repelling force, pushing people aside, clearing the way. Santana appreciates that, but she appreciates even more the way that magnetism works the opposite way, drawing the two girls together.

The truth is that Santana is viciously protective of her popularity and her enviable body and her perfect sky-splits and even her on-off high school boyfriend with his lame credit rating – she's seen how easily those can be snatched away and Santana Lopez is not, repeat not, a loser. But the even bigger truth, the one hidden away somewhere deep inside of her, some place that no one will ever know of, is that she's even more protective of Brittany.

(The biggest truth of all, the one she's pushed away and balled up until it is so small that she can sometimes pretend to pretend it does not exist, is that she loves Brittany. Not like that, not like romance and roses, and not like she's gay, because she's not – but not just the way girls say love ya over the phone or in text messages with those stupid little hearts made up of a less-than sign and a three. She loves Brittany more powerfully than either of those, in some sort of grey area that lies in between the two of those: a perfect combination, some sort of love purgatory.)

They've been friends for years. Since elementary school. And Brittany isn't exactly smart, not in the way of math tests and spelling bees, not even always in the way of common sense, but those things are overshadowed by the millions of other amazing things she is. Like an incredible dancer, and a beautiful girl. She's the nicest person Santana has ever known, so purely kind, and it makes them work perfectly – because people put up with the way it can take Brittany an extra minute to grasp something because Santana scares them, and people don't talk smack behind Santana's back because Brittany's always singing her praises (sometimes literally, though no one else is allowed to know that).

Brittany can see the most obvious things at times, even when other people miss them, because she doesn't get caught up in complexities. Kinaesthetically, she's actually very intelligent – she can mimic any movement the moment she's taught it, responds to everyone's body language appropriately, and whenever Santana hisses curses under her breath Brittany can look her over and diagnose whatever muscle it is she pulled at Cheerios practice.

And Brittany loves her. Not in a shades-of-grey way, not just like a best friend, and not like…a girlfriend, or anything. She just loves her, in this uninhibited, earnest way that can make Santana a little breathless.

Nobody's supposed to know that. And Santana supposes that no one does – the entire Glee club finding out that she and Britt are hooking up (a lot, but they don't know that part) doesn't imply a single thing about their feelings for each other. They're just two really hot people. It'd probably be a crime for them not to be all over each other, really.

She doesn't get mad at Brittany, not about that. She'd prefer people didn't know about the physical stuff, but, like, whatever. Now all the guys in school will just drool over them a little bit more.

As long as nobody knows about the whole feelings thing, Santana doesn't care. Feelings make a mess of everything. Feelings mean defining all the things that she refuses to define. Santana Lopez doesn't do feelings. She's above them.

But there are things she does do, can do, will do. Like hooking her arm through Brittany's as they walk, or holding pinkies in the hallway, or taking Finn out on a date together. This whole scheme that she concocted with Coach Sylvester, it's the kind of thing any good-looking, self-respecting, manipulative girl would do. And Britt's her bestie. They're a package deal.

(Additionally – it's pretty damn obvious the whole thing has given Finn, who used to be Quinn's boyfriend but is now Santana's plaything, some serious threesome fantasies.

Fantasies that will remain fantasies, of course, because Santana's had issues with that whole 'sharing' thing since kindergarten.)

The plan, however, isn't executed perfectly, all because Finn seems to have some sort of legitimate, tentative feels for Rachel Berry (Rachel Berry, of all people), which only goes further to prove Santana's point: feelings screw everything up.

She's thinking hard, wondering exactly what kind of sexual favour (times two) will get Finn to stay for the rest of the evening, when Brittany turns to her with those pretty eyes that remind Santana of fucking sapphires or late afternoon summer skies, and says, with her usual charm that's some crazy hybrid of sweet and clueless: "Did you know dolphins are just gay sharks?"

Santana scoffs, rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her drink, but really she wants to laugh and she wants to cry because she's always been a shark and now she's finally in the position to bite anyone anytime she wants, and Brittany makes her feel like a damn dolphin.

Brittany knots her fingers together on her lap, a habit that indicates that she's nervous. "We could make out anyway?" she suggests optimistically, licking her lips.

"Britt." She scowls; her heart starts pounding. They're in public. Finn's gone. There's no reason for them to make out anymore. (Besides feelings, that is, but Santana doesn't have those.) "You are such an idiot sometimes, you know that?"

She means for it to be an insult, but god help her, it sounds like a compliment, all soft and affectionate and gentle.

But Brittany, because she's Brittany, hears it for what Santana intended to be, and her summertime-sky eyes get a little wider before she glances down at the table. "Guess you don't want to."

"You guessed right," Santana snaps back without looking at her. "You should just go home. If you hurry you can probably catch Finn before he leaves."

"But you drove me here."

She manages something closer to a real glare as she says firmly, "Yeah, and I don't want to have to drive you back."

Britt blinks at her, her lips (covered in Santana's favourite lip gloss) forming a perfect 'o'. She sighs, whispers, "Oh." She lifts her head a bit. "I guess…I'll hurry then."

"Good plan," Santana mutters, slouching into the booth a bit more.

"So…bye." Brittany turns toward her for a moment, almost expectantly, like she expects a kiss or a hug or a handshake or at the very least a smile. Santana offers none of those things, so after a moment's hesitation, Britt finally gets up to leave, looking mildly like a lost puppy dog.

And Santana doesn't exactly intend to watch her walk away, but she just happens to glance over, and Britt's ponytail's bouncing with every step that she takes, exactly timed with the swing of her hips, and with every step her legs just seem to go on forever, and red pleats flounce upward then downward with each of her movements, and damn it, the things that skirt does from this angle.

Hissing a string of Spanish curses under her breath, Santana admits defeat (only ever to herself and only ever regarding Brittany) and follows the blonde out of the restaurant.

Ten minutes later Brittany's giggling right next to her ear and they're half-naked in the backseat of Santana's car. So it goes.

"I love this on you," Santana whispers, kisses Britt's jaw and slips her hands beneath the pleats of her cheerleading skirt.

"You're wearing the same thing," Brittany points out faintly, both hands on Santana's cheeks and she pulls her into a proper kiss.

"Mm, looks better on you," Santana murmurs distractedly against Britt's mouth.

"Really?" Brittany considers this seriously for a moment, and then grins. "Looks better off you."

God bless the perv that invented these [skirts], Santana thinks fleetingly as she and Brittany make quick work of getting each other out of them.