...

August 2015

...

August is a particularly retched month in New York. Yes, Quinn had deemed July as abysmal for the tri-state inhabitants, but August is horrendous. It's not that this was her first August in the city, it's just that everyone always forgets about this wasteland of a month, perhaps voluntarily. The third and final round of summer was universally akin with lazy days by the pool, lingering sunsets, crackling bonfires, endless rounds of bottles dripping with frost, fresh from the freezer. Someone had a guitar, dinners grilled, giggling, toothless mouths rimmed with red dye number 4, and life was good, man.

No, not here. The heat that moved in during early July had stretched its legs out and lounged comfortably in the arms of Manhattan riverbanks. Streets became an incubus for the molten tar and exhaust, belched from cars crammed in between the curbs. The heat was visible, rising like radioactive waves off the blinding windshields. Uptown, behemoth shopping avenues blasted customers with thousands of dollars worth of arctic horsepower. Downtown, the little brunch cafe's in the village coaxed their wall mounted A/C units through endless afternoons, and they valiantly chugged along in attempts to chase the heat away. Tourists migrated en masse into the city for last hoorah field trips before the summer's end, clogging the arteries of New York's footpaths. It was a cycle of brow wiping, paper fanning, squinting lethargy.

And then like clockwork, Labor Day chased everyone out like hordes of rats dogged by an oncoming train. They scurried off to sandy shores or shady backyards where they sucked the last tepid drops of summer dry, along with a few gin ricky's or Red Stripes, depending on which fork they settled on. These soldiers of the city's last regiment deserted the sad, sorry stack of sheetrock to fend for itself. By the final weekend in August, Manhattan felt still, desolate, post-apocalyptic.

It's no question, then, why Quinn chose this weekend to venture uptown, despite it's tourist magnet infamy, even on the most desolate of days in NYC. Still, this weekend was as close to having the city to herself as she would get. To evade the heat, she settled on dragging Santana up the steps of the Met, and into it's cavernous lobby. Her companion had finally acquiesced with several relenting emojis at the promise of free entertainment and air conditioning.

Well, almost free. Santana smugly forked over her wrinkled dollar at the suggested donation of the ticket booth woman. Typical. Quinn slid a fiver across the counter, with an apologetic smile. Stickers peeled and stuck to their shirts, they strolled aimlessly through the labyrinth of Greek sculptures. Santana scoffed in disgust at children running around the bubbling indoor fountain and middle-aged man back sweat. As they darted through an archway into the Africa, Oceania, and Americas wing, the din of the crowds disappeared behind them, as if they had crossed a threshold into another dimension.

Quinn sighed and looked to Santana who seemed to be equally as relieved at the solitude.

"Better?" she asked.

"Much," Santana confirmed. The squeak of Quinn's rubber soles on the slick floors echoed in the vacant air as she stepped forward towards a case of artifacts. She had probably read the placards a hundred times. Spinning on her heel, she finds Santana gazing upwards at the assemblage of wooden panels lining the ceiling above them. It coaxes a grin onto her cheeks.

"What are those?" she asks Quinn, still scanning the work.

"They're paintings from the Kwoma people on sago palm spathes," Quinn recites. Santana remained transfixed, her mouth hanging open. "They usually go inside ceremonial houses when a new one is built. Or they did, anyway."

"Huh," Santana breathed. Quinn stood next to her and bent her own head back to take in the view.

"See," she continued, pointing at a crocodile tile, "Each family in the village contributes a painting to hang in the ceremonial house. The image on it represents their family, usually an animal or a leaf pattern or something. Kind of like a coat of arms."

"Huh."

Santana didn't say anything more, so they remained, necks strained beneath nearly the entire ancestral lineage of the Kwoma people. Quinn kept quiet herself, biting back the urge to word vomit her art history trivia. It was no easy feat, and it involved some actual biting of her lip to silence herself.

If Santana had anything to say as they progressed through the wing, she kept it to herself. The two orbited each other, drifting from case to case, a curious expression fixed on Santana's features. Quinn couldn't help but try to catch her eye and pry some of those thoughts from her Fort Knox of a brain.

Taking the taciturn drifting as a sign of autonomy, Quinn left Santana at the bis poles to stand before a bamboo body mask. It always terrified her a little, but thrilled her just the same. Something about it felt whimsical, as if it could spring to life at any moment, launching into a ceremonial dance around it's own podium.

Santana caught her laughing to herself as she approached. She smiled at the blonde, but still kept quiet still. Her tight lipped gaze was starting to creep Quinn out. Sure, the wing made her feel tranquil, but it practically sedated Santana.

"It's my favorite part of the museum, you know," she offered, gently slicing through the silence. Santana stood next to her, squaring up against the body mask. She tilted her head to the side, and then turned to Quinn, eyes narrowed inquisitively.

"Really?" she questioned.

Quinn nodded slowly, a bit unsure now herself. Santana volleyed between the body mask and Quinn once again, before pursing her lips.

"Huh."

"Is that all you're going to say for the rest of the day?" Quinn sighed. She trailed behind Santana, who had advanced to the next portion of the hall.

"What is there to say, Quinnie? I never would expect to find you here, of all places," she elaborated, her hand waving to the artifacts around them. Her booted heels snapped against the floor with her exaggerated steps towards a particularly lengthy canoe. Santana never let the weather dictate her style. It was almost admirable how dedicated she was to it. Quinn recalled when once upon a time, she used to share in that commitment to her own visage. "The Renaissance wing maybe, or scribbling in your diary at the edge of the Temple of Dendur."

Quinn plodded up beside her and replied coyly, "Well, a girl has to maintain a little bit of mystery, doesn't she?"

Santana snorted, and grumbled, "And then you go and say shit like that." Quinn rammed her shoulder into her companion's, launching them both into a good natured bout of laughter. Quinn rolled her eyes, and shook her head.

"Anyway, besides the fact that I do like the art," she carried on, "It's almost always deserted, so I can be alone with the masks and my thoughts."

Santana nodded in understanding, sticking out her chin as she surveyed the carvings of the boat.

"So why bring me?" Santana challenged. Quinn took a breath to answer, but found herself unable to. It was a viable question, and the uncertainty poked Quinn in unpleasant places. There hadn't been much thought behind it, it just sort of happened. She called her up, the museum came to mind, and her feet brought them here. It might have something to do with the fact that with Santana, she felt as free as she did in the privacy of her solitude. Her presence was a natural as Quinn's own limbs. The subject of her thoughts was looking at her intently now, not making it easier to come up with a response.

At Quinn's muteness, a smug grin crept across Santana's mouth, but she didn't press the matter any further. The glass panels scattered the afternoon light around the room in in soft sherbet hues. The shades were drawn to let just enough daylight in, and an old lady shuffled out of one of the adjacent galleries and into another.

The room was suddenly too quiet, too full of words Quinn should probably have said. They were piling up around her but she couldn't grasp a single one, and Santana looked so blissfully unaware. Or did she know? Did she throw that question out casually just to poke the tender spots of Quinn's psyche? Whatever the case, although it was most likely the latter, Quinn decided to brush it off, so she abruptly pulled Santana's arm through an archway.

A sparse collection of wooden totems and and masks gave way to a low ceiling room, painted a drab beige so as to not take away from the glittering gold treasure on display. Santana's expression lit up with bright eyes and a toothy grin.

"Ah, my people," she boasted with arms outstretched. She strolled over to the nearest case to admire the gold trinkets within.

Quinn snorted but let her have it. Just as she had hoped, the gold artifacts ignited Santana's usual chatter, a pleasant static Quinn could slather over her addled mind. Santana took her time through the gallery, ogling each of the pendants and cuffs and solid gold figurines. She even went so far as to point out her favorites, advising Quinn to note them for future gift ideas. She humored her, nodding and carrying on.

It was at least a good 30 minutes before Quinn was able to drag her out of the hall of gold. They meandered through a hallway or two that spit them out into the sunny Arms and Armory exhibit. Santana squinted at the onslaught of daylight and let Quinn circle them around the horse-mounted knights in the center of the room.

Remarkably, Santana's attention didn't falter as Quinn yammered on about the armor styles and coats of arms. She made sure to check for the glazed over eyes and loose hanging jaw, tell tale signs of Santana's disinterest. But no, she stood beside her and nodded appropriately when Quinn truncated a thought. She smiled at her lame history jokes. The only thing suspect was the way Quinn caught her looking at her mid-ramble; the same way Quinn looked at Starry Night or The Wedding at Cana. One blink, and it was gone. Sarcastic, smirking Santana was back in place.

Through the skylights, Quinn could see the sun drooping from it's midday perch. Santana had suffered enough, she reckoned, so she guided them towards the exit. She became acutely aware of how Santana's arm was now looped through the crook of her elbow. It had become so natural for them to sustain a physical connection outside their escapades. Usually something benign, like this, or finding herself leaning against Santana's shoulder, tossing her calves into Santana's lap. Quinn had never really given much mind to it before. Something familiar tickled her gut from a far away place, something she had been actively avoiding.

Words, Quinn needed an avalanche of them to bury this.

"How's Rachel doing these days?" Quinn blurted out. She winced at her poor choice of subject matter. They passed by the dim cases of weapons, maces and pistols, still menacing after dormant centuries behind glass.

Santana shrugged unconvincingly and grunted, "Eh, she's got a twinkle toes twat on her tail for the lead in some kid's NYADA thesis project."

Quinn raised her brow in suspicion, inquiring, "You sound pretty bothered by that, someone threatening her."

"Yeah well," Santana sighed, "She'll be moping around for weeks if she doesn't get it. So, it's really in all of our best interests that she does." Quinn nodded, peering at her best friend out of the corner of her eye. She was frowning, like she was also trying to keep an unwelcome notion at bay.

"Knowing Rachel, nobody will be able to compete," Quinn assured her.

"Yeah," she sighed, distracted. She extended her finger to point to a long shotgun they were passing. "I might be back for that one though. I'll go Tara Lipinski on her ass."

"As your legal counselor, I advise you find another method of dealing with your anger," Quinn played along. Wrapped up in their conversations, Quinn's feet charted the course yet again. Those tricky rubber soles carried them down the shady paths of Central Park and through a grove of oak trees to deposit them at one end of the boat pond. The glossy water glistened in the glaring sun, disturbed only by gentle ripples as the motorized boats drifted from one bank to the other. Dodging a pint sized scooter brigade, the two laid claim to a bench mostly shielded from the sun.

The afternoon carried on lazily, like nothing in Quinn and Santana's world had changed since that fateful cheer tryout day. Sure, the stage had changed from linoleum floors and florescent lights to shady park benches beneath the watchful gaze of the buildings peering over treelines.

And yet, the show went on, the lines the same, the queues the same. Santana griped about how despite how they live in a mostly concrete jungle, Quinn always ends up dragging her to some nature-filled park. Quinn claimed she's doing her a favor. They bickered, and they made snide jokes about passerby's. She nudged her shoulder and she shared her lemonade. If she closed her eyes, Quinn could easily place them on the bleachers or in the back of the glee club.

Is it possible to move forward and backwards at the same time? Perhaps it was the hazy humidity, but on that bench, Quinn felt the absence of time. Their peals of laughter and raspy whispers cocooned them. Each lingering graze, heavy glance, was only theirs, impervious to the swells of the cities population. Her lungs felt fuzzy and her fingers combed her hair back, twirled it, tucked it, and tugged at it; the tactility of her ministrations the only thing grounding her. Maybe, instead, something could transcend time all together.

Hours later, drunk on a heat stroke on a 6 train so densely packed she was shocked the train moved at all, she decided to leave the puzzle alone. Although the realization struck her that she had found herself on a carousel of repeating afternoons with a certain brunette. Movie nights, fucking, parks, lazy couch lounging, fucking, museums, concerts, coffee, an adventurous round of groping. No matter where her leisurely hours took her, Santana was there. She has always been there, by her own design or that of fate, however the former was increasingly becoming the case.

Come to think of it, it was strangely akin to a relationship of sorts, the first functional one she'd ever had. She can at least admit that to herself these days. That notion alone made her chuckle darkly; in spite of herself or out of pity for herself, again, the jury was out. It alerted Santana though, whose arm she had draped herself around in lieu of a subway pole.

"What's tickling your fancy, Lucy Q," she mumbled. Quinn shook a stray side-bang out of her face and turned it as best as she could in the crowd to meet Santana's line of sight. She almost left it at that, a shrug, a loose smile on her lips.

"Kurt and Rachel are out east right?" she piped up. Santana nodded with an arched brow. "Good. Lets go back to your place."

The train rocked their pressed bodies with the curves and bends of the track. She caught the side of Santana's mouth curling upwards, no doubt pleased with the offer on the table. Quinn rested her head on Santana's shoulder, nose pressed to the salty cinnamon skin she'd grown accustomed to. Around and around they go.

...

There was a crack in the ceiling of Santana's apartment, in the kitchen. She saw it now, splayed on the floor, the tiles cool against her shoulder blades. At first she had thought there were two, until her liquored vision settled to reveal it was but one, solitary, painted over crack.

"There's a crack in the ceiling, Q" she stated.

"Mmm," came the disinterested reply. Quinn was currently preoccupied, leaving hickies on her neck. Laid atop of her torso, legs straddling her waist, Quinn was leeching the life from her neck, one nip at a time, to the muffled soundtrack of some top 40 song.

Santana looked to her left. She reached into her cup, drained of all liquid, to extract a strawberry slice and pop it in her mouth. Her sinking teeth pushed liquor out of the saturated berry, pleasantly tart like a sour patch kid.

It wasn't her idea to get plastered so early in the afternoon, for once, although she was hardly opposed. Her fuzzy memory wasn't the most reliable, but she recalled how a casual stop at the corner liquor store for some two buck chuck turned into Quinn, ever the one for a project, clutching a bottle of Pimm's, and running Rachel's fruit supply dry. It had to marinate, or steep, or whatever the culinary term was, so to pass the time, they polished off half the wine before one of them poured the first glass of their concoction. By then, they were well over the DUI limit, and amber liquid sloshed onto shirts and shorts.

Naturally, those stained clothes had to go, which explained the exposed skin. The pulse of the music blaring across the vacant apartment is what drew Quinn to Santana's lacy, swaying hips. A bridge and a chorus and a seductive lip bite was all it took for Santana to slam Quinn against a wall, grinding against her while pale hands clutched the back of her neck. Scandalous panting, a single hand slipped between them, a leg hiked over a hip, the angles she knew all too well brought Quinn to pieces against the plaster and into a giggling heap on the kitchen floor.

And there they were, the pitcher long since drained, Quinn's sloppy kisses, Santana bursting berries in her mouth like gushers.

"Quinn, you're drooling on me, gross," Santana grumbled, nudging at her shoulder. Quinn lapped at the red blotch and managed to push herself up into a somewhat slouch against the cabinets.

"I don't drool," Quinn insisted.

Santana used her elbows to prop herself up, before arguing, "Yes you do. You're a sloppy drunk, Quinn Fabray."

Quinn jutted her chin upwards and swung her head away from Santana in a defiant pout. It was so uncharacteristic of Quinn, she almost snorted. Her wobbly arms got her upright, and she bashed her shoulder into the wood, hardly graceful.

"Aw, nooo," Santana laughed, a rich chuckle shaking her shoulders, "C'mere, don't be mad." She reached out for Quinn's jaw, and attempted to pull it back around. Quinn's eyed her playfully, still pouting, by the time Santana got them face to face. "You're a cute drunk, okay?" Santana cooed, laying a series of pecks along thin line of Quinn's pressed lips. "I'm kidding, Q."

She tried running her stained thumb along Quinn's lips to draw them out. The shift was immediate, her jaw slackened and released those pink lips, parting with blown out pupils bearing the promise of something sinful. Quinn's neck slacked forward, bumping their noses gently before crashing their lips together. Quinn was a sloppy drunk and a sloppy drunk kisser, there was no denying that.

Santana would never admit it, but it got her hot and bothered to see Quinn so unwound, her inhibitions flung across the room. The way she hung off Santana's body, all wanton and breathy. She opened her mouth to Quinn's persistent tongue, fisting matted blonde hair.

When they pulled apart, Quinn looked absolutely delicious. Santana licked her lips carnivorously. A soft sigh hit her cheek, and she realized Quinn was not reciprocating her hedonistic desire currently. Her eyes had been diluted by an emotion of some sort, softened. These sorts of interactions is where Santana bows out. This was dangerous, a no fly zone for Lopez Airlines. Quinn's hand rose to rest on Santana's cheek, with a thumb stroke for good measure. As much as she itched to stand up, change the song, change the subject, Santana was locked in place.

From her drowsy haze, Quinn spoke, just above a whisper, "I love you, too."

This was no playful "shut up, I love you", or a post-gift "oh my god, I love you", or even the tearful, graduation goodbye "I love you" with some absurd daily Skype demand attached. This was a textbook, heartfelt, moment sort of "I love you."

Santana swallowed thickly as the hushed words processed. She faintly registered an Adele song coming up on shuffle, the piano chords trickling through the apartment, but the ironic timing was not lost on her.

"Too?" she ventured to clarify. Quinn's crooked smile spread into a dopey version of her all-knowing grin. She had known this whole time. She had been awake after all, and Santana had been careless. Fuck, shit, fuck.

"I'm sorry it took so long for me to say it," Quinn croaked. Santana shook her head before she could finish her sentence, closing her eyes and basking in this. The warmth of Quinn's sticky palm on her cheek, the faint puffs of breath grazing her lips from Quinn so close. Those words, those three stupid words that leave ruins in their wake, and yet she was here with them hanging in the air around her, feeling them nuzzle her gut and steal her breath.

"I know," she offered in return, because she felt like she should say something, but she couldn't say that something. She looked around her to find something amiss, that one little out of place sign that she was actually dreaming. It was just her and Quinn, the golden sky out the window, the remnants of their Labor Day celebrations scattered across the floor. Everything was as it was supposed to be.

"I needed to say it, though," Quinn interjected her thoughts. "Because it's true 'n I don't know what to do about it."

Santana snickered at her slurred words. She wrapped her fingers around the hand on her cheek and relocated it to her lap.

"Q, you don't have to do anything, you just…"

"No, you don't understand."

This interruption was more urgent. Her brow had hardened. Santana's smile was wiped from her face, but before she could gently pry, Quinn continued.

"Or do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God?" she recited. That came out clear as a bell, no slurs or stutters. Santana's muscles tensed at those ominous words, and Quinn's resolute delivery.

"Quinn, what…" she trailed off.

"Corinthians, 6:9," Quinn clarified. It took Santana's Mexican Catholic heritage seconds to realize what she said. Quinn was so serious, so troubled, and over something like this, that it was almost laughable. In fact she did laugh, a knee jerk reaction. It ended up coming out as a feeble chuckle.

"Of course you quote the bible when you're drunk," Santana teased, but it fell on deaf ears. Quinn's anxiety had a complete grip on her as her hand balled into a fist in Santana's lap. Her mouth bent into a frown and tears began to brim the bottom of her hazel eyes. Before she knew it, Quinn launched herself forward and clambered into her lap. She curled up into her chest, face pressed into her neck, and one hand snaking around her waist. If she was crying, she was doing the quiet sort, the Fabray internalized emotions special.

Santana's arms instinctively held her in place. They rubbed circles across her shoulder blades and performed other customary consolation tasks. She had been here before herself, under a different set of complications, but at this fork nonetheless, and yet, she was at a loss with Quinn. She could try and package her own fuck-ups as nuggets of wisdom, but Quinn was upset and drunk and any attempt at grabbing the wheel of this ship in a storm would be useless. The soft brushing of lips on her skin were accompanied by a string of sounds, she suddenly realized.

"I want you to come with me. Come with me, San, please," Quinn mumbled, over and over like a mantra.

Santana urged her out of hiding, and was met with a face riddled with despair. Quinn looked up at her and pleaded for her to understand and pacify this maelstrom of terror inside of her.

"Tell me what's wrong, Q, please," Santana entreated.

Quinn swallowed what was probably a lump in her throat, and said, vocal chords ragged, "I-I want you to come with me to the kingdom, San. I don't want to go there without you." Her nails dug into Santana's neck for emphasis.

Santana sank into the gravity of the situation like an ice bath. The tiny gold cross stuck to Quinn's dewy skin and just glistened innocently in the dim evening light. It was so small but stood so formidably between them. No matter what they were doing, it was always there, no matter how naked she stripped Quinn down, both literally and figuratively. Rain or shine, night and day, there it always hung, an actual cross Quinn bore, again, in both turns of phrase. She couldn't fix this, it was bigger than whatever had grown and flowered between them. There was nothing to say to tie this all up with a neat little bow and go get some fro-yo with extra sprinkles.

So, she flattened the back of Quinn's head like her own mother always used to, and that seemed to stop the strange, staggered breathing. Quinn still gaped at her expectantly.

"Well then, you let me know when the rapture bus shows up, so I can throw my best heels in a bag and get on it with you," Santana told her firmly. It was all new to her, but she tried to be warm, soothing. She adjusted Quinn in her lap and added, "I go where you go."

A ghost of a smile flitted across Quinn's face.

"That's not really how it happens," she scolded her. Santana's shoulders dropped at the ease in tension, and a shrug shook off the rest. It was still there, woven into the muscles of Quinn's back, but she was calm now at least, the bubble had burst. Her hands were draped loosely around Santana's neck, a few strands of blond hair fell over her cloudy eyes, and she had a pale blue bra on, a new one that now had a dark fruit juice blotch on the right side. Santana decided she wanted to remember all these things.

Quinn glided forward and kissed Santana lightly, whose eyes fell shut at the contact.

"I'm serious," Quinn uttered as she pulled back.

Santana's eyes fluttered open. It was her turn to plead with Quinn to understand, to will her to see what she couldn't say. Quinn deserved epic poems proclaiming unconditional love, doves flying around, some sort of carriage. Santana never really thought she had any of that in her, but for this girl, this infuriating blonde with her big words and stupid morality clauses, she might.

"I'm serious, too," she insisted, with a tell tale twitch of her brow. She was serious; getaway car, Gone with the Wind, jump-off-the-cliff-with-you serious. Quinn was hurting, and she couldn't remedy any of it but she could be there with her. She could promise not to leave, that she would stand by her through the storm, if Quinn would have her. That big emotional declaration of emotion would have come in handy right in that instant.

Santana pressed a kiss loaded with all these sentiments to Quinn's salty lips, and supposed that would have to do for now.