NA: The positive response to this surprised me, to be honest, and I just couldn't refrain itself from writing this! There you have, chapter two. I'm experimenting with style and this is my first attempt at AU, so bear with me.
To those reading Fate's Hands, no worries. I'll get around to that when I make up my mind about the plot/survive the end of the semester in college.
02
Santana paints. But maybe, a better description of what she does would be to violate the canvas, staining it as a mean of hurting it with her firm brushes of paint. The act of painting is violent, exhausting and drains Santana completely. She enters a hypnotic frenzy and never stops before it's finished, because whatever she needs to say needs to be said at once, or the message will get lost, or the particular feelings that ignited the first brush will lose themselves in thin air.
Santana doesn't just paint. She exposes herself most intimately, as she has no interest in bridges or landscapes or portraits of people she doesn't give a shit about. Painting is not about that, is about emotion, is about expression, is about touching people. She paints because she has something to say, not because it's cool to experiment with effects and sunsets are poetic.
When she finishes the paintings she's supposed to be displaying in her audition, she's sweaty and hungry and the sun is down. She only then realizes she should have eaten a long time ago and she's feeling a bit dizzy. She calls Quinn, and the blessed woman brings tacos. They sit on the floor to eat and it's the first time her friend looks at anything Santana has made. Her stomach feels funny as she expects a reaction. "I'm no expert, but this is good," she says, and Santana releases a breath she didn't know she was holding.
"Maybe, but I'm still going to be your trophy wife when you're a rich lawyer", Santana teases. They have this understanding, or at least Santana thinks they do – because Quinn is smart and dedicated and Santana has no goals whatsoever – that if everything turns out wrong, Santana will be Quinn's hot wife and the blonde will support the both of them. Quinn rolls her eyes but says nothing. They eat quietly, listening to music. This is a good type of exhaustion: it brings Santana some peace.
The next days pass by as dull and uninteresting as a waitress-slash-teacher's day can be, and there's still no sign of the blonde. Santana tries to ask around, but nothing comes out of it. It doesn't stop her from sleeping with other girls, of course, but she cannot deny she hadn't had a make out session that great in quite some time and Quinn still doesn't believe her story. It's frustrating, because it does sound very fantastic and unreal, this story of a girl too pretty to be true offering herself shamelessly to Santana.
When the opening comes, weeks later, she's in a killer green dress and so nervous she can barely breathe. This is it, she tells herself. Quinn is there, of course, and Santana feels grateful for having such a good friend – a person that had tests, classes, papers, a social life, and always managed to be there for the important moments. She smiles to the Ex's Father, the photographer who got it all started, as he tells her a story about his latest exposition. They both have a glass of wine in hand and she has a sneaking suspicion he's hitting on her just the tiniest bit. Oh well. Santana can't deny she loves to flirt, and that it is flattering, but if he's really thinking he's getting anywhere...
Then there's a flash of long, blonde hair and Santana's excusing herself without a second thought. She realizes she's going to the bathroom and her heart is beating faster with the mere prospective of seeing her again, what does make her feel like a creepy stalker. She realizes she's right with a perfect timing. Just before cherry bomb blonde opens the door, a tan hand covers a pale one and their eyes lock. The door is open and they both enter. "Fancy seeing you here," Santana says, resting her weight against the door. The blonde answers she's glad to see her again, and Santana can swear the steps she takes in her direction are actually dance steps.
"Where were we?" Santana asks, walking forward so they meet in the middle. "This is so going to ruin your makeup," the blonde amazon whispers right before their lips meet again. It's delicious and thrilling and this time it's Santana who takes the lead, hand on the back of the other woman's neck, tongue demanding entrance. The woman lets out a soft sigh, like she did last time. She tastes wine and something minty, a weird combination but lovely nonetheless. When her hands go to other woman's back, Santana moans at the feel of soft skin and marvelous, firm muscles and thank God to backless dresses.
The blonde sucks on Santana's tongue, very nearly making her moan, hands cupping Santana's face to take control of the kiss once more. She's the Michelangelo of kissing, and Santana lets go once more, her lips being nipped and sucked before her mouth is being assaulted by the blonde's for so long she starts feeling dizzy and breaks the kiss for air. Santana looks at the woman in front of her, lips swollen, breath erratic, and feels like saying something.
Instead, she directs her mouth the bombshell's neck, a smug smile appearing on her lips when the other woman throws her head back and whimpers. Now that's what she's talking about. She directs them to the wall, pressing their bodies together as her lips do their magic. The blonde's scent reminds Santana of summer and beaches, and she takes a few seconds to breathe it in, nose buried in the other woman's neck. She loves it and sucks on the spot beneath the blonde's ear, earning scratches on the back of her neck and Santana can die at that instant because really, life is wonderful.
They look at each other once again. "Told you I'd ruin your makeup," the blonde says, and Santana laughs. She answers that she doesn't care, and much to her surprise she's stopped halfway when leaning in for another kiss. "We have to go back," the taller woman says, and she means business. Santana blinks, but the blonde just goes to the mirror to reapply her lipgloss. "C'mon," Santana pleads, but it only gets her a quick kiss before the blonde finishes her makeup and leaves. "Fucking tease." Santana groans in frustration alone in the bathroom before pulling herself together, not believing that the woman is even real.
When she leaves she's in control again, all smiles and nurturing networks and getting her face known out there. She meets this young man, a short singer with brown hair and a skin way too soft for a straight man's, who seems fairly interested in her work. He wants to redecorate his house and put up one or two of her paintings. Santana smiles and introduces him to Blaine, her excuse of an agent – actually, just a friend of Quinn's who had offered himself for free – and the way their looks linger is to be enough for her gaydar to go crazy.
Not that she blames Kurt, the Broadway singer, because Blaine is kinda a sight for sore eyes with his pretty smile and sweet eyes. He looks really good in black, too. She only wishes they didn't have to be gay around each other right there, right then, half hoping she would sell Kurt something before Blaine got him under his sheets. Lord knows she can use the money. Kurt invites them both to a party, and even though Santana senses she's part of a let's-get-Blaine-drunk package, she isn't offended and accepts.
Her jaw almost drops when The Blonde – she calls her that in her head in the lack of a name – comes near and Kurt places a hand on her waist and she places her hand on his shoulder. "There you are," she says, looking at him for a millisecond before looking right at Santana. "Hey babe," he answers, pointing at Santana with his free hand, "Have you met Santana Lopez? She's quite the talented artist." He's smiling, and she's smiling too. Kurt is blissfully unaware of the tension between them. "This is my girlfriend, Brittany Pierce," he says. Santana cuts in and says they have met before. "Yeah, totally," blonde says.
The handsome devil gets a name, at least. Brittany. Brittany Pierce. Santana wants to tell Kurt to get the hell out of Narnia and drop the ridiculous straight boy act, but she second guesses herself. Isn't Quinn always telling her she sees too much gay everywhere? What if Kurt is straight and Santana is Brittany's dirty little secret? Santana doesn't need that. She is too good to be anyone's dirty little secret, and she is surely not in the mood to handle baby lesbians who will end up falling right back into the closet.
She gets the hell out of the conversation as soon as she can, but much to her surprise, Brittany – it's weird to name her, Santana thinks – grabs her wrist before the opening is over and takes them to a unused part of the gallery. "You're staring," she says. "You're cheating," Santana answers bitterly. "It's not cheating if the plumbing is different," she tells her. "Bullshit," Santana answers. "Look," blonde says with a sigh, "Kurt knows, he's like capital g gay." She pauses, thinking a bit before continuing." And kissing him is kinda like kissing a girl... His lips are so soft."
Santana half wants to laugh and half wants to yell. The situation is absurd, and Bombshell Blonde apparently has some unique way of thinking. However, she doesn't betray her emotions. "Whatever," she says, "this is too much trouble for me and I'm not going to be your dirty, little secret." Santana is the one to leave the conversation this time, heels clicking as she finds her way to Blaine and Quinn to get the fuck out.