A/N: Okay! So I promised an update by the end of the week, didn't I? So here it is!

Enjoy!

xXx
CeruleanBlues

Fix You

Part 2

And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something that you cannot replace
When you love someone, but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

Sundays are great for sleeping in, especially after a brutal week of non-stop back-breaking trainings, so it's actually fucking irritating when the sun decides to come out and play upon my face. Reluctantly, I lift my heavy-lidded eyes to see Sam already wide-awake, perched on a chair with a charcoal pencil and drawing pad at hand, completely immersed in his work. My lips curl upwards when I notice the dark smudge on his cheek, and then he looks up.

"You're awake."

"Yeah," I croak out, poised to stretch when he stops me.

"Don't move."

I return to my initial position and continue watching him in silence, amused at the amount of concentration he's putting into a sketch. The morning rays filter in through the thin curtains, shadowing his features even as it creates a sort of halo around him.

"Can you lower the sheets a little?"

My breasts are already on display for the entire world as they are, so I'm not exactly sure what he means by that. He sees the way my brows furrow in confusion and decides to take matters into his own hands—literally. Setting his materials down on the floor, he slithers towards my lazy form and carefully pulls on the covers, allowing for the cotton to slide down my body till it barely conceals the curve of my hips.

"Better?" I ask in amusement.

He winks cheekily back at me. "Much."

"Santana suggests I get a Brazilian wax."

Snorting as he resumes his task, Sam smirks behind his canvas. "Doesn't make a difference to me."

I ponder on my next question, carefully weighing it out.

"You called your mum yet?"

He stiffens at the change in topic, pausing in his strokes as he busies himself with avoiding my gaze. Where every jaded artist has a story to tell, Sam Evans is no exception. As a promising youth, he was expected to attend medical school, be a surgeon and do his parents proud, but he'd never wanted that for himself. So he fled.

"No."

"Sam—"

"Just drop it, Quinn."

Tina and I are fast becoming good friends in the company. When the going gets tough, she pushes me to strive for that extra bit, telling me everything I need to hear whenever the situation feels dire. I help her hone shaky techniques, and she's always quick to comment on my flat executions, even though I've already pretty much gotten it from Rachel. She scorns and criticizes at every chance she gets, scoffing and huffing as and when she deems necessary.

I try not to let that bother me, though, but Sue pulls me aside a week later before proclaiming to the troupe that she has made her choice.

"Please give a round of applause to our lead in this year's production; Rachel Berry."

Tina lays a supportive hand on my shoulder, giving me a gentle squeeze while I repeatedly remind myself not to cry. I see shattered pieces of my broken heart littering the dance floor, left to weep in the wake of my crushed disappointment. Before this, I don't think I've ever tasted such a bitter pill in my life—not even in my darkest hours strapped in a hospital with my stomach pumped out.

The smug leering Rachel sends my way acts like a final blow to my battered spirit, the triumphant glint in her eyes screams of gloating and glory. Everybody else swarms around her to offer their adulations, and even though it pains me to no end, I make a beeline for my fellow competitor—now victor—with my most sincere smile.

"Congratulations, Rachel," I remark, offering my hand out to her.

She glares in disdain down at it. "Thanks."

I'm utterly gob smacked, unable to comprehend her loathing towards my being even after my washout, but if she's even mildly apologetic about her rude behavior, she doesn't do anything to redeem herself, and here I thought that Sue doesn't tolerate divas.

"Hey, Quinn?"

I whirl around. "Yeah?"

"I told you not to bother."

Santana threatens to 'bitch slap the fucking anorexic' when I tell her about it over dinner. She's exaggerating, of course—mildly, anyways—and it's actually kind of hilarious to envision the Latina clawing the eyes out of the petite brunette, but a catfight is not something I want to break up.

"How are you holding up?" she asks.

"I don't know, but I'll be sure to tell you when I find out."

She then proceeds to point out that sarcasm doesn't work on me.

Whatever.

"Stop feeling like shit, will you?" she chastises, pointing her fork in my direction. "It's just a fucking stupid lead character."

I give her a look—one that I'm sure she's already so familiar with—and furiously wipe the grease off the corners of my mouth with a serviette before tossing it down on my plate and jumping to my feet.

"Oh, hey, Quinn, stop, okay? I didn't mean—"

"This production is everything to me," I snappily cut her off, now officially pissed because after years of being roommates, she still doesn't get me. "Everything. So don't you dare tell me that it's just a fucking stupid lead character."

"Come on, Quinn—"

"Have a good evening, San."

Grabbing my backpack off the carpet floor, I storm out of the restaurant without so much as a backward glance because I know that if I have to sit down there and face her for one more second, history will repeat itself.

Fuming and seething, I storm into Sam's apartment in a rage of a million hurricanes, Santana's words still reverberating loudly in my head. Hair askew and face possibly blotchy from all the ugly crying, I slump down on the empty loveseat, taking deep breaths to pull myself together when I realize how it's exceptionally quiet in the room.

"Sam?" I call out. "Sam, you home?"

I find him sitting on his bed; his head hanging low, a cellphone clutched so tightly in his hands, his knuckles are turning white.

"Sam?"

He looks up then, and I can't help but gasp at the God-forsaken sight.

"What the hell?"

His eyes—usually bright and mischievous—are red-rimmed and tear-streaked as he releases a soft sob, his composure miserably crumbling before me. Momentarily forgetting about my own pathetic problems, I instantly gather his broken self in my arms, hugging him close.

"What's wrong?"

"My dad called."

I thread my fingers through his tousled hair and lean in close to his ear. "What did he say?"

"My mother's dying." His voice cracks with torment at the last syllable. "The cancer's taking her."

"Oh, my God." I've never seen him like this before, his body shaking with grief as he awkwardly curls into my frame, wrecked with hushed whimpers. "I'm so sorry, Sam."

"I need to go see her."

He's my best friend, as I am his.

But I know that he'll need his space.

"I'll be here when you return."

Sam notices my somber mood while we're cuddling up in bed with the lamp on so that the entire room is bathed in a yellow glow. With my cheeks pressed against his broad chest, I can hear the steady beating of his heart, and breathe in his musky scent. It's one of those rare moments where sex is unnecessary as we're both simply basking in the comforts of each other.

"What's bothering you, Quinn?"

I snuggle deeper into his embrace. "Rachel got the part."

"Did they mistake her for you?"

His attempt at a small joke cheers me up a bit, and I smile up at his handsome face for a while before my lips drop to a frown. "I guess I'm just not good enough."

"Quinn—"

"No, really," I insist, sitting up so that I can properly face him. "That's exactly what Sue said to me, and she's probably right."

He delicately tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. "I've seen you dance, Quinn Fabray, and you're amazingly talented."

"You're different."

"Why? Is it because I'm not some fancy creative director of a dance company?"

Playfully, I pinch his bicep. "You know what I mean." However, at his chuckle, I let out a defeated sigh. "I try so hard everyday to be a better dancer than I ever was the day before, and I just don't know what else to do, or how much more of myself to give."

"Perhaps it's not how much more of yourself to give," he muses, a thoughtful twinkle in his green orbs. "But having to give all of yourself."

"I don't know how to do that, Sam."

"I'll show you."

And then he takes my hand and leads me down the end of the short hallway towards the restricted spare room that seems to be permanently locked, but I know he uses it to work on his art even though he has never allowed me inside. Contrary to my belief, though, the door opens easily as he pulls me inside. He flips a switch and a single spotlight illuminates the area, shining down on a stool and an easel.

Sam shifts his stuff aside before gesturing to the empty space. "It's yours."

My gaze snaps up to meet his. "What?"

"I mean, I come here all the time for inspiration. My feelings and emotions; they're all in this room," he explains, and in the faint shadows I can make out the outlines of his art pieces—a lot of which I had never been given the privilege to view. "I just thought I'd share it with you."

He effortlessly catches me in his hold when I launch myself in his arms.

"Thank you."

"Can you do something for me, then?"

"Anything."

"Tell me a story, Quinn," he murmurs. "Dance."

He lets go of me and sinks back into the darker corners while I stand alone underneath the harsh light. I'm lost, squinting to locate his silhouette, wondering what on earth I'm supposed to do.

"Music?"

I sift through the catalogue of arrangements in my head. "Gotan Project."

"Really?"

Smirking in his general direction, I say, "you wanted a story."

The instrumental begins, a staccato chorus of violins and an accordion before the beat kicks in a steady tempo. I know that Sam is watching me; with a charcoal pencil and a drawing pad, poised and ready, and I deeply inhale the strange smell of paint and paper to push my nerves aside.

It's just me now.

And I'm going to dance.

Sue is singing of praises for Rachel, and it stabs at me like sharpened spears each time the brunette flashes that triumphant grin, adding more salt to my already wounded pride. She leaps across the span of the floor for her solo, and I wonder if that could've been me.

Lost in my daze, Tina sends a quick nudge to my side to jolt me out before I miss my timing. Gratefully, I nod in appreciation, and squaring my shoulders, I take position. The choreography is rigorous and demanding, working every inch of muscle I never know I have, and pushing skilled techniques to the brinks of insanity.

Mike Chang—no relation to Tina—and I get paired up for a pas de deux. An exceptional dancer, his strength and fluidity hypnotize me with each fluent lift and synchronized movement. He matches my lines step for step, never missing a beat.

"Loosen up, Quinn," he advises with a laid-back laugh. "I'm not going to eat you."

I shrink back for a bit. "Sorry."

"You're doing great," he assures, motioning for me to run at him. "Don't look so worried."

"Alright, alright."

My phone rings while I'm watching a re-run of an old soap opera, and it's Sam on the other end of the line, checking in to ask me how I am. Glancing down at the bag of nachos, the bowl of dip and the bottle of soda, I reckon I'm doing quite okay.

"Pigging out on my couch, aren't you?"

"Yeah." A beat later, I add in, "I miss you."

"Miss you too."

Grabbing the remote, I mute the volume of the television. "What's it like being back home?"

He sighs. "It kind of sucks. I'm always in the hospital, and Stevie and Stacey are being broody, and dad is taking time off work. Feels like a fucking funeral."

"I'm sure everybody is just coping differently."

"Yeah, but it's like this big elephant in the room, and God, it's depressing." He pauses for a bit. "I just need to get away."

I hug my knees to my chest, spotting a portrait of his family on the shelf. "How's your mum?"

"She says 'hi'."

"I'm sorry I can't be there."

I can picture him shrugging his shoulders. "She understands."

"How long do you think you're going to stay?"

"I don't know," he admits. "A week, maybe two?"

He's my best friend, as I am his.

And I understand him perfectly.

"Take all the time you need."

Mike asks me out on a date rather unexpectedly during training—in the middle of a routine, no less—because he's got a pair of tickets for a musical production. His friend, Mercedes, is starring in it or something, and he thinks that I'll probably like it. Staring up at his hopeful expression, I figure, what the hell.

"Sure, I'd love to."

"Great!" he gushes enthusiastically, almost like a little boy at a theme park. "I'll see you at eight."

The play is better than I'd thought. Turns out, Mike's friend is one heck of an amazing vocalist, and she's a real sweet character too. He brings me backstage to meet her, and she's got such a magnetic pull, you can't help but be sucked into her infectious aura that comes with being such a veteran performer.

"I've heard so much about you, Quinn."

I arch an eyebrow accusingly at Mike. "Have you, now?"

"Oh, don't worry," Mercedes ruffles on. "He's said nothing but wonderful things about you."

There's something incredibly endearing about a man blushing with embarrassment while he tries—and fails—to grapple onto the last fragments of his masculinity, but as he mumbles something incoherent under his breath, I can't help leaning in to drop a light peck on his reddened cheek. His eyes widens and dances in surprise.

"What's that for?"

"To thank you."

We stop by an ice cream place on the way back and he treats me to a melon gelato because he swears that it's the best creation ever made. Honestly, I've always been the cookie dough ice cream-sort of person, but what the gelato lacks in chunks; it surely makes up for it in flavor.

"Damn, son."

He grins knowingly. "It's good, isn't it?"

Scooping another mouthful, I nod in agreement. "I think you've just converted me."

"You had fun tonight?"

"I did," I answer truthfully, and as far as I'm concerned, I can't remember the last time I'd thoroughly enjoyed myself so much. "I mean, I am—having fun, that is."

He wipes off an imaginary bead of sweat from his forehead. "Dodged that bullet, then."

Later, as he walks me back to Sam's apartment—after that stint in the restaurant, it's going to take a while before I talk to Santana again—we talk about his short-lived career as a police officer-in-training. He's animated about it too, laughing at his failed attempts to placate a bloodhound, or how he had unintentionally mistook an actual bird for a clay pigeon, and without realizing it, we've reached the door.

"So, this is me."

He surveys the empty corridor. "This is a nice place."

"It's not mine," I clarify, in case he assumes something else. "This is my best friend's apartment."

We stand there for a minute or so, stuck in that dreadfully uncertain moment, and it's like I'm in high school all over again. Mike jams his hands into the pockets of his jeans, and I'm not sure if he's as rusty in this department as I probably am, but I can see the wheels turning in his head.

"So I'll—"

"Yeah," I cut in, saving him the trouble. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He hesitates for a split second before closing the gap between us to place a shy kiss on the far corner of my lips. "I had a great time tonight, Quinn."

"Me too."

Sam hasn't responded to my multiple text messages or voicemails, and I'm getting bat-shit worried about him. It must've shown during practices because Mike's been asking me if I'm feeling well, and even Tina is wondering about my spatial behavior. She bluntly points out that I've been zoning out more than usual, but I assure them that I'm perfectly fine.

"Keep your ass in the game, Quinn," Sue reprimands sternly when I mess up on a step for the fifth time in a row. "What's chewing on you today? Hustle up!"

God, she sounds like a fucking drill sergeant.

Mike corners me the moment we're given a breather. "Hey, you okay?"

The kindness in his voice melts away some of the stress, and there's really no fooling my dance partner. "I'm just a little distracted."

"A little distracted?" he teases good-naturedly. "A bomb could've exploded in front of you and you wouldn't have batted an eyelash. What's really going on, Quinn?"

Leaning against a ballet barre, I gulp down a mouthful of water from my plastic bottle. "I just have a lot on my mind."

"Why don't I take you out for a nice dinner tonight?" he suggests. "You look like you can use a good meal."

Can't argue with that.

"Sure."

We get a little tipsy on wine and champagne. It's going to nip us where it hurts tomorrow, but we're laughing along the pavement at God-knows-what, and I'm sure the alcohol has achieved its desired effect. Mike does a leap in an accurate imitation of Rachel, his nose sticking high up in the air as he waves to an imaginary crowd.

"Thank you, thank you." Blowing kisses into the night sky, he takes a dramatic bow before holding his hand out to me. "Milady, would you care for a dance?"

With a polite curtsy, I plug on my worst accent in reply. "I would be delighted to, Milord."

He twirls me around while people are staring at us. Clearly, we're out of our minds right now, but the drunken haze is clouding the rational, upright Quinn Fabray so that the rare, fun side of me gets to play. Mike sings an off-key rendition of a classic—one that I've heard way too many times—and it's cracking me up all over again.

"Jesus, Quinn," he snorts, giving my wrist a sharp tug to avoid incoming traffic when I happen to wander down the road. "You're going to get yourself killed."

It tickles me to a giggling fit. "Oh, don't be such a party pooper, Chang."

He grabs onto my hips all of a sudden and clashes our bodies together in one swift move, just as a car whizzes by. The impact sobers me up a little, but now I'm consumed in his scent and how his fingers are playing a tune on the small of my back. Our noses are barely inches away, and in the moments as I'm staring into his glazed eyes; I realize that it's not exactly the worst place to be. His arms are familiar from the infinite hours of practice together, his dark hair slightly mussed from the craziness and underneath the street lamps, he appears to be glowing.

"You're something else, do you know that?"

I almost believe him, because the way he's tracing circles on my jawline with so much tenderness, it makes me think that he actually cares—probably way more than he should—and it frightens me a little. My entire life revolves around endless episodes of self-doubt and angst-filled teenage drama, I've always been careful to let people in; for fear that they'd one-day leave.

I'm still trying to find my voice when Mike swoops in—catching me completely off-guard—and kisses me. His pliant lips draw me in closer, and if there's any semblance of logic left in my brains, it's taken a hike right now as I lean into his frame. It ends as quickly as it started but that brief instance has left me swooning ridiculously.

"Erm…"

"You want to come over for coffee?" he husks.

His intentions are obvious, and I probably shouldn't, but every fiber in my being is gravitating towards the idea that for once, I'm actually in control of my life. I may be fooling myself with that one, though, does it matter? He makes me feel different.

Complications be damned.

"Coffee sounds nice."

Mike rouses me from my slumber some time at dawn, dopily nudging my side. It takes a while to register, but it's enough time to stop me from slapping his face, as I do so often when Sam wakes me up unnecessarily.

"Babe, your phone."

Still half-laden with sleep, I blindly feel around for the offending device before locating it in the pocket of my pants, having been thrown haphazardly across the room the night before. Without bothering to check on the caller, I hit the button and hold the phone up to my ear.

"Hello."

"Quinn?"

My eyes snap open. "Sam?"

Something is terribly wrong.

"Quinn."

The single syllable speaks a thousand words, and immediately I'm scrambling for my clothes. Voice cracking with suppressed emotions; he speaks in a mere whisper.

"She's gone."

There's a numbness that follows in the hollow of my heart, and it breaks for him as I choke back a sob, holding a hand up to my mouth. Tears start to gather at the corners of my eyes, blurring my vision of the beautiful sunrise beyond the horizon.

"Oh, my God," I whisper inaudibly as a trail of moisture slides down my face. "Sam—"

"I need you."

"I'm on my way."

He's my best friend, as I am his.

And I'd do anything—everything—for him.

The next flight out is way too long, and the jitters make it impossible to stomach anything on the plane, but somehow or another, the compassionate air stewardess detects my anxiety and slips me into priority disembarking. I zip through the airport like a mad person, hopping onto the first cab that I can see, and sputtering directions to the driver.

When it comes down to it, the church is nostalgic, yet utterly foreign to me, but the cars parked along the sidewalk are unmistakable as I notice an old red beat-up truck that can only belong to one person. And then, of course, I see him sitting on the steps with his head in his hands, his black tie loosened and askew. As though sensing my presence, he glances up, slowly rising to his feet.

By that point, the floodgate that I've tried so hard to repress ever since I've touched down explodes like a caged beast, and before I know it, I'm crying for him—for his family—as he envelops me in a hug. He squeezes me tight with desperation, burying his nose in the crook of my neck, and breaks down in quiet weeps.

"I'm so sorry."

Sam inhales a shaky breath. "I shouldn't have gone—"

"Don't," I cut in before he can continue. "It's not your fault."

"She misses you, Quinn," he sniffles, hitting me with a pang of guilt and regret. "She wants you to dance at her funeral. Will you?"

"Of course."

Sam's old bed is way too small to fit two fully-grown adults, but we manage it one way or another. Physically and emotionally spent from the melancholic day, he holds me close while he stares blankly at the wall. He is still in his white dress shirt, now wrinkled, with his shoes kicked to the side, and for a splitting moment, I cringe at how I must've looked like.

"She spent her last days at home," he tells me, a hint of a smile ghosting on his lips. "No matter how tired she always felt, she insisted on cooking for us. She joked that it'll probably be our last chance at any real food, but she probably knew it was the truth. My dad can live off cold pizza and instant noodles if he wants to, and Stacey and Stevie have half their lives' worth of junk food to consume, so really, if you look at it, I'm screwed. We'll end up being that family with diabetes and hypertension—"

"Sam?"

"Yes?"

"You'll be okay."

He tilts his head downwards, our gazes locking as he regards me with startling intensity. The depth of green in his eyes seem to go on forever, communicating a telepathic tale of his soul, revealing a hidden side of him I had never experienced before.

"I know," he says. "Because I have you with me."

"I'll never leave you," I solemnly promise. "You know that, right?"

"I do."

A/N: Wow! So thank you guys so much for the awesome reviews! I really appreciate it, and I'm really excited because this is the official fanfic that I've actually finished! LOL!

Mandorac: Hi there! OMG! It's so nice to hear from you! I'm glad you had a great new year! And thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I know it's kind of bad of me to shove WIME and THA to one side, but I figured a good break away from those stories is healthy :D I'm glad you liked how I've used Sam, Quinn, Rachel and Sue! LOL! Yes, I agree with you on how Quinn keeps referring to Sam as her best friend, but it'll get better, I promise! I know that this update is a little tragic, and also with the addition of Mike, it gets a bit complicated, but every chapter had a theme. In chapter one, it was 'hope' and this chapter, it's 'defeat', so hopefully everything revolves around 'getting fixed'—if I'm even making any sense. LOL! I'm rambling! Hope you've enjoyed this update!

Quams: Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! LOL! Awwww…you're so, so sweet! I really appreciate the wonderful comments! I love Fabrevans to death and I just wanted to do them justice! So hopefully, I've achieved that :D I know this update is a little solemn, but I hope you've enjoyed it nonetheless! Cheers!

Mrang12: Hello there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you like how the story is so far! This chapter is a little depressing, I know, but it'll get happier, I promise!

RJRRAA: Hiiiiiiiiiiiii! Thank you so much for reading and always reviewing my stories! I really appreciate it! I'm glad you love the Santana parts! She's always so much fun to explore! Hope you've enjoyed this chapter!

Nicole: Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I really appreciate it! LOL! Okay, confession time: I've always wanted to venture on smut for my Fabrevans fanfics, but I haven't reached to that point yet in THA (although, rest assured, there will be smut in that story) or WIME, so I've decided to vent their sexual frustrations in this story! LOL! I am currently working on both THA and WIME, so hopefully I'll put the updates for those stories up soon! I know this update is kind of depressing, but it shows a totally different side of Sam and Quinn's—erm—friendship. LOL! It's not all about sex with them, it's way deeper, and I wanted to showcase Quinn's feelings without…showcasing her feelings. Am I making sense? I don't know what's wrong with me today…

Naya: Hi! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I'm glad you've enjoyed it! Hope to hear your thoughts on this update! Cheers!

xSilverandGreenx: Hello! LOL! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! Much appreciated! Awwww…and thank you so much for the awesome comments! I'm flattered! I hope you've enjoyed this update!

SamEvans17: Hi there! Thank you so much for reading and reviewing my story! I'm glad you liked part one! Let me know what you think of this update! Cheers!

Song used: "Fix You" by Yellowcard