Work Text:
"Okay but so like, are there any paintings here that aren't totally depressing?" Quinn yelled from the next room over.
"Okay, but, so, like, do you even know what paint is for if it doesn't go on your eyelids?" Jane yelled right back at her.
"God, just criticize my technique because you don't approve of the medium, why don't you." Quinn sounded closer.
Jane was too busy squinting at her canvas, getting her brush lined up exactly so, to pay too much attention.
"Or maybe you could just appreciate me in my own context instead of worshipping at the altar of postmodernism or whatever."
Jane finally looked up.
Quinn was standing in the doorway to her bedroom, leaning against the door frame. Her shirt was pulled low on her chest and her lower lip was sticking out. Was that a pout? That -- that was a pout.
She made a very pretty picture.
"Your sister will kill me," Jane said.
Quinn rolled her eyes. "Are you going to let the critics hold you back? I thought you were an artist."
"When you put it like that," Jane said, setting her paint brush down.
Art could wait.