Artist
By: SometimesIWish
The room had been waiting for a long time.
Sun filtered in through the grimy windows, weak rays of light illuminating the old, paint-stained hardwood floor. Old, tattered curtains hung from the rusted gold curtain rods, their color barely discernable in the faint light. Dust coated the cluttered worktables, half-finished canvases, paint-encrusted containers, and aged paintbrushes that had long ago been abandoned.
The door slowly opened, hinges groaning in protest as eddies of dust swirled around the room and a young woman stepped inside, particles rising up around her feet and slowly settling back to the ground. Soft brown eyes surveyed the room, sorrow and regret evident on her face. She reached a hand out, carefully picking up a paintbrush and cradling it gently between her fingers before setting it back.
She knelt on the floor in front of a stack of canvases leaning against a worktable, soft and gentle hands reaching out and caressing the first work of art.
A young woman stared out of the painting, her eyes an intense blue, her smile wide and shining, her face a picture of happiness. Blonde hair cascaded down around her face and to her shoulders, disappearing at the edge of the painting, and her eyes glimmered in delight.
"Santana?"
Her hands trembled and she squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking down her face as she cradled her head in her hands. There was the sound of footsteps, muffled by the layer of dust on the floor, before gentle arms wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her close to a warm body.
"Why did I ever let her go?" she asked in a broken voice.
"Because it was the right thing to do at the time," a soft, feminine voice answered. "If you hadn't let her go, she would have been so angry, so hurt, and you would have been even worse off than you are right now. If you hadn't let her leave, hadn't encouraged her to follow her dreams, one of you would have ended up sacrificing your dreams for the other's dreams, and that person would have resented the other for a long time. You did the right thing, Santana."
A sob rose in her throat and she turned, burrowing her face into the green fabric of a worn hoodie, blonde hair tickling her forehead. "Then why does it feel so wrong, Quinn?" she cried. "Why do I feel like there's a gaping hole in my chest where she used to be?"
Quinn hesitated before answering, her sharp green eyes softening when she looked down at the normally strong and resilient girl crying in her arms. "Because you weren't meant to stay apart forever."
Santana stood in the doorway to the kitchen, watching as Quinn slaved over the stove making dinner for later that night. Ingredients were scattered over the counter and kitchen table, indicating the blonde had been hard at work for hours. The Latina shuffled into the room, feet scuffing across the floor, and Quinn looked up from her work, eyes filled with worry. The brunette gave her a small smile as she pulled out a chair, the scraping sound grating on her ears.
"What's up?" Quinn asked, wiping her hands on a dish rag and tossing it on a clear space of counter. She took a wooden spoon out of a drawer and absentmindedly stirred a pot on the stove, watching a frying pan sizzle next to it.
"I think I'm going to start clearing out that back room."
Quinn arched an eyebrow. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
The Latina shrugged. "Probably not," she murmured. "But I haven't used it since… well, since she left, and it's kind of a waste of space if it isn't being used. So I was thinking that I could start painting again and stuff, and I had that all set up before, so it's the perfect place now. And… well, I was thinking about quitting my job."
"Wait, what?" the blonde asked, surprise evident in her voice.
"Well, I was thinking I could just sleep in the studio and we could rent out the bedroom," Santana murmured. "I mean, it's not like I need to have two rooms. And the art gallery is making some money, too."
"If that's what you want," Quinn sighed. "Patrick was talking to me the other day about how he was looking for a cheaper place to stay. I'm pretty sure the rent here is cheaper than where he currently lives, plus it's going to be split up, so he doesn't have to pay the whole rent fee."
They were both quiet.
"Do you want help cleaning out the studio?"
Santana sucked in a deep breath and shook her head. "No, I think I'm going to do it on my own," she whispered. "I think it'd be better that way. But, um, I was thinking, after I clean everything out, maybe we could go to the art supply store or something and get some canvases and paints and stuff? We could make it, like, a girl's day out or whatever. It's been awhile since we've just, you know… hung out and stuff."
"I'd like that," Quinn murmured, nodding her head. They were both quiet for a moment. "Someone called today. About the gallery? They wanted to buy one of the display-only paintings."
"Which one?" Santana asked.
"The collage."
Santana's heart seized up. While she hadn't painted for almost four years, Quinn had pushed her to open an art gallery containing the canvases she had painted in the years before. There had been more than enough to open a small gallery and replace the paintings customers bought, but there were a certain few Santana had designated for display-only. Those had hung in her apartment before she left and were too painful for her to even think about.
The collage was one of them.
It was a canvas Santana had painted over a period of seven months, adding here and there and eventually hanging it up as the centerpiece of their living area when she had finished it. She had painted things that reminded her of her in intricate detail, each item painstakingly painted with the utmost attention. It had been the first painting to come down when she had left.
"No."
"She offered three hundred thousand dollars."
She squeezed her eyes shut. That was a lot of money and it would cover their rent for quite a long time, along with buying them food, covering their bills, and providing Santana with more than enough art supplies to get her by for the next year, if not longer. But, while she couldn't stand to see that painting, she couldn't bear to let it go, either.
"No," she whispered.
Quinn sighed. "Santana, I know it's your painting and it… it's very precious to you, but this woman… it's a lot of money and I don't want you to make a decision you're going to regret."
Santana's head snapped up. "Well, I know if I sell it to this random person, I'm going to regret it for the rest of my life," she hissed. "Brittany might not be physically in my life anymore, but I'm not gong to let everything go that reminds me of her. That painting is going up in the studio and I'm… I want to use it as inspiration. I'm not letting Brittany go."
"Can you at least schedule an appointment with her or something to hear why she wants that painting so much?" Quinn asked.
The Latina narrowed her eyes, knowing Quinn was up to something. "Fine," she snapped. "But it's going to be on my time. And I want to finish the studio before I have a meeting with anyone. The meeting isn't going to be at the gallery, either. She can come here."
"Is that…?"
"I don't want to talk about it anymore."
She got up and left the room, leaning against the wall just outside the kitchen door and sliding to the floor. A few moments later, she heard Quinn dial a number on her cell phone and she closed her eyes, listening to her talk to someone on the other end of the line.
"She won't sell it."
Quinn was talking to the client.
"Yes, I told you she wouldn't want to sell it. She still cares…." Quinn stopped talking, listening to the person on the other end of the line as she searched through a cabinet, pots and pans banging together before there was the slam of a cupboard door closing.
"Not anytime in the next week or anything. She wants to do some… I found her in the studio the other day." Another pause. "Maybe, we'll see."
More clanging of pots and pans against each other. "It's going to be on her time. When she's ready…. No, she doesn't know…. She doesn't want to have the meeting at the gallery. She wants it here at the apartment." There was a pause and Quinn turned on the faucet, the sound of running water reaching Santana's ears.
"That was the first time she's been in the studio for four years. It's kind of a big deal for her."
So maybe Quinn wasn't talking to the client. She had probably told Patrick and Matt about the potential buyer and they had made her promise to keep them updated. Santana sighed and stood up, shuffling down the hallway towards the door. She hesitated, slowly reaching out a hand and resting it on the rusted gold doorknob.
There was hardly any light filtering in through the big windows, so she flicked the lights on, the light bulbs flickering before finally emitting a steady, weak shower of light on the room. Santana looked around the studio, walking towards the far corner where an easel leaned against the wall, a drop cloth thrown over it. She might as well get to work as soon as possible.
Later, Quinn found Santana curled up in the middle of the studio floor, clutching a paintbrush in one hand and a sketchbook in the other. She gently tugged the items out of the Latina's grasp and set them on a clear space of worktable, leaving the room afterwards and coming back a few moments later with a pillow and a blanket.
As soon as Quinn placed the pillow under Santana's head, the Latina reached out for something to grasp onto and Quinn's heart ached when she realized Santana was subconsciously reaching for Brittany. The blonde pulled the blanket up over Santana's shoulders and gazed down at her with sad eyes.
The Latina had been through a lot in the last four and a half years. She and Brittany had started fighting almost immediately after graduation. Brittany had automatically followed Santana to Los Angeles because Santana had been accepted to UCLA, which was her dream school. But soon after they had started school, Brittany had expressed her wish to go to Juilliard.
Things had gotten worse from there. Brittany constantly moped around the apartment, slacking off on her homework and studying and Santana was constantly trying to make her happier. Everything had finally blown up when Brittany started packing her suitcases, telling Santana she was leaving.
After Brittany stormed out the front door, Santana broke down. She went to her classes, she did her homework, she got perfect grades, and she responded when people talked to her, but it just wasn't the same as before. Teachers remarked that she didn't have the same energy as before, she never went out, and whenever she talked, her eyes didn't show any emotion.
Santana Lopez was broken.
Santana spent most of her time in the studio for the next three weeks. She cleared a space in the corner by the windows and dragged her mattress inside, pushing it up against the wall for when she, rarely, slept. Hours moved by in a blur and she would often work for thirteen or fourteen hours straight, without a break. Quinn often came in with plates of food and glasses of water, urging the Latina to take a break, but Santana refused. When she finally did eat, the food had long gone cold, but it didn't register with her.
The only time she left the studio was to go to the bathroom or throw garbage bags full of trash in the dumpster outside their apartment building. She spent hours washing the grime off the windows and scrubbing the floors clean from a thick layer of dust and splattered paint. She sorted out paints, throwing away those that were dried up or faded and putting the rest in labeled boxes. Old, worn brushes were thrown away and canvases were sorted into piles of finished and unfinished paintings.
"Wow, Santana… this is amazing," Quinn murmured when the Latina had finally finished and presented the blonde with a stack of finished canvases. "I… didn't know you had these. You… God, Santana, if I had any idea you had this much talent, I would have bugged you to start painting again a while back."
"Thanks," Santana murmured, blushing as she stared down at her feet. "I just… I miss it, you know? Sometimes I feel like if I had been painting all this time, I wouldn't be so… it just makes me feel better."
"So are you going to start again?"
Quinn's gaze was searching and Santana shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. "I want to," she murmured. "Most of my supplies are useless now, especially the paints and the brushes. So I'm going to have to buy new ones, and probably some new canvases, as well. Pencils, inks, charcoal, chalk, sketchpads…."
"Okay, it's going to be expensive," Quinn laughed, shaking her head. "You're extremely lucky. You know how I said I was putting all the extra money earned from the gallery towards rent?"
Santana nodded.
"Yeah, well, I was lying."
"What?" Santana asked, scrunching up her eyebrows.
The blonde smiled mischievously. "I've been putting it in a bank account," she said. "The rent on that floor is expensive, but you're paintings have been selling very well. And if we put these ones for sale, you'll definitely be bringing in more revenue. The bank account is in both of our names, and the money is technically yours, so you can use it for whatever you want. Which means you can use it for more art supplies."
"How much money?" she asked suspiciously.
"Maybe… twenty thousand dollars?" Quinn answered, shrugging her shoulders and smiling hesitantly at Santana.
The Latina gaped at Quinn, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly as her eyes widened in incredulity. "What?" she finally gasped out. "Twenty… thousand dollars?"
"I told you, Lopez, you're amazing," Quinn grinned with an I-told-you-so look on her face. "There are people offering tens of thousands of dollars for those paintings you're refusing to sell and you're actually in demand. I was going to try to bring up you starting to paint again pretty soon because we're starting to run out of paintings to put out on display. You're… well, you're a booming success in the art business."
"If so many people are asking to buy my paintings for thousands of dollars, why did you ask me if I would sell the collage a couple weeks ago?" Santana asked, her eyes narrowing. "Unless I haven't been really been paying attention, that was the first time you've ever asked me if I would sell one of those paintings."
Quinn shrugged. "It was three hundred thousand dollars. And the buyer was just… different," she murmured. "But are we going art supply shopping? Because I want to actually go somewhere today, and if you aren't coming, then I'm going to call someone up and go out, anyways. I feel like I've been holed up in here for weeks."
"Well, I actually have," Santana joked, eyes flashing with amusement. "Come on, let's go. We can stop at the bank on the way there."
Santana breathed in deeply as she stared at her finished piece of artwork. She wasn't satisfied. She never was. But she liked it. And that would have to do for now. After setting her brush down on a table, she wiped her hands on her paint-stained t-shirt and padded towards the door opening into the hallway.
Quinn was sitting at the table, her laptop set up in front of her, a calculator on the right side of the laptop and a notepad and pen on the left side. It had been three weeks since they had gone to buy Santana's art supplies and, since then, Quinn had been named Santana's official manager. The blonde hadn't exactly been begging for the job, but she implied she wanted it, and Santana did it just to make her happy. So now, along with being the secretary to some lawyer in a law firm, Quinn managed Santana's finances.
Not that Quinn wasn't already in charge of everything she was in charge of now, but whatever floated her boat.
"Hey," Santana rasped from the doorway, and Quinn turned around quickly, her hand flying to her chest as her eyes widened with fear and her breathing quickened.
"Oh my God, Santana, you can't do that!" Quinn screeched, still clutching at her chest. "You scared me to death! What do you think you're doing creeping up on me like that? Next time, announce yourself somehow."
"I think I'm ready."
The blonde blinked. "What?"
"I want to go to the gallery. I have a new painting."
Quinn was quiet, then, "Can I see it?"
"No."
"Wait, what?" Quinn asked incredulously. "Okay, let me get this straight. You want to go to the gallery and put a painting on display, but you don't want to show it to me, first? Santana, I set up that gallery!"
"Fine, I'll go by myself, then."
"You don't even know where it is!"
The Latina sighed, running a paint-covered hand through her already mussed-up hair. "I can always find it in a phonebook," she muttered. "Or I can call Patrick or Matt. I'm sure they know where it is."
"Okay, okay, I'll take you tomorrow!" Quinn said, throwing her hands up in the air. "But you're meeting with the person who wanted to buy that collage. She's been calling for weeks, wanting to know when she's going to meet you, and it's really embarrassing to keep putting it off like I have."
"Fine," Santana snapped, stalking back into her studio.
"Ten o'clock tomorrow morning! I'm running out to get coffee and she's coming here like you want her to!"
Santana didn't answer.
The Latina stared out the window, gently running a paintbrush over the back of her hand, the bristles tickling her skin. It was almost ten o'clock, meaning the woman who wanted to buy her collage would be arriving at any minute, and Quinn still wasn't back from getting coffee. As much as Santana wanted to meet this woman who had offered so much money for her artwork, she didn't want to meet her alone. She had a bad feeling about this meeting.
There was a knock on the door and Santana stood up from her chair, rolling her eyes because Quinn probably had her hands full with the coffee or forgot her key or something equally as stupid. She sucked in a deep breath as she flipped open the lock, getting ready to berate the blonde as soon as she opened the door.
Only the wrong blonde was standing on the other side of the door.
For a moment, Santana just stood there, her hand resting on the doorknob, staring at the person who just had to be a hallucination. Then she swallowed thickly, opened her mouth, closed it again, clenched and unclenched the hand not gripping the doorknob like it was a lifeline, and then slammed the door in the blonde's face.
It took her a second to get a hold of herself before she finally pulled her phone out of her pocket, pressing a familiar speed dial number and holding the phone to her ear. It rang once before Quinn picked up. "Miss me already?" Quinn answered teasingly.
"Brittany's standing outside our apartment," Santana hissed.
There was a pause. "So she actually showed up."
"Wait, you knew about this?" Santana asked incredulously, her voice rising several octaves in her panic.
"Who else do you think would offer to buy your painting for three hundred thousand dollars?" Quinn asked. "Yes, you're really good, Santana, but… unless you're Vincent van Gogh or something, I don't think anyone would buy a painting for that much unless it was of sentimental value. She really wanted that painting, Santana."
"How… how am I supposed to face her like this?" Santana asked, panic rising in her chest. "I can't… God, Quinn, I can't do this! You could have at least warned me!"
"No, because you would have run," Quinn said. "Do this like you were just meeting another client. She doesn't expect anything more from you. To be honest, she didn't think you would want to meet her. She doesn't know I didn't tell you it was her who wanted to buy the collage."
Santana clung to the phone like a lifeline. "When are you coming back?" she asked desperately.
"Not for a while. I think it would be good for the two of you to talk."
The Latina felt like crying. "Please, Quinn, don't make me do this," she begged, tears pricking her eyes. "I'm just… it hurts so damn much and I don't know if I can stand seeing her and talking to her and… you don't know what it feels like, Q. Please, don't make me do this."
Quinn's voice was gentle when she answered. "Honey, you need to do this," she said. "I know it feels like it's going to end in a disaster, but it'll be okay. And if Brittany needs an ass-whooping when you're finished talking with her, I would be more than happy to do the honors. She isn't the only person she left behind when she moved to New York."
Santana sighed guiltily. "I know," she murmured.
"So will you please talk to her?" Quinn asked.
Glancing over at the door, Santana shrugged, the panic still present in her chest, squeezing her heart and lungs until she felt she couldn't breathe. "If she's still standing at the door, I'll talk to her," she whispered.
"Promise?"
"Yes, I promise," Santana said, exasperated.
"You're going to thank me when all of this is over."
The brunette squeezed her eyes shut. "God, I hope so."
"Now go talk to her."
Santana nodded, forgetting Quinn couldn't see her, and snapped her phone shut before slipping it in the pocket of her jeans. She slowly walked over to the door, wiping her sweaty hands on her jeans, and reached for the doorknob, her fingers closing around the cold metal.
For a moment, she stood there, her hand resting on the doorknob, preparing herself to throw open the thin piece of wood standing between her and the girl who had been the cause of her sorrow for the past four years. Then she slowly twisted the knob, opened the door, and found herself staring at Brittany Susan Pierce.
The blonde had changed a lot and not at all since the last time Santana had seen her. Her hair was shorter, reaching just past her shoulders, and she didn't wear as much makeup as she used to. She had a bag slung over her shoulder and was dressed in a baggy pair of cargo pants and a t-shirt, a worn pair of converse sneakers encasing her feet. Her clothing style had completely changed from the chic style of a well-to-do young woman to that of a poor, artsy college kid.
But everything else about her, the way she stood with her shoulders slightly slouched in a friendly manner, a hand cocked on her hip, leaning back on one leg with the other slightly outstretched and bent for support. The concern in her eyes was all too familiar, as was the hope and happiness. Her slight smile and the wrinkle around her eyes showing Santana she was happy were well-known to the Latina.
"May I come in?" Brittany asked after a moment of Santana staring at her. Her soft voice was music to Santana's ears, a music she had listened to through recorded messages left in her voicemail over four years before.
Santana coughed, averting her eyes to the floor as she opened the door wider and stepped aside to let Brittany in. "Yeah, sure," she mumbled as Brittany stepped in, her strides bold and graceful. The Latina caught herself staring at those legs a little too long and quickly focused her attention on closing the door.
"Do you want something to drink?" Santana asked, her voice quivering, betraying her anxiety. "We, uh, we have milk, orange juice, cranberry juice, water… I can always put some coffee on…."
"Water's fine," Brittany said, looking around the kitchen in interest. Santana caught her staring at the wall where a photo of Santana, Quinn, and Brittany once hung and guiltily looked away at the hurt expression that flitted across the tall blonde's face, busying herself with getting a glass from the cabinet and filling it with ice and water.
"You look good," Brittany observed as Santana handed her the glass.
"So do you," Santana murmured, and she felt her cheeks heat up when she felt Brittany staring at her intensely. "So, um, Quinn said you wanted to buy the… the collage, right?"
She saw Brittany nod out of the corner of her eye.
"I don't see why you won't sell it. I think I offered a pretty good amount of money."
"It isn't about the money," Santana whispered.
Brittany cocked her head to the side, observing Santana curiously. "It never was about the money, was it?" she asked softly.
"Why are you here?" Santana asked bluntly, lifting her head so she was looking directly into Brittany's eyes. "Because, to be honest, I don't know why you would come back after four years. What do you have left here?"
The blonde looked hurt, but Santana couldn't bring herself to feel guilty or sorry. Brittany set her glass on the table, her long fingers caressing the figure before they were retracted and stuffed in the pockets of her pants. "It wasn't all it was cut out to be," she murmured. "New York City? It wasn't everything we thought it was in high school."
"Must have been great for you to stay there for the past four years," Santana snorted, setting her own glass down on the counter.
"I'll admit it was an amazing experience," Brittany said softly. "But there wasn't a day when I didn't regret leaving Los Angeles… all of this, Quinn, you, behind. For every moment of happiness, there was a moment of sorrow."
"Well isn't that poetic," Santana sneered, her eyes narrowing. "Do you have any idea what you did to me? To Quinn? To everyone and everything you left behind?"
Brittany looked at her guiltily. "I had to, Santana, and you know it," she said, the tone in her voice begging the Latina to understand. "We were both unhappy. You wanted me to be happy and I wanted you to be happy. I thought being in LA would be enough for me, but… I wasn't living my dreams, Santana. I was living yours."
"You just left!" Santana yelled, tears streaming down her face as she turned away, her fist slamming down on the counter as she stared out the window over the sink. "You left and you never told me where you were going! I waited and waited for you to come back. I stared at my phone, waiting for you to return my calls and my text messages, but nothing ever came. And then Quinn… you called Quinn to tell her you were in New York and that you were going to Juilliard and that you were finally living out your dream."
She turned to Brittany, her voice suddenly very soft and filled with pain. "Was I not part of your dream?"
"No, of course you were," Brittany murmured, taking a step towards Santana, stopping when the Latina flinched away from her outstretched arm. She sighed, dropping her hand back to her side and burying it in her pocket. "I wanted freedom, and I wanted you to be free, as well."
"Free from what?" Santana demanded, stretching out her arms in disbelief before dropping them to her sides. "Because I didn't know either of us were in a cage. Ever since you left… I feel like… like all the purpose and motivation in my life just… disappeared."
"After I got to New York, I… explored a few art circles," Brittany said carefully, her eyes searching Santana's face. "I kept hearing about this revolutionary artist from Los Angeles and how she was going to make it big." Santana waited, breathless, for Brittany to continue. "They were talking about you, Santana. And I thought… I thought you were better off without me."
She wrapped her arms tightly around herself and looked anywhere but at Santana. "It hurt so much to think you had moved on that quickly," she whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. "But I thought it was for the best, you know? Like, you were able to move past hardships and just… get on with life."
They stood in the kitchen, not looking at each other, each waiting for the other to say something, to fix everything and make it so no time had changed. So four years hadn't passed and they were still a happy couple doing everything together and not having an argument any bigger than who was going to drive and ride shotgun.
"I didn't pick up a paintbrush for four years," Santana whispered, earning an incredulous look from Brittany. "Quinn went through my paintings and opened up a small gallery downtown and I guess it caught on. The first time I picked up a paintbrush and actually… well, painted, was a couple weeks ago."
Another moment of silence.
"Well, where do we go from here?" Brittany asked.
Santana took a deep breath. "Well, why are you back in LA if New York was so great?"
Brittany looked at her with sparkling eyes. "I was following a dream."
The brunette leaned forward, steadying herself on a chair, and looked down at the tiled floor. "Where were you going to get three hundred thousand dollars?" she asked.
"I would find some way," Brittany said with conviction.
"Why are your really here?" Santana asked, making Brittany look at her in surprise. "I know there's some other reason for you being here."
"Because I can't live without you," Brittany admitted in a rush. "I can't walk down the street without seeing your face or fall asleep without dreaming about you. I can't dance across a stage without wishing you were in the audience or look at a piece of artwork without wondering if you're holed up in your studio with a paintbrush and a canvas. No matter how hard I try, I can't forget you."
"Why would you want to forget?"
The blonde took a step forward and took Santana's hands in her own. "Because it would make it hurt a little bit less," she whispered. "I never wanted to leave without saying goodbye. I wanted to call you back. But every time I went to call you or text you, I just thought that you might be better off without me and that you wouldn't want me to disturb your perfect life."
Santana let out a mangled laugh. "My life has been far from perfect since you've left," she admitted, reaching up with her left hand to wipe Brittany's tears away with her thumb. The blonde leaned into her touch. "Britt, I… I want you. I want to be in a relationship with you and wake up with you every morning, but I'm… but I'm so afraid that I'll wake up one morning and you'll be gone…."
"That will never happen," Brittany said, letting go of Santana's hand and pressing her palms on either side of Santana's face. "I made the biggest mistake of my life when I ran away from you, and I don't plan on making that mistake again. I know you don't trust me, and I don't expect you to, but I want you to give me the chance to earn that trust back."
The brunette let out a shuddering breath. "If you leave again, I don't… I don't know what I'm going to do," she whispered. "I was so… broken when you left."
Brittany examined Santana's face closely before staring into her eyes. Blue searched sorrowful brown before Brittany pressed their foreheads together and squeezed her eyes shut. "I love you."
Her voice hitching in her throat, Santana stared incredulously at Brittany. "You… you still love me?"
"Of course," Brittany said, opening her eyes again. "I never stopped."
"I don't… I don't think I can say it," Santana whispered, blinking slowly. "Not after everything that's happened."
"I understand," Brittany murmured, pulling away from Santana. "Now, about that painting…."
Santana smiled at her wryly as she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. "Not for sale," she whispered. "Quinn told you that and that's how it stands."
The blonde's face fell.
"But…" Santana continued, smiling slightly. "If you want, there's… well, I've kind of moved into the studio and Quinn and I haven't found someone we both like enough to take the empty bedroom. We could get a mattress or something and… well, I've been painting recently, so all those canvases I don't want to sell in the gallery can get hung back up in the apartment here."
"Are you sure?" Brittany asked hesitantly. "I mean, this has to be kind of hard for you…."
"I'm sure," Santana said with conviction. "Um, if you want to check the room out, it's in the same place it was four years ago. I have to call Quinn and tell her she can come back now. I really want coffee and breakfast."
Brittany smiled slightly and nodded, padding out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Santana listened for a few moments before hearing a door creak open before slipping her phone out of her pocket and flipping it open. She dialed Quinn's number and pressed the phone to her ear, waiting for her friend to answer.
"How'd it go?"
"What would you say if I told you that I've found us a new roommate?" Santana asked, her voice anxious.
There was a pause. "Did it really go that well?"
Santana shrugged and slumped down in a chair. "I don't… she still loves me," she admitted breathlessly. "And I… as much as I want to give all this time, I just can't let her out of my sight, again, Quinn. I can't lose her again."
"I know, honey, I know, but is it really the best idea for you to get back together with her after seeing her for the first time in four years?" Quinn asked.
"We're not together," Santana said. "I'm not ready for that. But… I want to be with her and she wants to be with me. So I think we're going to… we're going to try out this friendship thing and see where it goes."
"And if it doesn't go where you want it to go?" Quinn asked.
"Then it doesn't go there," Santana stated simply. "I'm not pushing for anything and I'm not going to force something that isn't there. But I really care for Brittany and we had something really amazing. We might still have that. And I don't want to rule it out. It hurts, but not as much now that we've talked."
She could almost see the smug smile on Quinn's face. "I told you."
"Yeah, well, you'd better be bring breakfast because I'm mad at you and I'm hungry, which really isn't a good combination."
"On my way."
Santana stood in front of the door leading to the exhibition room of her new art gallery. She was nervous because renowned art critics were waiting just on the other side of that door and they would be responsible as to whether she became a successful artist or just another student who sunk back into the pool of aspiring artists. A soft hand slipped into her own hand and she looked down at their entwined fingers, a smile coming to her lips.
"You're going to be fine," Brittany murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to her ear. "There's no reason for you to be nervous."
"Yeah, well, if you can go, like, make all those critics out there absolutely love my artwork, then there would be no reason for me to be nervous," Santana murmured, leaning back against Brittany. "They hold my whole artistic future in their hands. They're the ones deciding if I become a somebody or a nobody."
Brittany slid her hand out of Santana's and turned her around, her blue eyes staring seriously into Santana's brown ones. "Do you really believe that?" she asked. "Because even if those people absolutely hate your art, which they won't because you're amazing, you're still going to go on painting. There are tons of artists out there who were amazing and didn't become successful until after they died."
"Then just kill me now," Santana muttered.
"No!" Brittany yelled, her voice filled with devastation.
"That was sarcasm, babe," Santana said, her lips quirking into a small smile. "I just… I can't wait for this to be over because it's all I've been thinking about for the past couple weeks."
"You haven't been sleeping well," Brittany said accusingly.
"I've barely been sleeping at all," Santana admitted, dropping her eyes to the ground. "There's so much painting to do and the ideas keep whirring around my head, preventing me from sleeping."
The blonde leaned her forehead against Santana's. "You're so amazing," she whispered. "You don't have anything to worry about. How about after this we go home and just relax? Quinn is going to be sleeping in her new apartment for the first time tonight, so we have the TV to ourselves."
"Everything's changed," Santana sighed, her eyes fluttering shut.
"Is that a bad thing?" Brittany asked worriedly.
Santana opened her eyes and smiled shyly at the blonde. "Definitely not," she murmured before kissing her gently. "Sometimes I wish things had happened differently, but we're all doing something we love. Quinn's moving up in her law firm, you're dancing in your show, and I've got my art and I've got you. That's all I need."
"You're so cheesy," Brittany laughed, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Now, come on, they're waiting for you and I don't want them getting angry and storming this little hidey-hole of yours."
"Come with me?" Santana asked hopefully.
"Of course," Brittany whispered. She kissed Santana softly before pulling away and holding out her hand to the Latina. Santana smiled and tangled their fingers together before reaching out with her other hand and opening the door leading to the gallery.
"Here we go," Santana said quietly as she stepped out into bright lights and the intense scrutiny of dozens of people. She spotted Quinn in the crowd of people with a few of her lawyer friends and smiled thankfully at her as she tugged Brittany forward.
"I would like to thank you all for coming to the opening of my new gallery," she said loudly as the steady murmur of the crowd died down. Everyone stared at her expectantly. "Without my best friend, Quinn, I would have been unable to do this and would probably still be sitting in my studio at home staring uselessly at canvases piled high around me like every other aspiring artist in the country."
There was light laughter.
"So, thank you, Quinn, for everything you've done." Santana nodded to the blonde across the room and she nodded back.
"But, most of all, I would like to thank my girlfriend for giving me the courage to come out here and actually come face-to-face with the people who appreciate my art enough to buy it," she said, turning to Brittany and smiling sweetly. "For dealing with my many sleepless nights and five-day painting sprees and the day long sleeping sessions I have as a result."
Brittany squeezed her hand thankfully and Santana kissed her on the cheek.
"And now, without further ado, I'm happy to welcome you all into my gallery," Santana said, and with a sweep of her arm, the navy blue curtain that had been rigged to separate the very front of the gallery was dropped to reveal her artwork. There was a smattering of applause as the critics moved forward to examine her art.
"See, that wasn't so bad," Brittany murmured.
"That wasn't the worst part," Santana said. She spotted a well-known critic walking towards her and braced herself. "And now it begins." Freeing her hand from Brittany's, she stepped forward to meet the woman.
"Hi, my name is Kathy Williams," the woman said, extending her hand and shaking Santana's firmly.
"Santana Lopez," she replied with a warm smile. "And this is my girlfriend, Brittany Pierce."
Kathy shook Brittany's hand, as well. "It's nice to finally meet you," she said to Santana. "I've heard so much about your artwork from other critics who have seen it and I've been looking forward to an opportunity to meet you and see you next to your artwork for a very long time."
"Well, I'm glad I could help you with that," Santana replied.
"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" Kathy asked, pulling a notebook and pen from the bag she was carrying over her shoulder.
"Yeah, of course."
"Where do you get your inspiration?" Kathy asked.
Santana smiled and turned to Brittany. "Well, you're staring at the blonde beauty right now," she answered with a small laugh. Brittany blushed and Santana thought that maybe this wasn't going to be so hard after all.
The room had been waiting for a long time.
Sun filtered in through the bright, clear windows, strong rays of light illuminating the polished hardwood floor that was partially covered by drop cloths. The windows were open and uncovered to allow the maximum amount of light to filter in. Paintbrushes and containers were neatly organized on worktables and finished canvases rested on well-used easels.
Santana stood in front of one such easel, putting the finishing touches on her painting. She had been working on this particular piece of artwork for three and a half years, ever since Brittany had returned to Los Angeles and moved back into the apartment. It was a self-portrait, something she had never done because she didn't like the vanity it implied, a vanity she had possessed in high school and dropped once she moved into college.
Her face was separated into about forty pieces, much like a stained glass window, and each piece represented a different part of her. It symbolized much of what she had gone through in the early years of her life, along with the hardships she had experienced after Brittany had left. She was broken, but it was okay because she was putting herself back together, and she thought she was, ultimately, becoming a better person.
Strong arms wrapped around her waist as she examined her finished piece and she turned her head to kiss Brittany's temple.
"Is it finished?" the blonde asked in a whisper.
"Yeah," Santana said equally as quiet. "It's finally finished."
Brittany scrutinized the painting over Santana's shoulder before speaking. "It's said," she whispered. "You're hurting."
The Latina smiled and turned in Brittany's arms after setting down her paintbrush on the easel. "Yeah, but it's getting better," she murmured, burying her face in Brittany's shoulder. "It's been getting better for a while, and you being here is definitely helping."
"I'm glad I'm here, then," Brittany whispered.
"Me, too."
The room had been waiting for a long time to witness the healing of Santana Lopez.
It was finally happening.