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"You should have taken the cap off with your mouth," Santana says, as Sam hands her the beer. "Not some lame-ass bottle opener."
Sam rolls his eyes. "You do realize that just because my mouth is maybe a bit bigger than most mouths doesn't mean I can just suck bottle caps off, right?"
"I don't believe it," Santana says, dismissively. "There's no way you don't have some kind of extra suction in there."
"Think of it this way," Sam says, removing the cap from a bottle for himself. "Do you really want my mouth all over the neck of your beer bottle?"
Well. When he puts it that way… Santana pulls a face. Boy-spit is just so gross, most of the time. "Point taken," she says. "I'm still disappointed in you, though."
"Yeah, yeah," he says, kicking back. They're in lawn chairs in her backyard, which is huge, with a six-pack of her daddy's Xingu, because it's not like he's going to be drinking it anytime soon, what with his new wife being some kind of fucking straightedge teetotalling unicorn. The sun is setting, which would be weirdly romantic if she had any kind of interest in him whatsoever. It's the time of year when fireflies are just starting to come out, and she just knows that if they finish off this beer she'll end up running after them and trying to catch them all.
The cool thing about Sam, though, is that he would totally do it, too. That's why he's one of her favorite bros – he's generally inoffensive to her, and even though he doesn’t, like, bring her churros like Puck does, he's a lot of fun to be around.
Which is why she was down with him coming over when he texted her dude i need sum advice can i come over just u and me, even though she probably could be getting some from Britt instead. But she and Britt have sex almost every day, and Britt mentioned wanting to hang out with Mike and Tina, anyways, so. This is good. Spending time with other people every once in a while is healthy.
"So what is it that you need help with?" Santana asks, because she's not one for beating around the bush – metaphorical or Brittany's. "Auntie Tana is here to solve all your problems. Um, unless they involve your dick, because that's just gross."
"It does involve that," Sam says, pausing to take a long sip of his beer – long enough for her to make a grossed-out face, at least. "But not in a way that we have to talk about."
"Carry on," Santana says, grudgingly, fortifying herself against whatever it is that Sam is going to bring up by chugging a quarter of her beer in one go.
"How do you um. Seduce a friend?" Sam asks, cheeks reddening.
Santana blinks at him. "Sam, if you try to go after Quinn again after everything she's been through and after that huge big mess with Mercedes and Shane, so help me-"
"It's not Quinn," he interrupts.
"Rachel is way too hung up on Finn," Santana says. "Trust me, I know."
"A same-sex friend," Sam clarifies, all in a rush, and Santana gapes, because this is not something that she saw coming.
"Please tell me you don't want to get with Rory," she says, finally. "I hate that kid. He's such a fucking asshole and he's way too into women. I don't want to see you get hurt, Sammy."
Sam sighs, drinks more of his beer. "Look," he says. "It's not him, either. Just tell me how you managed to get with Britt?"
"We've been best friends since kindergarten," Santana says. She's pretty sure this story is not one Sam wants to hear. "So we practiced kissing on each other in grade school, back when people started kissing other people, and it just kind of never stopped. Of course, the motivations changed." She pauses for a sip of beer. "And then there was that whole big Artie debacle last year. Honestly, I'm not sure that you should follow my example."
"Wow, super helpful, Santana," Sam says, dryly, but his eyes are soft and he reaches over to pat her on the arm. Whatever. She doesn't need his sympathy.
"I don't need your sympathy," she tells him, disparagingly. "I got this."
Sam nods. "It's Kurt," he says, quietly.
Santana blinks. "Well, at least you have a shot with him," she says. "You're totally his type."
"How so?" Sam asks, turning to look at her full-on, and well, fuck. Santana doesn't really know how to articulate this.
"Um," she says. "You're jocky and hot. You know, objectively. So I mean, considering his first big crush was Finn… and you're a better singer than Finn and, let's be real, a little less clueless, so that can only count in your favor."
"So, not my sparkling personality?" Sam asks, ducking his head. Santana's pretty sure he's not upset, though.
"Whatever," she says. "Personality is overrated. He's probably been high and dry since he dumped that scrub Anderson, if you know what I mean." She wiggles her eyebrows at Sam. "You could probably get with him if you just walked around in front of him shirtless for a day or so."
"I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm straight," Sam says, sighing.
Santana rolls her eyes. "Yeah, so did I," she says. "But that's like, the easiest possible in with him. Just like, text him all 'Kurt, I have something I need to talk to you about,' and then go out for coffee or a picnic or some gay shit like that and when you're nice and alone be like, 'Kurt, I think I might be-'" She breaks off, gives Sam a considering look. "Gay? Bi? What?"
Sam shrugs. "I haven't really put a label on it," he says. "I really did love Mercedes and Quinn – and yes, I did like you too, so don't give me that look." It's true; Santana is glaring at him. Just a little bit, though. "I was also, you know, into the sex stuff that happened, too. And I really like Kurt and I wouldn't have a problem with any sex stuff." He pauses. "It's not like I never hooked up with anyone in the boarding school I went to in Tennessee, back during my sophomore year, either."
Santana is suitably impressed. "You win the sneaky gay award," she says. "You are impressively not obvious at all."
"Thanks?" Sam says. "I think?"
"You're welcome," she says, sincerely. She glances at her drink. Her beer is basically gone – there's less than a third of it left – so she drains the bottle and sets it aside. "Anyway, as I was saying, you go all, 'Kurt, I think I might be not-straight,' so there's that out there. And then he'll try to be like, a gay Yoda or some shit for you, like, a mentor in gayness. And then once he's good and invested you can start walking around with your shirt off, and when he starts to look, you'll know that he's interested and knows that you could possibly be interested, too. And that's when you lay one on him. Boom. Sorted." She's gesturing widely as she talks, which she doesn't usually do. Then again, she doesn’t really make a habit of drinking this fast, either, and she's kind of already feeling the effects of the beer in her system.
Sam blinks at her. "Just like that, huh?"
"Just like that," Santana says. "Trust me, Trouty, it will work." She considers the suggestion she gave him briefly. "You might want to throw in an impression of like, Sir Gay Gandalf or George Takei or some shit, too. Since you're into impressions and those are impressions he might also be into."
She looks over at Sam when he doesn't respond for a long time. He's staring at her.
"What?" she asks, uncomfortably.
"Santana," Sam says. "You actually paid attention?"
"You talked, like, nonstop about that shit," she scoffs. "I was bound to pick up on something sooner or later."
Sam is flat-out grinning now, though, which just – no. "You care," he says, triumphantly. "You listened to everything I said about Star Trek."
"Whatever," she says. "I was just feeling guilty about the fact I was banging Britt practically the whole time I dated you." And, wait. That's a little bit meaner than she was going for, actually. "Or, at least, I was thinking about it." She peeks over. Sam's grin has shifted a bit, a tinge of disappointment leaking through, and like… she didn't actually want that to happen, so she opens another bottle each for them and, passing his over, adds, "Whatever, Evans, if you tell anyone that I actually listened to your stupid fanboy rambles, I'll end you."
"Your secret is safe with me," he says, finally. "God forbid people find out that you know about, like, nerdy stuff."
"Right?" Santana says. She tosses her hair – the breeze is just picking up enough to make it blow into her face right when she's trying to drink, which is like, so fucking not cool – and smirks. "I mean, some people might think that I'm just a really good gay. So that's okay, at least."
"Right," Sam says, slowly, drawing out the vowel. "You're a total nerd, though. I'm like, so proud."
"Shut up," Santana says, but at this point, there's really no bite behind her bark. "So how long have you been totally in love with Kurt, anyway?"
"I'm not – totally – in love with him," Sam protests.
Santana interrupts, "Yeah, uh-huh," and Sam sticks his tongue out at her. Like, he literally legitimately sticks out his tongue. Like, who the fuck even does that after the age of, like, five?
"Shut up," Sam says. "I just really like him, okay?"
Santana feels this weird twisty feeling inside that she usually only gets when Britt is smiling that special smile that only Britt can pull off and whispering something silly and sweet at her – but, unlike when Britt smiles at her like that, it's not because she wants to kiss Sam. "Wow," she says, finally. "That's legitimately adorable. I'm impressed."
"Thanks," Sam says, drinking more of his beer. "And thanks for the like, advice or whatever, too. I appreciate it."
"Whatever," she says. "You're my bro. I'm your lesbro or some shit like that. I got your back." And it's not even that she feels like she owes him that much after their sham of a relationship, because Santana Lopez does not do remorse like that. She just - she likes him. As a person. Okay?
"Softie," Sam accuses, and Santana's having none of that, so she cuffs him. Gently.
"Nah," she says. "I just want some decent gays to double date with me and Britt so we can really fuck with the waitresses. Blaine's gel had these noxious fumes that made me sick to my stomach or whatever, and you're good people, so obviously I'm behind this."
"You're a real friend," Sam says, dryly, but she can tell he means it and, like, well. Yeah, she is. Sam's good people. He's sweet but he has an edge, and he can take a joke. So she respects that in a person. So what?
"I know," she says. "So anyway, after you do your gay impressions and Kurt is totally into you, do you think you're going to top or bottom?"
Sam chokes on his beer. It's a pity that it's pretty dark outside at this point, because Santana would be willing to bet that Sam is an interesting shade of pink right now. "How about I get back to you on that one," he says, in a way that makes Santana relatively certain that he's not going to actually get back to her on that one at all.
"Yeah, okay," she says. She pauses for a little while, lets the silence settle around them comfortably, before she smiles. The fireflies are getting pretty active, and she's getting pretty tipsy. Catching them is totally going to fucking happen soon. But first, because she's honestly feeling pretty flattered – "Thanks for like, asking me about this and shit."
"Like you said," Sam says. "You're my – lesbro? Or something? Anyway. Thank you, too. If I need you to be my wingman at any point, I'll let you know?"
"Sure," she says. She finishes off her second beer. "Hey, Evans?"
"Hmm?"
"You were a good beard."
"Um, thanks," Sam says. "You're a good, um. Lesbian Yoda."
"Damn fucking straight," Santana says, hoisting herself up. "Let's go catch some fireflies."