Brittany likes the fact that Artie wants the Jets to fill the aisles for this number; Santana mostly just likes Brittany, but she can get on board with the Jets thing, too, she thinks. 
"It means I get to look at you," Brittany tells Santana, smiling, walking them around Santana's room with big galumphing steps, hanging her hands on the collar of Santana's shirt. "I get to watch you sing up there in front of everybody instead of from behind the curtain."
Her feet follow where Santana's feet fall; Santana goes backwards and can't see what's behind her, but she trusts Brittany not to let her trip over anything. They're both in socks. Brittany smacks her blue gum and grins, steering Santana by the drawstrings on her Cheerios hoodie. When she rests her forehead against Santana's, her breath smells of sharp, chemical spearmint. Santana laughs, because, well.
(Perfect, perfect, perfect.)
Later, when Santana reminds Brittany that she's supposed to spend the scene glaring at the Sharks on stage and shouting abuse at Anita, Brittany just shrugs and gives a wicked smile. "I don't think my character would be mean to the most beautiful girl in New York." She burrows her hand into the popcorn bowl they share between them and throws Santana a sly wink. "Trust me: I know her anesthetic." 
At the rehearsal, Santana feels Brittany watch her. Brittany leans against Quinn, her elbow on Quinn's shoulder, her body a lazy zigzag, long and graceful in baggy dancer's clothes, eyes trained on Santana from across the stage. Brittany's probably the only one who notices Santana's breathlessness as the music starts—Brad's the only band member playing today; they won't assemble the full pit until next week—but she's also the only one who knows what a big thing it is for Santana to do this.
It's just a gentle swing: Santana in orbit around Tina, her arm slung, momentarily, over the thinnest part of Tina's waist, then Tina's arm over hers.
And it shouldn't be a thing, because it isn't a thing, really. Brittany danced with a girl at the prom and no one cared. And cheerleading is kind of like dancing. And they dance in glee all the time, all of them, together—Tina, Rachel, Mercedes, Quinn, Brittany and Santana.
Why should this be different, then?
Santana just doesn't want someone to see what isn't there to see.
And she doesn't want anyone whispering if she hesitates.
She thinks back to the kitchen, yesterday, to the dimmed lights and last night, with Brittany curling around her from behind at the sink, linking her fingers over Santana's navel, sinking her chin into Santana's shoulder as Santana washed dishes in her mother's citrus detergent soap, bubbles foaming over her hands, filling up the stainless basin.
"You'll scrub your nail polish off," Brittany warned her, looking down at Santana scouring the last remnants of Kraft cheese sauce from the macaroni pot with a squeegee. "We should dance." 
At first, they both giggled at their reflection in the sliding glass door, Brittany so much taller than Santana, both of them in stocking feet, their hands set in formal waltz position. But then the laughter died away when they realized that this was what they missed last year—that this could be this year for them, if.
(So maybe it's all just hopelessly romantic. Maybe it's sweet. Maybe sexy, too.) 
"I'm used to leading," Brittany said, sliding Santana over the tile floor. "There are always more girls than guys in ballroom and I'm tall, so, you know." Their ribcages fit together. Their bodies buzzed with warmth.
"It's perfect," Santana told her. Then, nervously, "BrittBritt? Could we maybe practice that one part from the musical?"
"Totally," Brittany said, head cocked to one side, looking at Santana like she was brand new.
Tina isn't tall like Brittany and the auditorium isn't Santana's lonely, quiet kitchen.
But Brittany gives Santana a nod from over Tina's shoulder and Santana's feet already know where to fall, so she steps forward, swinging into Tina when Mike gives her the go-ahead, and doesn't flinch or flush at all. Tina, for her part, just smiles, because Santana isn't as bad as everybody says she is sometimes. And Santana smiles, too, because, you know what? Sometimes she really thinks that this is what she was born to do.
The stage lights wash over Santana and she sees kaleidoscope color behind her eyes, her castmates in their street clothes catching their own cues all around her. Santana feels a laugh building in the back of her throat. She's already into the next "ONE, two, three, ONE, two, three" now and suddenly she can imagine the costume dress—the red and the black taffeta—murmuring around her legs, even though she doesn't have it yet. On Friday, they'll put the singing and dancing all together.
That night, as she slips into the locker room behind Brittany to change out of their dance clothes, Brittany whispers, "You're a good dancer, San," conspiratorial.
It isn't just about the play.
There's no one there, so they sneak a kiss, Santana in socks, Brittany still in her sneakers. Santana stretches against Brittany's body, standing on tiptoe to reach her lips, and sighs when she meets Brittany's mouth. For a second, they hold each other, Santana's hands on Brittany's shoulders, Brittany keeping Santana upright. Santana thinks of maybe homecoming or maybe prom or maybe.
1. Judgmental much? Who are you?
2. "I and Velma ain't dumb. Are we, Velma?" I get it now. Perfect.
4. Really cute.
5. I love her so much. I swear I'm gonna make this work.