Work Text:
She’s used to her love taking the form of a howling windstorm—mighty and wild, capable of uprooting entire buildings. For her, love has always meant fire shooting through her veins and lightning shaking her bones. She always falls—far, far, into it.
She loves so fully that, once she gives her heart to someone, she cannot take it back. The one that beats inside her now is her fourth. Monica is no stranger to this. She’s known for most of her life that she cuts deeper than others.
But she’s never loved anyone the way that she loves Dana.
Loving Dana is quiet. It’s not an ominous stillness, not the calm before the storm, because there is no storm. Loving Dana is peaceful. It’s like dusk after a lazy summer day, like dawn atop a solitary peak of Mt. Tlaloc, like a warm beach during the hours in between. It’s a calmness that envelops Monica and washes out any doubt she may have about the workings of the universe. It just feels… right.
There aren’t any grand gestures involved this time. There are no romantic serenades, no kissing in the rain, no whirlwind vacations, no rose petals. Instead, the gestures are subdued, bordering on cloaked.
She doesn’t tell Dana she loves her. Instead, she drives an hour to Quantico to bring Dana her lecture notes when she forgets them at her apartment. She tends to William for the night when the circles under Dana’s eyes reach a certain hue. She appears at her door on Saturdays with a jar of freshly-squeezed orange juice and an ever-growing list of things to do in the city.
She convinces Dana to sign up for a painting class with her.
The first session is today. Monica’s looking forward to it—it’s been a while since she’s put a brush to use. There’s no shortage of watercolors, acrylics, and oils in her apartment, but she hasn’t taken them out in months. She retrieves the shoeboxes they're stashed in from under her bed now, frowning at the layer of dust that has accumulated on top. The contents are dumped into a canvas tote bag.
Her ride arrives exactly when it's supposed to, and her heart purrs as she climbs into the passenger seat. “Hey.”
“Hey.” As Monica settles in, Dana eyes the bag, turned lumpy by its contents.
“What’s in there?”
“Paints.” Monica pulls the seat belt across her chest and clicks it into place. This takes her gaze away from the driver for just a few seconds before they dash eagerly back to her.
“I thought the registration fee included materials.” Dana raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, it does. But I think it’ll be nice to have these just in case. For all we know, this place is stocked with Norman’s.”
“‘Norman’s?’”
Monica shakes her head, smiling in apology. “Shitty paint brand.”
Dana’s head tips slightly backward. “Ah.”
Monica takes no shame in sweeping her eyes up and down the woman, admiring the image of her in loose light-wash jeans and a baggy beige flannel. A thick scrunchie holds her hair up in a half ponytail. It’s a lot more casual than Monica’s used to seeing—Dana probably figured she should wear something she doesn’t mind getting paint on. The sleeves of the shirt are rolled halfway up her forearms, revealing pale, freckled skin and bright hair. She has one arm rested on the windowsill, and her other hand is already grasping the gear shift.
She doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, though—in fact, she looks so relaxed that Monica does a double-take, sending out a silent prayer to the cosmos that this will last. She didn’t know Dana even owned light-wash denim.
Dana doesn’t comment on her staring. She never does. But, Monica knows by now that she doesn’t mind. Dana might enjoy it, even.
“You look nice,” Monica tells her.
This is Monica’s go-to, her way of telling Dana things without actually saying them. Sometimes, “You look nice” means I’m glad you’re here. Sometimes, it means I’ve been thinking about you all day. Sometimes, it means I love you and would do anything for you. Today, it’s some swirly combination of all three.
Dana just blinks, unyielding as usual. The shoulder that faces Monica rises a little before freezing and dropping again, abandoning the shrug.
“Thanks. So, how do we get to this place?”
Monica smiles nevertheless. “Make a right onto Connecticut, and I’ll direct you from there.”
They’re not the only ones venturing out in the beautiful sun today. Monica sneaks more shameless glances over at Dana as the woman takes them through the Saturday afternoon traffic. It’s a great sight to see and a comforting energy to feel her without so much tension.
“How was your week?” Monica asks her.
She shrugs. “It was alright. How was yours?”
“Good.” Monica smirks. “John’s probably glad to have two days off from me, though.”
“Oh really?” There’s a lift of amusement in Dana’s voice. “What’d you do this time?”
“Nothing!” Monica laughs. “It’s just a long drive from Pittsburgh.”
“What is it, four hours?” They reach a red light, and Dana turns her head over to her.
“Yup.” The worst commutes—short enough not to justify taking a plane, but long enough to get restless with the person you already spend most of your time with.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t blame him.” Dana smiles—she’s just teasing.
The light turns green and Dana looks away to focus on the road, but Monica has no such obligation. The warmth of the smile lingers in Monica’s chest. She’s received Dana’s smile plenty of times now, but each time still lifts her. Each one still feels like a victory.
Monica’s been chipping away at them, little by little—the walls that surround Dana. It’s taken her months, but she’s made some progress. The first layer of bricks has been more or less dismantled, and she can see the top of Dana’s pretty face peeking over the remaining rows now.
The pieces Monica has taken away haven’t been disposed of, though—rather, they’ve been used to build something better.
Dana trusts her. Trusts her enough to let her into her home, trusts her enough to leave her alone with William, trusts her enough to really talk to her, sometimes. Trusts her enough to agree to commit the next four Saturdays of her life to this art class.
Monica still doesn’t know how Dana feels about her, exactly, but she knows that the woman she loves trusts her in a way that is becoming inherent, and this is more than enough to keep her spirit singing.
The classes are held at a cozy studio on 7th Street, tucked in between a kickboxing gym and a cheery Thai restaurant. Monica eyes the bright purple and gold menu in the window as they walk by—her eyes light up when they see ‘mango sticky rice.’ She makes a note of it for later.
The subtle smell of wood and new canvases welcomes them into the classroom, which is small but just big enough not to feel cramped. Colorful abstract prints adorn the walls, adding life to the drab of the stark white paint and concrete floors. Nine oak easels are set up in a grid—Monica and Dana claim the left-most back corner and tie on the blue aprons that are draped over each wooden stool.
They’re on Dana time—early—and there are only two other attendees present as they settle in. Monica’s pleased to see the supply carts loaded with paint brands that are much more favorable than Norman’s. Still, she’s glad she’s brought her own, because they don’t have her favorite brand of Dioxazine Purple, and it’s a pain to try and replicate through mixing.
Monica sets her tote bag on the floor before taking a seat and turning to Dana. “Have you ever done this before?”
“Done what?” Dana’s already sat down herself, casually slouching with her hands gripping the sides of the stool. Her legs are short enough for her feet to rest comfortably on the bottom rung.
Monica thought the question was obvious. She pauses, looking into Dana’s eyes to see if she’s missing anything, but she doesn’t know what it could be.
“Taken a painting class,” she says.
Dana’s gaze drifts away for a second, over towards the wall and back again. “Yeah,” she says, the corners of her mouth curling up just a little. “Melissa used to drag me along to hers.”
Monica smiles back. “I guess I’m in good company, then.”
She used to feel conflicted about being compared to Melissa. She didn’t want Dana to see her as a sisterly figure. But Monica came to realise this was a silly concern. There’s nothing wrong with being likened to someone Dana loved so much.
The instructor is a man about their age, with neat brown hair and a soft face that's more freckled than Dana’s. He comes in wearing a black oversized T-shirt and dark baggy jeans, ready with a charismatic smile. He’s got that easygoing, down-to-earth, neighborly attitude about him—the kind that is so obviously genuine you can’t help but immediately take a liking to him.
“Hey, everybody. Today, we’re going to practice depicting nature.”
He prepares a palette with shades from all over the color wheel and retrieves the larger brushes from his cup. Using large, exaggerated strokes that make his work visible even from the back of the room, he demonstrates how to craft nature with paint. Water, leaves, animal fur, tree bark, flowers. Soon enough, his canvas is bright with the scene of a leopard peering out through the thick of the jungle.
Then, he turns it over to the students. The assignment is to paint a natural scene inspired by a song they have heard recently, whether it’s a particular lyric or the message of the song itself.
“Try to pick something that holds particular meaning for you,” he says. “That way, you can capture the feelings in your work.”
Monica gathers her tote bag of paints from the floor and dumps some onto her supply cart before taking the rest over to Dana’s.
“In case you wanna try any of these,” she says.
Dana nods. “Thanks.” She starts going through the paints, picking up various tubes and inspecting the colors. “What are you going to paint?” She holds them up even closer so she can read the labels.
“You’ll see,” Monica responds. Partly because she thinks it would be fun for it to be a surprise, and partly because she’s not set on a song yet.
She returns to her own easel, dragging the supply cart closer to the side of her stool so that she can sit down as she goes through the materials. Her mind races, trying to recall what songs she’s listened to recently, but she keeps getting thrown off track by other thoughts.
She watches as Dana wets her paintbrush and creates her first wide, loose strokes onto the canvas. Monica makes an effort to do so discreetly—not because it’s a secret that she likes to watch Dana work, but because she doesn’t want to make Dana self-conscious. The easels are spaced a fair distance apart to allow the instructor to move through them, so she can’t see what Dana is painting. Monica’s attention is consumed by the woman herself.
She’s still looking so relaxed, so free. She’s even slouching a bit, still. God. It’s been almost three months since they’ve had a brush with the twisted and sinister. William’s graduated to the next size of baby clothes. The circles under Dana’s eyes are lightening to almost a pastel shade.
Monica knows they’re far from escaping the woods completely, but it’s been nice to enjoy this idyllic little rest stop in the meantime. Today, they can forget about the thorny, hellish forest surrounding them. The infernal wildfire that threatens to sweep through at any moment.
Dana’s mixing some paints on her palette now, lips pursed in concentration. Monica watches as she adds a different shade of green, and then another. She frowns slightly, and then adds more of the first.
God, she really deserves a break, Monica thinks. Dana’s been through so much—she deserves to stop and take leisurely breaths and slouch if she wants to. She deserves to rest and just worry about mixing paint. She’s adding bright yellow, now. Dana really deserves to just sit down on a fresh forest log with a sweet snack and look up at—
—That’s it! Monica swings her head back to her own canvas, her chin lifting en route as the song begins to play in her head. She knows what to paint.
She’s a bit rusty, but the excitement of painting again coupled with the lyrics in her head propel Monica forward, and soon enough the bones of her canvas are covered with layers and layers of paint. Blends of Prussian Blue, Phthalo Green, and Titanium White take the center stage, while Cadmium Yellow and Raw Sienna occupy the periphery. Topping off the painting is Monica’s beloved Dioxazine Purple, both in its pure form as well as augmented by other pigments.
She thinks she’s made a good song choice, because her arm is lifting easily with the spirit of the lyrics, dancing with her paintbrush across the canvas like a magic wand, casting the scene in her head into existence.
Her arm produces heavy strokes and then light ones, rough ones and then soft ones, assured ones and then shy ones. Neat and messy, solid and liquid, round and angled. Monica wrangles all the contrasts together to spin her vision onto the canvas.
There’s one person on her mind the entire time.
As she squeezes more Titanium White onto her palette, she turns her head towards Dana again. “How’s it going?”
“Good.” Dana doesn’t look up—she’s concentrating on her own painting. Her hand is moving slowly now, her eyes narrowed and mouth scrunched in concentration as she attends to small details of some sort.
She looks so damn precious. Monica smiles. “What are you painting?”
Now, Dana smirks. “Jeremiah.”
Monica blinks. “The prophet?”
“You’ll see.”
The class is two hours long, which is enough time to create a decently-polished painting, but not enough time to agonise over the little details. Which is good, because Monica knows there would never be enough time in the world for her to iron out her indecisions.
It’s okay to wonder if she should layer darker shades of purple in the background, if she should add more unruly brushstrokes to the left side, and if she should dash stronger specks of white in the middle. Lots of unrealised decisions call out to her, but she’s able to turn away from the tangle because she’s more excited to show Dana the painting.
Monica puts down her palette, dunks her last paintbrush into the water jar, and then stands in front of her canvas, hands clasped together as she looks on in satisfaction at her creation.
She doesn’t have to call for Dana’s attention, because she already has it.
“What did you paint?” From her spot, Dana takes a towel from the supply cart and wipes a stray streak of dark green from her hand. She heads over towards Monica, who turns and smiles at this other wonderful sight before her.
“A beach.”
“A beach?” Dana keeps going, moving closer to the easel to take a look at Monica’s work. Monica stays in place, her breath catching as Dana’s small body brushes against her on its way to the ocean.
She’s painted a scene of the shore—of sand, of sea, and bright, shining skies. Monica’s particularly satisfied with her execution because while the waves are large and rolling and splashing with life, they seem to carry peace rather than chaos. The painting has turned out as serene as she wanted it to.
“Wow.” Dana brings her arms up to her hips and leans in even closer as she studies the scene. Monica can smell her orange vanilla shampoo. “This is really nice.”
Her admiration paints an even bigger smile on Monica’s face. “Thanks.”
“Why’s the sky purple?” Dana tilts her head up to look at the top of the painting. She’s so close to the canvas now that Monica thinks she may get paint on the tip of her nose. Monica’s not worried about the painting, though—she wouldn’t mind Dana making her mark in the sand, or a ripple in the waves.
“The song is Purple Haze,” she explains.
“‘Purple Haze?’” Dana turns her head around to meet her eyes, and Monica can see the moment she realises how close they’re standing. Dana’s startled for a second, but she doesn’t move away.
“Yeah, Jimi Hendrix.” Their faces are so close that she can count the freckles on Dana’s chin.
“Oh, I don’t remember that one.” They’re so close, she can see the little speckle of brown in Dana’s left eye.
Monica blinks herself together. “I heard it on the radio a few days ago,” she says. “It goes like…” Her eyes sweep upwards as she recalls the tune, and her head rocks side to side as she smiles and half-sings.
“'Purple haze all in my brain,
Lately, things don't seem the same,
Acting funny, but I don't know why,
'Scuse me while I kiss the sky.'”
At the conclusion of the last verse, she looks back down towards Dana. There’s a shine of curiosity on her face now.
“Kiss the sky?” Dana asks. “How does one do that?”
Monica stares at her shiny bottom lip. I’m wondering the same, actually.
Monica’s feeling brave today. “I guess you gotta take it out on a date first.”
“What, like to a painting class?”
She says this without missing a beat, and it sends Monica flying into her own haze. Oh, wow.
Dana’s not impulsive, and she doesn’t flirt lightly. She’s said what she’s said because it serves a premeditated purpose.
She’s smirking now, and Monica has the mind to close the mouth that started to drop open. She tries to think of something witty to respond with, something to keep the conversation non-committal, just in case she’s making this into something more than it actually is. But her mind is a blank, her wide eyes are staring stupidly, and time is ticking down to Dana changing the subject out of mercy.
So she just answers, “Yeah.”
And the one word is enough to satisfy them both.
The mostly-dried canvases are carefully set in the backseat of Dana’s car. Monica’s purple-crowned ocean is met by Dana’s stocky, spotted, saucer-eyed frog; reclining under a wide leaf.
Aw, Dana, this is beautiful.
‘Jeremiah was a bullfrog.’
Jeremiah is adorable.
The vehicle is otherwise empty when the doors are locked again, because the Thai restaurant and mango sticky rice are still on the list.
The sun is saying its pink and orange goodbyes when Dana pulls the car up to the front of Monica’s building. They’ve spent the whole day together, and yet Monica wishes there were even more hours to spare.
“Take my painting,” she says, turning to Dana. “I want you to have it.” She offers Dana a gentle smile, too.
Dana skips the formalities of courtesy denials—right, who has time for that?—and goes straight to, “Thanks.” And then, “You should have mine, then. We’ll trade.”
Monica wasn’t aiming for this, but it makes her giddy all the same. “Okay. Deal.”
She looks over her shoulder at the little bullfrog that is now hers, and then back at the brilliant artist, illuminated further by sunset. “See ya on Monday?” Monday’s only a day and a half away, but it can’t come soon enough.
“Yeah,” Dana nods. “See you Monday.”
Monica releases her seatbelt and reaches for the door handle. Before she can pull it open, though, something wraps around her other wrist.
“Wait.”
The soft, warm hand is retracted, but the sentiment behind it remains.
“What?”
Monica turns her head back around, and there’s little room for doubt when she sees Dana slowly leaning in, her eyes wide. Dana crosses the middle of the car, and Monica sways to meet her.
She kisses the sky, and their kiss tastes like sweet mango.
