An: based around early 1940's.
Pale eyes blink slowly awake in the dark, hazy dreams brimming with wordless melodies, pulling the woman to the surface. Long fingers reach behind her for the warmth of her lovers presence, only to find cool silk sheets.
She rises from the bed, a bedsheet hung loose around her nude body. Her bare feet step lightly over cold wood to open the bedroom door, lashes fluttering as a gust of the winters night air sweeps into the room.
She pauses in the doorframe, eyes falling shut as she listen intently. A suffocating silence folds around her, thick and heavy, muffling everything but the steady thumping beat of her heart.
There. She hears the faintest hint of sound.
She catches the notes again with a tilt of her, her feet are carrying her soundlessly through the winding corridors. The sound grows clearer, exquisite strains of a complex piano melody ebbing and flowing through the darkness, drawing the blonde closer to a heavy door in the corner of the tower.
With only a gentle push of her wrist, the large door is pushed open. The scene she discovers tightens her throat and blurs her senses. Heart tearing.
The wide room is bathed in an eerie blue glow, the brilliant reflection of bright moonlight off new fallen snow. It cascades through floor to ceiling windows, a wall made entirely of glass so perfectly clear, it offers the illusion of invisibility, of opening directly into the icy night. Her gaze is drawn to the elegant grand piano, glossy black lacquer shining under the glow, throwing deep shadows across the floor.
The scene is most breathtaking, truely.
But it pales in comparison to the beauty of the woman who sits before the ivory keys.
Santana, who is seated on a bench in front of the keyboard, her body curled over the stripes of black and white. Every vertebrae in her spine is visible, standing in sharp relief as she bends forward. She wears only dark blue sweatpants, and the blonde watches utterly mesmerised as the heavy muscles of the dark woman's back flex and release, her hands running the entire length of the piano, rolling through the complicated movements of the piece as though it's merely a simple children's song.
Bare footsteps are muted under the blanket of music as she tiptoe toward her. It seems a tragedy to interrupt the music, but her warm skin is a draw Brittany has never been able to resist. Long fingers travel lightly down the woman's bare back, leaving a thin prickle of goosebumps in their wake.
Still she keeps playing, never acknowledging Brittany's presence, never breaking her slow rhythm. The music spills effortlessly from her fingers, growing faster and faster. She turns slightly and the blonde see's her sharp profile.
Brittany realises.
Eyes shut tight, jaw clenched, chest heaving.
She's locked in another nightmare.
Wherever she is right now, it is far, far away from here. The hair on the back of Brittanys neck raises at the expression of sheer, excruciating pain etched into Santana's features. Swallowing hard, Brittany leans forward and presses her lips to her lovers shoulder, soothingly rubbing her up the brunettes back.
"Come back, Santana." Murmured words, quiet under the frantic rhythm of the music. Her fingers falter briefly, but she recovers, and plays faster still.
"Santana, please come back to me." The words are louder now, firm and forceful, and this time they break through the tangled dreams. Tanned skin ripples at the realisation of touch, a wild shudder shaking a tired body, and she sucks in a loud gasp. Dark eyes fly open, hands jerk immediately from the keys as though the ivory is acid to touch.
