Epilogue
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Mike wasn't surprised that his father put up a fight when he declared he was going to repaint his room. The first clue was that the dancer had made it a statement, not a question, the second being that it made no sense, he was about to leave for college anyway and the third, and most important, clue was that the odds of putting a bunch of teenagers in charge of painting a room (one of which was Sam) would probably not result in a product that would aid in the overall value of their home.
But once Mike had explained they had already pooled their money and bought the supplies, had detailed and very explicit designs and promised not a single drop of paint would hit any unintended painting surfaces (and his mother had done a little persuading of her own), Mike got the green light to repaint his room.
They had moved out all his furniture, vacuumed, dusted, taped and tarped and carefully, oh-so carefully sketched out the details in light penciled strokes, cautiously drawing out sections of dinosaurs and ninjas and pirates, robots and rainbows and swirls, music personified in colors on his wall, dancing and popping and locking and joy.
It looked…it looked like a bit of mess, when they were all done. So many painters, so many different ideas, so little wall and skill to go around but Mike couldn't have been more pleased with the end result. When they ordered victory pizzas and ate them on the floor of his room, all the tarps and tape put away, they pointed out what sections each of them did, what was their favorite, what of it was whack.
They criticized Puck's pig-faced pirates and marveled at Tina's Go-go vampires lurking in the corners. They laughed at Sam's move to repurpose Puck's "ninja's", now in quotations due to their brightly-colored and most unstealthy clothes and weapons. They admired the combined awesomeness of Blaine, Kurt, Dave, and Santana, whose towering tree took up a majority of the window wall, roots traveling down the floorboards and branches and vines delicate with a somehow mystical, old-world feel to them. Ancient and steadfast and bright, ridiculously bright, orange, teal, and lime-green leaves sprouting off a rainbow trunk. They applauded Quinn and Joe's sunbeams dancing down from the ceiling and giggled at Finn's poor attempts to copy them, eventually having given up to join Brittany and Sugar in their own corner of the room where they had executed a more… "abstract" approach to interior decorating. It had incorporated finger painting, splashing paint, and many, many handprints. Rory and Artie had teamed up together to do a chair-rail height racing stripe all around the room. Three times, in white, black, and green. "For style," Artie had said. "For luck," was Rory's excuse, delivered with a wink.
(It was entirely because they wanted a piece of all of the action, and reveled in painting over anything Rachel had done.)
Surprisingly enough, it was Rachel and Mercedes Mike had worked with the most. Not that it was bad, because it was far from that. Between the three of them they connected the entire room, all these vastly different ideas and executions, all so unique and mismatched and seemingly unable to form a cohesive picture, all the hard-edge robots and delicate flowers and super heroes and fluffy clouds. Words and flecks and pictures and feelings; they went around the room like the maestros they were and composed a symphony.
It looked horrible, from a design standpoint. His dad would probably have it painted over the moment Mike moved out of the house, but until then…
Until then he would sit back and enjoy the ride, all of them squished in his room as they rode the high of paint fumes and a job well done.
And until then, and way past then, Mike would sit back and appreciate the two psychotic people he intended to spend the rest of his life with, provided Mike and Tina could keep Puck out of trouble and provided Tina could keep Mike and Puck from drowning in their own ineptitude and provided Mike and Puck maintained their awesome abs (and okay, continued being the best damn boyfriends the world ever did see…assuming that the world consisted solely of the McKinley High Glee Club).
Truly, their pairing was the best. Sure, Kurt had Blaine and there was Finchel and Brittanna and now Samofsky (because Sam had wanted to sound like a Russian super spy and no one could persuade him differently, not even Dave), but they were the Hebr-Asian Fusion, and their might (and it was might) would be heard throughout the entire frickin' galaxy.
And if you didn't believe that, you could ask Noah Puckerman's fist for clarification.
It was always glad to lend a helping hand.
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(FYI, his father never repainted the room. Which, as it turned out, struck a real chord with the next homeowners. They signed for it immediately, "ninjas" and all.)
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Endnotes:
THE END. Fo'rizzles.
Because Sam is obviously way into of painting things, see evidence: he wanted to take Quinn to "Color Me Mine" and repainted that statue of a Wiseman for Mercedes. So this one's because of him.
And if you've made it this far, super thanks, quadruple thanks, thanks all the way to the stars! Specifically to: Spice of Life, Rogue Ranger, Bakura From School, 14thChronicle, dontcallmemadeline, kisaitaluvr, Amaia-Sinblood, blo0d StaiNed Rose, happinessisHarryPotter, Mathias, Abby, and Frosted Heaven, for taking the time to review. Feedback is love, and I was really feeling it.
I hope you liked it. I'm sorry it took so long. And now I'm going to go put this file in my "Completed Stories" folder and run a victory lap down the street.
Clearly this is what Sam Evans would do.
Until next time : )