I am beautiful with you (even in the darkest parts of me)
The door closes with a soft thud behind Quinn as she stumbles home. The journey had been cold and dark now that the beloved sun had set and Quinn was alone in the night- the part of the day she never truly felt comfortable. The blonde girl breathes in the homely scent of cinnamon and white flower as she shrugs her duffel coat off her back and hangs it up besides the array of Santana's leather jackets and long coats with a sigh before turning into the lounge. Quinn detests being in the modern day apartment alone, especially at night. When the girls first rented out the place, they spent all night and every night together just enjoying their new found home with movie nights, meals and what not. That was up until all the movies had been rewatched at least three times and Quinn had ran out of intriguing recipes. That's when Santana started slowly slipping through her fingers and began her ritual of notorious nightly partying.
Quinn drops her shoulder satchel onto the soft brown leather of their sofa and raises her hand to sweep her unruling blonde hair from her eyes as she searches through the tam brown leather bag to retrieve the envelopes of photos that she and Santana had taken earlier that night at the most remote areas of Central Park, a place that held many memories for the two girls. When they both moved to Manhattan, they were mere excitable 19 year olds with a burning American dream. Once a week they would engage in breakfast at Tiffany's, meet for lunch in Times Square and wander to the Brooklyn Bridge in the evening to admire the beauty of the surroundings, illuminated by the thousands of blaring lights New York provided. There were many things in New York Quinn still desired to do with Santana, but the girl had always turned down. Quinn longed to take Santana to the Apollo Theatre, or Broadway to watch a play or musical in its true glory. She yearned to dine Santana like a true Gentlewoman- take her to the finest restaurants Manhattan had to offer and pay for whatever her heart desired or to have Santana accompany her to the American Museum of Natural History- a place Quinn was very fond of. But Santana wouldn't allow her. It wasn't her thing.
The young photographer saunters through to the lounge and drops the photos on the beige sofa too; besides her bag, dropping to her knees in front of the open gas fire and igniting it. When the sparks shoot up from under the faux coal the room is surrounded in a warm, relaxing heat, Quinn sits back and just watches the flames flicker. She's always had the ability to see 'crazy' things inside everyday objects as Santana would say. For example, what she sees in the fireplace built predominantly in the mantel piece is a vast spread of an orange glowing dance floor which fades up into a warm red border line where the figures inside the blue gas flames dance and sway to their own individual rhythms with the golden, dominant flames. Some dance alone, electing a singular, sensual display. Other flames meet a partner and entwine their bodies for an individual, provocative tango. Yeah, she thinks, as Santana said; crazy.
Quinn sighs and uses the sofa to lift herself up, jogging up the darkly brown carpeted stairs to the upstairs area of the home. Two bedrooms besides each other, directly at the top of the stairs and a shared bathroom parallel to the stair case. It's not much, but it is home for the two of them. It was the only home they could afford. There wasn't much money in the photography trade nowadays, so Quinn's income was falling shabby and majority of Santana's income was spent on booze, drugs and entry fees to night clubs.
She stops as she passes Santana's door and smiles warmly to herself. However, her fond smile slowly drops into a distinct frown at the clear difference between the girls that are noticeable just by looking at the entrance to their rooms. Santana's door was decorated with personal images of her and friends out and about at clubs and being crazy on nights out. Quinn ponders over the lack of her on the door; she always does, but brushes it off, like always. She doesn't care about the other photos; the only one that matters is the one right in the middle of the door.
She peels it off the door and beams at it, giggling to herself slightly. The treasured photo displays the girls; huddled together in large flees coats as they stand in front of the beauty that is the Eiffel Tower in the Paris, winter snow. Not a miniscule gap is visible between the girls as they hug tightly to keep insulated and smile goofily at the lens. Quinn recalls the professional photos took during that vacation too. Paris in the snow was truly a wonder to behold. The photos brought in an amazing income so Quinn treated Santana to a pair of diamond studded earrings that Christmas. Santana wears them everywhere now; just because they were brought by Quinn so therefore meant the world to her. Quinn wasn't aware of this of course, just believed that Santana wore them for good measure and to please Quinn.
Quinn tacks the photo back onto the wooden door and places her hand on the handle to her own. Professional, that's the only way to describe Quinn's door. There they are- the Paris photos. The Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, small French shops and streets, L'arc De Triumph all sheltered and preserved under a gorgeous blanket of crisp, white falling. She remembers everything about every single photo, but is too tired to reminisce, so pushes open the door and quickly grabs her silk black gown off the back of the door; slipping it around her body and plodding back down the stairs and into the warm greeting of the lounge.
She passes right through the heated room and into the modest kitchen to whip out a chilled bottle of exquisite French red wine from the refrigerator. Quinn truly does adore everything French. Quinn takes the bottle and pours a large glass before swilling the rouge liquid around the glass to take a quick, tasteful sip. She hums softly with approval and sits on the couch, licking her lips and pulling out the dozen photos that had been taken by Santana just for her own amusement. She'd told Santana to take photos of what she found beautiful so expected a packet full of Santana pouting at the camera. Not that she disagreed, Santana was in fact gorgeous and she'd never deny that. The girl whom Santana is most likely drunkenly dancing with currently is extremely lucky, and probably doesn't appreciate what a goddess is holding her. Quinn never questioned that she would never be so lucky. She'd never get Santana no matter how much she admired the girls' radiant beauty. She'd never have those comforting hands around her waist, in her own hands, running down her sides, scratching down her back and tangling in her hair. Quinn shivers with arousal at the scene playing out in her head before clearing her throat and returning to flicking through her 'friends' photos.
The first photo Quinn saw was indeed Santana's face. How original. Biting the Inside of her cheek and looking into the lens of the raised camera through her dark lashes. The picture, like many others, sent chills through Quinn's body once more, right to her core; so she dismissed the photo to the back of the pile. The following five were goslings. How cute. The small birds waddling over the grass in their well organized line following their mother. Santana always had a thing for baby animals despite how badass and rebellious she may appear, so the Latinas relation of calling the small birds beautiful was understandable.
But as she passed each photo to the back of the pile she held, the next shocked her.
"How did she even..." Quinn mutters as she studies the newly printed photo of herself before her eyes. If this photo was of Santana then sure, it would be one of the most breathtaking images she'd ever seen. But a photo of her taking a photo, Quinn didn't find it beautiful in the least. The golden yellow rays of light illuminating her tilted upwards jaw bone just drew attention to all the features of her face she didn't particularly like. It highlighted her hazel green eyes bringing them to the centre of attention as they peer through the viewer of the camera. Quinn hates her eyes. She'd much prefer them to be Santana's excellent color or even an ocean blue but she's stuck with dirty earth colored eyes. The photo displayed Quinn's short styled hair blowing backwards in the steady breeze, exposing her dark colored roots. Quinn scoffs at how non-beautiful the photo really was, in her opinion.
Quinn's just about to view the remainder of the photos when an obvious rummaging and stumbling is heard coming from the front door. Quinn reaches to pick the wine from the glass table to the left of the sofa and sips it, looking at her watch curiously. Twelve am. That's early for Santana, almost unusual. But Quinn knows better than to question it. She just waits for Santana to stagger into the lounge as she gulps the remainder her delicious wine a little too quickly. That quickly, in fact, that she physically feels its effects go straight to her head and marginally distort her mind.
"Hello, Quinny!" Santana slurs in the doorway, closing it loudly and loudly making her way around the room in her heavily heeled leather boots to plop herself on the sofa besides her best friend. Quinn sighs at how clearly intoxicated Santana is and folds her arms sternly over her chest. All the anger and frustration merely melts away when Santana crawls down to softly lay her head on Quinn's stomach and close her heavy eyelids. Quinn looks down at the Latina in shock for a moment, watching the girls arm snake around her waist with wide eyes; but soon she felt the display of affection melt her heart.
"How was your night?" She asks quietly, her hand reaching out as if controlled by its own mind to brush through Santana's thick raven hair- stroking through the silky strands and massaging her scalp. Santana hums sleepily in approval as Quinn's nimble fingers continue their ministrations, fingertips accidentally caressing that little patch of skin bellow Santana's ear which drove her mad, causing a purely sexual moan to spill from the drunken woman's lips. Quinn squeezes her eyes shut and rests her head back against the sofa as she feels herself embarrassingly throb with arousal.
"I missed you so I came home." Santana yawns innocently, shuffling her face and nuzzling into Quinn's abs through the dark silk. Quinn bites her lip and shakes her head, praying her arousal wasn't too obvious. Only then she registers the words whispered from the other girls' lips and feels her heart skip a beat. She missed me? No, Santana's drunk she has no idea what on earth she's saying right now.
Santana hears a scoff from Quinn that the blonde herself didn't know she'd released and the Latina's heart sinks. She didn't believe her. Quinn quirks a brow down at Santana seeing the girls' makeup smudged down her cheeks as if she'd been crying. Her brow knits together and she slides her hand from Santana's hair and down to wipe away the smooch of mascara with the pad of her thumb.
"What's wrong, Santana?" Quinn questions quietly, gazing into dazed chocolate eyes with concern. Santana always was the whole 'weepy hysterical drunk' and most often ended up crying, but not quietly like what Quinn was witnessing now. She'd never once known Santana to be a silent crier. Her hand hesitantly cups Santana's perfectly shaped jaw and strokes across her skin softly, just because she can and has always dreamt of touching Santana like this, but knowing she'd have forgotten by morning. It wasn't taking advantage of the Latina. The affectionate touch was purely comforting.
Santana sniffs and shakes her head, laying it delicately back onto Quinn's stomach and holding the bewildered blonde tight against her. "You're just so beautiful..." Santana mutters just as her eyelids give way and fall shut- sending the girl into a deep, alcohol fueled slumber.
Quinn just sits in silence for as long as she needs, staring at nothing in particular with bulging eyes. Did Santana just? She shakes her head and runs her trembling fingers back through her hair, pushing her fringe back and to a side as she thinks through the hidden meaning of what Santana just said. The rebellious party wrecker had just used the words you and beautiful in the same sentence, aimed at Quinn. Hadn't she?
Quinn let's out another subconscious scoff and sighs. Santana would have forgotten she even said that within an hour or less but still, Santana had never actually said anything like that to Quinn's face before. Sure, Santana thought it every minute of every day but never admitted such a thing aloud- the same way Quinn would never dare admit what she saw in Santana to the Latina's face.
So, Quinn decides on shaking it off, like she does with most things that involve the Latina goddess in front- or in this case, on top- of her and just admires her soundly sleep. How Quinn she wishes she could understand Santana. Actually, she somewhat wishes she could change her, despite how mean and selfish it seems. She'd always fantasized about Santana being the sophisticated type, silly things like artistic dates that are appreciated by the girl and Santana act excelling in photography. Ridiculous things like dances and stereotypical romance. It's all so perfect to Quinn. But it's all so stupid and unrealistic.
As she strokes soothingly through the Latinas hair she wanders how long they will stay like this, just friends; the rebel and the photographer. She doesn't know if she'll be able to hold back the frustration and love that comes with it either. Quinn's unsure of how long she will be able to maintain sanity. Santana has said countless times she believe something to be wrong with Quinn in her mind. Quinn believed she was gifted. Santana believed she was crazy.
Crazy she may be, but several years now she's been certain of two things.
Firstly, she's always been unconditionally, madly, uncontrollably in love with Santana Lopez.
Secondly, that one day, she will teach Santana to shine.
Now is time for a change. Now is time to do something about that- both of those theories.