Author's note: This one is somewhat sloppy since I snipped away some hours from writing an essay to make it readable. The chapter is much shorter than the usual ones and whatnot, but I was eager to publish it during the weekend as promised. The upcoming week is now hereby dedicated to reading fanfiction (watch me cry over quality writing skills) as an attempt to improve the next chapter.
Also, the Quinntana kiss is confirmed.
I can't.
The next morning, Santana opened her eyes with one particular sentence echoing in her head and an unusually optimistic attitude towards the upcoming day. Her attention was then caught by not the hard floor she had fallen asleep on, but instead a flower scented bedspread she was carefully tucked into. It took her some time to get used to the sunlight blazing in from two large windows on her left, though when she did, her yet sleepy eyes caught the glimpse of pastel hues all around her, those similar to the color scheme of Quinn's room. Further glances only confirmed the assumptions. It really was the blonde's room. Luminous, neurotically organized, oddly cozy. It even had fairy lights running from one wall to another, right below Quinn's framed diplomas for academical achievements.
Santana's exploration of the room was cut short by none other than her friend barging in, incoming smell of bacon and pancakes hung in the air. She, too, had no signs of grumpiness, a goofy grin plastered across her face.
''Breakfast's ready, lazy ass. Get up,'' the girl chirped, signaling for her to get up with the hand that was holding a whisk and getting drops of batter everywhere as a consequence. Santana only got up partially, legs still comfily cocooned in the beadspread.
''What's the occasion? You being eternally grateful for some company?''
''In case you haven't noticed yet, the occasion is that the universe hates me. And since going to jail for a first degree murder is not on my bucket list, I have to ensure you won't be a pain in the ass all day long. Or, if the Lord is testing me, for a few days.''
''I'm sorry, what? All I grasped was pointless self-centered blabber that would probably have hurt my ears, had I listened more closely.''
''We're snowed in, Satan.''
''We're- Holy hell.''
''Yeah. You can't melt it with your hotness, can you, sexiest piece of ass in Lima?'' Quinn retorted, voice dripping with sarcasm.
''There was no need to put emphasis on th-''
''Thought so. Since you can't, we're going to have to get along nicely. First step, chop-chop out of bed or you'll get water and bread crumbs for breakfast.''
''Yes, fuhrer,'' Santana muttered, lazily sliding out of bed under Quinn's amused look. ''You should be grateful I'm not a morning person or else I'd be all Lima Heights up on your ass,'' came loud enough for her to hear when Santana defiantly strode past her. Quinn shook her head and followed the young woman to the kitchen.
''That's a crappy show.'' Santana craned her neck from the spot she was leafing Vogue on to get a slight peek at the large screen Quinn's eyes were glued to. As for the blonde, she was nestled in her customary spot among the pillows, visibly intrigued by the subplot that annoyed Santana to no end. It was only a matter of time before her friend gave in to her comments and got into an argument, hence getting Santana one step closer to what she wanted- the remote and distraction from her own thoughts.
''Shut up.'' Exactly according to the plan.
''No, really, this show has less continuity than your relationships. Hey, that chick's actually not that bad at all. I'd do her.''
''Santana, would you shut up before I shove that magazine down your throat?''
''He solved the case? Wow. Put your hands together for Sherlock Holmes. Can't you just watch a marathon of Toddlers and Tiaras? It'd be less painful.''
''Santana.''
''What's up, buttercup?''
''Go away.''
''Sorry, can't do, babycakes. The snow, remember?''
Next thing she knew, her subconscious had worked right before a flying remote hit the wall above her head, producing a loud crack and a fit of laughter from the target. Contrary to Quinn's expectations of Santana shutting up, the girl got no hints out of the remote attack but to move closer, so that she could take the provocations to next level. And that she did. Inching towards her with every passing second Quinn was absorbed into the show and paying no attention to other things, she finally got proximate enough for her to touch the blonde's ear with her lips.
''So I was thinki-''
In lieu of getting to finish the sentence, Santana found herself gasping for air, back firmly against the floor and a disgruntled Quinn on top.
What left her mouth next vaguely resembled a groan of irritation. ''What is wrong with you?''
''Do you want the full list or just the top ten? Well, let's see. First and foremost, I'm stuck in this dollhouse with an apathetic beauty queen who has a horrible taste in TV shows, bored out of my damn mind.''
''Please, like you can't come up with entertainment on your own. You know what I think? I think you crave attention. And why so? Because you really, really want to dish on what happened yesterday and receive empathetic assurations of how it was none of your fault,'' she murmured, instantly going from frustrated to sly.
Silence. Quinn knew she'd hit the nail on the head. All Santana did in response was purse her lips and shift slightly, wanting to get out of the blonde straddling her. Quinn only pinned her arms harder to the floor, thus making it harder to struggle, both eyebrows quirked in interest as to what she was going to hear.
''You're not my therapist,'' the latina croaked dryly, stubbornness setting in.
''Wrong answer.''
''Would you stop living out your closeted lesbian wet dreams and get off me?''
''Not really, no.''
There was no way to get out of the force pushing her towards the ground, so Santana produced the angriest look possible in hopes of preventing the upcoming interrogation. Nonetheless, her acid glare didn't serve it's purpose.
''What do you want me to tell you, Oprah?'' she pressed through her teeth upon noticing the victorious look on Quinn's features.
''What exactly happened last night?''
''I told you, we fought.''
''Why?''
''She asked me if I liked you.''
It was Quinn's turn to be dumbfounded, and Santana could swear she saw a slight rouge surfacing on her cheeks, next turning into a tone equivalent to pale white. Her wavering facial expressions gave off hints about the conflict taking place in her head. The young woman looked like she wanted to delve deeper into the details, but held back for some reason, alternately steering away from the subject as best as she could.
''That's why you got into an argument?''
''Yes and no. I couldn't keep everything in anymore and lashed out on her like a maniac. About having moved on so fast, about Evans, about everything. ''
''Oh.''
The following events could be described as follows: both women rendered silent, Quinn wordlessly got off Santana, tiptoeing towards the door as if she was a prey trying to flee from the beast, or in their case, more confessions. Santana didn't try to barricade her exit.
She turned around prior to leaving the room, hazy woe overlaying her formerly startled expression.
''Santana?''
''Yeah?''
''What was your answer?''
''What do you think?''
And with a slight nod, Santana was left sprawled out on the floor all by herself. When Quinn came to check on her a few hours later, she was already gone, a note being the only evidence of her visit.
She would never have foreseen the impact of something so simple. In a messy handwriting, the scribbles formed two sentences which caused Quinn's heart to jump against her will.
I know it will keep you up tonight, so I'm going to make your life easier as a thank you for being less irritating than usual. My answer was maybe.
Her favourite Destiny's Child song coming from the nightstand illustrated an incoming call and drew Santana's attention from a google search, but she remained motionless. The caller grew tired after some time, the rings were then replaced by voicemail beeps. Again, she didn't care. That until the phone compulsorily accepted it, and a voice filled the room.
''San.''
The recipient froze right away.
''Sam taught me how to use this thing, so I wanted to say hi.''
It was greeted with an annoyed eyeroll. Sam this, Sam that. As always. Did Brittany keep mentioning him on purpose or just forgot about the act of subtlety?
''Please don't be mad, because Lord Tubbington misses you and I'm afraid he's going to start stress smoking again.'' A giggle accompanying the muffled ''Sam, stop!'' created a slight gap in the one-sided conversation, but it was quickly filled. ''I have to hang up now in case the phone wants to suck me in. Pleeeease call me?''
Peculiarly, Santana didn't feel as empty as she expected to. She was jealous, though that to a certain extent, different to her previous begrudging rages. Did she use up all of her feelings in the past day? Or was she simply coming to terms with it and letting in other people besides Brittany? Unaware of where her mind was drifting, she ended up recalling her vulnerability around Quinn, a rare occurrence when it came to the latina, and noticeably getting the same in return. Despite the gay jokes, her friend had deliberately ignored them for the first time during their long friendship. Whatever the reason behind their abnormal change in demeanor was, she couldn't put a finger on it. As evident as it had been, Santana was oblivious to the unexpected journey of feelings ahead of them, even though she was more than familiar with the longing looks shared with her best friend. One thing Santana knew, she didn't want to stay hurt forever. As her abuela always stated (albeit referring to the opposite sex rather than girls), moving on was often the best choice. If it was meant to be, life had it's ways to rekindle old romances. Until that, she was certain about trying to move on.
Decisively reverting her eyes back to the laptop screen that shed a ghostly glow on her face in the dark, latina's fingers ran across the keyboard.
Performing arts schools in New York.