#dualsumm

            She’s kinda something like color, and kinda something like light. You wouldn’t really call it life, but there’s a…there’s a vibrancy about her, like she’s painted in a much more saturated hue than the rest of the world.

So yeah, she’s kinda something like color and light, but, uh. Maybe not in a way that’s safe to trust.

  You met her ex on a Saturday, in that bar she didn’t like. From the looks of him, you could see why she didn’t like it. After one conversation, you could see why she didn’t like him.

Or at least—didn’t now. Maybe that was the kind of thing she used to love. Or used to love to hate.

(“It wasn’t a good relationship,” she told you, and you believed her completely)

 “What’s she told you so far?” He asks you, over whiskey on the rocks. A lot, you want to tell him—where he was from, what he was like—how he never needed anything, never wanted for anything. How infuriating he was.

You shrug. “Not that much.” It’s pretty easy to tell that he doesn’t believe you. But he looks amused, and you raise your glass to him. “Has she always been like that?”

He nearly snorts out his drink. “It was a bit more of a, well. Hate thing, for us.” Yeah, you can believe that.

(“You don’t have to blame yourself if you miss him,” you said, and she laughed.)

  And you went stumbling home, most definitely drunk—arm around the fucking asshole that Spin used to date, either he was keeping you up or vice-fucking versa, and you weren’t even sure—and Spin opened the door, looking…you weren’t sure. Gorgeous, definitely, she was always gorgeous.

“I honestly can’t say I’m surprised,” she sighed, looking the pair of you over. Ampora gave her a brilliant grin, waving his hand, and—when did he get a Santa hat? You wanted a Santa hat—the fuzzy puffball on the tail end of his hat went swinging into your nose. You sneezed, and he laughed—and Spin sighed, standing back to open the door even further. “Was this really necessary?”

It could hardly be considered your fault for forgetting that he couldn’t stand up so well right now. You couldn’t stand up either, and he had a Santa hat (which was still unfair), and Spin was looking so beautiful.

It could definitely be considered your fault that you pulling away to give Spin a hug sent both of you toppling face first into the snow.

(“What if things had been different, though?” She said, looking at you carefully. “I might not have met you.”)

  The woman you loved could be fucking evil some times—and she proved it, bright and early, Christmas Eve-morning, with the loudest Christmas music she could find to wake you up from your hangover.

“What the hell, Spin–” You pause, attempting to move. The pounding in your head doesn’t help. Neither does the still unconscious, accented, asshole, ex, lying sprawled across you, on the goddamn couch. “Was this. Was this absolutely necessary.”

“Completely,” she drawled, holding a mug of something hot and steaming. It was almost as unfair as the Santa hat. “It was adorable.”

“Oh god.”

“You snuggled.”

“This is only going to get worse, isn’t it.”

“I have pictures.”

 You groan, and drape an arm over your face. “Spin, I swear to god, if you love me, you’ll delete them.”

She snorts. Yeah, you didn’t expect her to go for that one anyway. But her expression softens, as she looks at the two of you, and you glance down at him again.

“I still hate him, you know.”

You nod.

“…we’ll see how things turn out. Hell, it’s Christmas. Might as well.”

           Something deep inside you eases slightly, and you run a hand over your hair. “…thanks.”

           She nods, and heads for the kitchen. Part of you is hoping for a second Christmas miracle and some coffee—on your lap, Ampora mutters something and shifts a little more.

           (“I don’t know,” you say, taking her hand. “But I think—for the people who believe in this kind of thing—if it’s meant to be this way, you’ll find each other. No matter what.”)

              She’s kinda something like light, and he’s kind of something like the sky before a storm hits. You couldn’t call it anything but light, and watching them, damn. It’s color and movement and motion—something like a storm, something like life. Like they’re repainting the world in their own damn colors.