#red...green...or blue...show off your natural hue...

His lips were unable to stop trembling when he spoke to you, finding strength in his sly smiles and natural jokes, a support for his feelings that threatened to spill over onto you if you looked at him for a second too long. His eyes denied his efforts not to gaze at you from a distance, when you took walks around the islands or practised your sword skills on deck. His cheeks made no effort to hide their new hues, from the palest pink to the most vibrant carmine, which he swore were caused by the scorching rays of the sun, and not by a certain person standing next to him, talking incessantly about a new discovery.

He didn't know when his feelings had begun to take root. Perhaps you had stolen his heart when you stole his hat four months after you joined the crew, hiding it from him for a whole day, as revenge for eating your breakfast. Perhaps you had taken all his love when you took his breath away on the tourist island of Balenea, elbowing him for not paying for the food and running away from the restaurant, leaving you to clean up his mess.

Time didn't matter.

Letter by letter, syllable by syllable, Ace had been tracing your name in the sky with his index finger for a year.

And that simple action drove the commanders crazy.

How long would it take for you two to realise? How long would it take for you to notice that he sighed at every word you said, no matter how silly? When would you see his blushes, his stutters, and his sweaty palms? When would you guess that his requests to go out were actually dates in his heart? How long would it take him to confess? To stop silently calling your name, refusing to try?

Thatch's plan was simple.

There was only one date that would give them the advantage of guiding your non-existent relationship.

As on every 24th of December since Izou joined Whitebeard's pirates, the Moby Dick was decked out in dark red and green. Tall pine trees were rising from the corners of the deck and the kitchen, illuminating their areas as their lights reflected off the glass spheres. Garlands of pine branches clung to every high surface and doorframe, eager for a silly game. Pretending to be a mantle of stars, the curtains of warm twinkle lights put on a show on the dining room ceiling.

A newcomer to hearing the legend would awaken an innocent curiosity. Innocence that was lost when childhood was over, but which was reborn when this day arrived.

His first sighting was back on Drum Island. It only took him a few seconds to eat some warm biscuits, drink a large glass of milk, and leave a gift as a thank you. Wearing a red suit and hat, this magical man would fly by on a sleigh pulled by reindeer. Only one day a year, and no one would see him.

His second sighting was in North Blue. Flevance and Minion Island slept every night on the twenty-fourth knowing that the next morning they would wake up to a gift by their fireplaces.

And the third sighting, the reason why every new crew member waited eagerly, was in Ringo, in the land of Wano.

Izou was eight years old when he woke up frightened, thinking that someone would steal the little food he had managed to get for his younger sister that day. He fondly recalled how, calm and cordial, that man with the long white beard put a finger to his lips, urging him to be quiet. He disappeared as quickly as he had arrived, leaving behind a bag full of food and two fans.

Fans that helped them survive until they met Kozuki Oden.

The frenzy to see him with your own eyes came as no surprise to anyone.

Much less Ace, who was in your same position the year before, when he was a rookie like you. Standing beside you, he looked down at his jumper. It matched yours in a brown wool cable knit. Your bare hands gripped the frozen deck railing. Your fingers turning scarlet from the contact did not dampen your optimism as you stood on tiptoe, as if that would make the man in red appear more quickly.

"Did you manage to see him last year?"

Ace drank his hot chocolate. Only the two of you were on the deck, braving the freezing air of this winter island in the middle of the New World. He wanted to roll his eyes, but you looked cute with your nose flushed red from the cold.

"He doesn't exist."

"What do you mean he doesn't exist? Izou wouldn't lie about starving." You let go of the railing to rub your hands, frowning slightly.

"Come on, a man who flies a sleigh once a year just to give gifts to children?" he asked with a mocking smile. "A man who is only seen by those who live on winter islands? Think about it! Why did he never come to give me anything in the East Blue? Was it because I lived on a tropical island?"

"Well, I lived on a tropical island too."

"And did you see any presents next to you?" Ace tapped your forehead. "Santa doesn't exist. He's just something Izou made up to entertain the newbies and keep the tradition alive."

You touched your forehead with a slight blush. Tricking your brain into thinking it was your body reacting to the cold, and not the result of his warm fingers touching you.

Silencing the reality of your heart required a great effort. Once your feelings took control of your life, keeping them at bay would require more than one chain. Chains that were forged through words.

Portgas D. Ace was an adventure that promised difficulties and fun. A dream where the warmth of a caress burned. It burned enough to arouse you and bring your feet back to solid ground. Because you couldn't have him. You couldn't allow that smile to shine beside you when you woke up. You couldn't allow yourself to trace those freckles that dotted his shoulders, following their path until you discovered where they began to fade.

You couldn't allow yourself to love such a perfect man freely, when you were imperfect.

He exceeded your expectations. Confident, promising. Commander of the second division. He fought with you until you resented him, trying to calm your mood throughout the day with smiles and pleas. He trained you, saying that there was no one stronger than him to deal with you. He shared his food with you because "you wouldn't have survived a day on Mount Colubo with Luffy and me."

The only things you could enjoy were false illusions, white lies, and the sweet words whispered by your mind when he invited you to explore an island, wandering through fairs, devouring an entire restaurant menu. When he rested his head on your shoulder as narcolepsy slammed into his body, delivering him into the arms of a deep sleep. As if only with you could he find safety.

Everything excited you and everything made you hide yourself.

"The thing is, Ace, if he didn’t exist, no winter island would celebrate Christmas."

"No one in the crew managed to see him and they stop at a different island every year."

"Then I'll be the first to see him," you said, pulling on his scarf. Ace stumbled, taking two steps towards you, his cheeks bursting into shades of pink. "This island will be miraculous."

Vista and Jozu watched the scene from behind a wall, wondering how you could be so blind.

"Whatever you say, don't cry tomorrow when nothing happens." He took your wrist to make you let go of his scarf, intertwining his fingers with yours. "Shall we go find more cupcakes? I'm so hungry I could eat the whole ship right now."

You followed him inside with a fluttering heart and a dazed smile. He dragged you along without even waiting for your answer.

"How long until midnight?"

Ace groaned wearily as he entered the dining room, monopolising the table of sweet treats baked by Thatch. The nurses gave each of you knowing smiles, sitting at a table and sharing secrets among themselves.

"Half an hour. Let's eat something and I promise, I swear, I'll take you out on deck so you can admire that winter island without success. What do you say?"

"I'll make you eat your words." You slapped his hand hard before he reached for a plate. "Don't eat the last cupcake!"

"I asked for it first!"

The nurses sent a signal and the crew came to life. Thatch, in charge of entertaining both of you, didn't have to try very hard. The conversations you and Ace engaged in drew you into your own bubble, where your confused feelings danced around each other, longing for one of you to abandon your hesitation.

His plan took shape, led by Marco. He gave instructions to each commander, asking them to cover different areas of the Moby Dick. A ship of such immense magnitude would not be witness to unrequited love or an accomplice to Ace's possible elusive escapes.

Hurried footsteps echoed across the wooden floors of the corridors. From time to time, whispers asking for silence and discretion could be heard. Jozu helped Izou reach the pine branch garland on the doorframe of the infirmary. And in the opposite direction, at the door to the map room, Vista did the same with Haruta.

Away from the commotion, three commanders were in charge of the rear deck.

"Wouldn't it be better to lock them in the kitchen and go to a bar?" murmured the gyojin Namur.

Standing between the other two men who were working, he held a basket with decorations he had collected and prepared himself, the product of days of effort and failed attempts when his fingers were fumbling. Blamenco let out a small, toothless laugh as he took one of his decorations, using his enormous mallet as a ladder to reach the frame of the corridor to the cabins. Curiel shook his head, adjusting his watermelon hat before helping him climb up.

"And let all your little details go to waste? Man, you worked like a dog." Blamenco mocked the fish man. Curiel handed him a nail.

"Ace wouldn't talk even if he were locked up. He's capable of breaking a window and escaping," Curiel opined.

Namur leaned against the wall, balancing his basket between his wet fingers, hoping his decorations would be enough.

"Do you think Y/N is attracted to him? I've never seen any evidence of that."

The three of them fell silent.

Could that uncertainty end at midnight? Selfishness overcoming the impossibility of possessing each other, healing open wounds of lingering insecurities, ending perceived hatred conceived from their beings.

The blue fire rose into the sky, breaking through the air as it descended, sighting Moby Dick from all angles. The glory of its flight mesmerised those present in the cold, whispering how much they would enjoy its warm closeness as their bodies trembled. Because Marco's fire was healing, an object of calm. Calm that flowed from within him without effort. His actions were confident, meticulous and reliable. The years had taught him when to show arrogance for his abilities and when to be himself.

The man in whom anyone would place their desires and plans.

Just as Thatch had wanted.

He was alarmed by what he saw. Adjusting his glasses on his beak with his wing, Marco analysed the clouds closely. A dark grey colour with a density that could be cut with a sword. A cold that penetrated the bones until they froze. He didn't want to imagine how bad things must be for people living on the streets.

But the worst thing was not those clouds that warned of an imminent snowfall.

The worst thing was how, little by little, at a frightening speed, they were dispersing, blurred in the sky, wanting to give way to the stars.

It was ten minutes to midnight. Ten minutes in which the commanders finished their preparations, putting the final touches to every door and window. Izou ran to the railing, holding on to it to signal to him. Everything was ready.

Each mistletoe was in its place, waiting for one of you to find it.

"I almost thought there wouldn't be enough," murmured Jozu, carrying an empty basket.

"Mistletoe is an evader, but man, it was hard to get," complained Vista.

"That's not right, it's invader," sighed Izou, hearing his crewmates.

"Invader, evader, fast-spreading, tree-killing parasite." Vista put one arm around Izou's shoulders. "Whatever you want to call it, the important thing is that it serves one purpose."

"Kissing pretty girls!" Jozu joined in playfully.

Izou regretted telling them about Ringo's traditions. Suggesting they celebrate Christmas had been his way of keeping his younger sister close, who every year forced him to stay awake in case any of them had the chance to see Santa. They laughed non-stop for days when they heard him, but curiosity was a parasite that gnawed at even the most reasonable, and the following December they found themselves on Drum Island, drinking hot chocolate without leaving the deck.

Waiting for someone who never showed up.

They never judged him. They turned it into a tradition. If Whitebeard's pirates added a new crew member, they shared the story and made them wait, freezing in the open air, instead of them. If they saw him, they just had to shout so that everyone could join in.

Soon more traditions arrived. Giving each other gifts that would embarrass the other, placing freshly cut pine trees and letting the nurses decorate them, wearing the ugly wool sweaters bought by Pops, competing to see who could make the best gingerbread house —Haruta had beaten Thatch two years in a row by rigging the votes— drinking hot chocolate while sitting in a circle, and the perverts' favourite: mistletoe.

Countless times Izou had seen Jozu and Vista hold mistletoe over the nurses' heads, demanding kisses that those women would not give them on a normal day. Much to the Wano man's delight, they always returned to the kitchen grumbling that the kiss had been on the cheek.

But this year they had a different faith.

A shared wish for the happiness of a certain freckled boy.

"We're finally done." Curiel met with the other commanders. "Ace has nowhere left to run from his destiny."

"Why are they going around in circles? When I was young, I confessed to women every day. They were the loves of my life." Jozu shook his head.

"That's not normal," Izou said. Curiel nodded in agreement.

"Kissing Thatch isn't normal either." Vista laughed.

"It was because of the mistletoe! You guys put it outside the kitchen!" A furious blush spread across Izou's usually stoic face.

"But he's a good kisser, eh?" Jozu nudged him.

"Gross."

A blizzard caressed the fabric of their shirts and kimonos, making them dance in the air. The commanders hugged themselves, the hairs on their arms standing on end. The first sign that something was wrong. The sails of the Moby Dick began to flutter, creating a low rhythm as they flapped, trying to keep up with the whistling wind. Whistling that turned into a furious song, growing louder with each passing minute.

Izou looked towards the island. That weather was coming from the mountains.

Eight minutes before midnight, Marco landed on deck in a hurry. The wind became fierce, sweeping clouds of snow from the coast out to sea. He hugged himself as he walked towards the commanders. He had noticed every sign that a katabatic wind would arrive at the wrong moment. It advanced like a hurricane, blowing everything in its path away.

"This is bad-yoi!" he shouted.

The cold made his teeth chatter, almost burning his face.

"Watch out for the mistletoe!" Izou yelled.

Every attempt was futile. They couldn't move their legs. They needed to make an extreme effort to get through those violent gusts of wind, which forced their bodies to stay in one place or move backwards. Curiel held Namur by the neck, who stumbled until he was dragged across the deck. They both fell to their knees with a gasp, shivering as they touched the frost on the wooden floor with their bare hands. They tried to pull them away, but they were stuck there. And the gyojin was having a harder time.

"They're flying away!" Vista warned, trying to catch the mistletoe that was yielding to the wind in his hands.

"Don't let them get away! This is important!" Izou's words went unheard.

Everyone was looking for something solid to hold on to. Jozu took a step back from the torrent, dodging a pair of scissors that flew out of the basket he had been guarding. He crouched down slightly, pulling Namur's body away from the frost. Marco observed the situation. They had to take shelter to avoid injury.

"There's no time for this," he exclaimed, opening the door to the map room. "Everyone get in. This won't last long. We still have five minutes."

The commanders pressed their faces against the windows, huddled together, warming their bodies. They watched the mistletoes disappear into the darkness of the night, drowning in the sea, never to be found. Their days of effort in obtaining, crafting, and placing them flew away before their eyes.

The incongruous weather of Grand Line was the pirates' worst enemy. Intensified in the New World, they still allowed themselves to complain about the timing of the worsening conditions. Catabatic winds lasted between one and two days on the winter islands, causing their inhabitants to take refuge in their homes until they passed. But this one had been strange. Lasting three minutes, it seemed to have wanted to attack only the Moby Dick.

Marco poked his head outside. The deck was a mess. The pine branch garlands had been torn down and trampled on the floor. The trees they had placed outside lay knocked over, their decorations scattered in every direction. And there wasn't a single piece of mistletoe in sight that would give him hope of placing it as a last resort above the kitchen door.

"This is crap," Vista muttered, kicking a glass ball.

"Where's the mistletoe? I worked so hard to put the white ribbons on them." Namur picked up the empty, crushed basket next to the railing.

"It took us so long to put them up," Curiel lamented.

"It's as if fate is on Ace's side, preventing him from ever confessing his feelings," said Jozu. "Is that good luck or bad luck?"

"Both?" Izou pulled at his hair, starting to lose his cool.

"There's always a solution-yoi," said Marco with a smile.

The commanders looked at him, on the verge of reaching their breaking point.

"We just have to go to the village and steal mistletoe from a bar. We have two minutes," he added.

They didn’t have time to question him. They didn't think about everything they had lost or the consequences if they were caught stealing something so silly. All they could do was go down to the dock, running through the snow towards the village. They left the ship hoping that Thatch would distract you longer with his food. Hoping that you could entertain yourselves for three more minutes after midnight without leaving the kitchen, until they got a single mistletoe.

Ace couldn't get out of his own head when the clock struck two minutes to midnight.

Being dragged along by you—with biscuit crumbs around your lips and a smile from ear to ear, looking up at the sky for something—his mind took him into a trance. He felt the warmth of your hand, how soft your fingers were against his calloused ones. It was difficult for him to tell if that warmth when caressing your knuckles came from your body or if it was his own reacting clumsily to the simplicity of your existence.

How could someone have power over another's heartbeat? How could you shrink him back until he heard his own, fearing you would hear it?

His footsteps stumbled because of your bad habit of leading him at your own pace, leaving a trail of well-marked footprints as he sweated and activated his devil fruit powers. The frost melted beneath him and he couldn't see it.

He could only see you. The way you wrinkled your nose when you sniffed, whispering that you should have brought a scarf or a tissue. The way the cool air played with your hair, making him think how much he wanted to do that too. A hidden desire that haunted him on his lonely nights, when his self-loathing wanted to drag him into an abyss, but imagining you lying next to him, talking nonsense or saying honeyed words, brought him back into the light.

He would trade everything for a chance with you. He would even trade himself.

Not knowing that you yearned for him, even with that part of him that he didn't show, preferring to shut himself off with it. Because you saw the sparkle fading in his eyes when his mind punished him if someone got angry or disappointed with him.

But you were both clumsy. Young people who valued your friendship and what you had built with such effort so highly that you refused to take the next step. Your thoughts swam in the same river. What if you confessed and the other felt nothing? How awkward could that be? You lived with feelings almost overflowing the pond that was your hearts. It would take years to get over it. Years to love again. Years to mend that friendship.

You grabbed the railing with one hand, pulling Ace close to you. The mess on the deck was a mystery impossible to solve. You had eaten enough to make your stomach swell, filling yourselves with sugary treats.

You invited Thatch to look for Santa, but the man dismissed you both, saying that the newbies were in charge of such things.

"How was your first Christmas?"

Ace blinked, focusing his gaze on you when he heard you, as if a soft melody had caressed his ear.

"A failure," he said, pretending he hadn't squeezed your hand tighter in his, not wanting to let you go. "I sat here for an hour and that dude never showed up. Seriously, Y/N, this is a waste of time."

"It won't be. Just wait and see," you murmured, snuggling closer to him. The air was colder than it had been half an hour ago.

Could he dare to let himself be loved? Could he deserve to be loved? Seeing you like this, with your shoulder pressed against his arm, taking refuge in him, made him want more. He wanted to do this every day. He wanted to travel the Grand Line through all kinds of weather, and be able to hold you in all of them. He wanted you to push him away when the heat became unbearable. He wanted you to seek him out when the cold gave you trouble. He wanted you to lean into him as you spun around in the rain, laughing as you received a kiss.

A kiss.

How he wanted to kiss you.

Your lips never stopped looking soft, smiling, pouting, crying. They always made him lean in, but reality brought him back to his senses so he wouldn't embarrass himself.

"If Santa had gone to Mount Colubo when you were a child, what would you have liked him to give you?" you asked. Something innocent to you, but profound to him. "I would have wanted a bracelet-making kit that would last me a lifetime. I would give everyone a personalised one now."

Ace smiled sideways, looking at you in awe.

If Santa had gone to Mount Colubo when he was a child, he would have wished for someone to love him unconditionally. Someone who would never leave. Someone who needed him.

It came true when he met his little brother. A crybaby who followed him everywhere, depending on him to defend himself. He gave him his love and loyalty, because for him it was more painful to be alone than to be beaten. A touch of tenderness took hold of his chest as he remembered him. How he would love to see him again.

As he grew up and got to know you, he discovered that the same love his brother had given him could be given by you from another perspective if he had the guts to take charge of the situation.

Unconditional love, constant support, uninterrupted security, mutual need. If he could now make a wish for his child self and his adult self, he would ask for you.

The clock struck twelve and emotion overwhelmed you.

"Wait, tell me later!" you shouted, letting go of his hand. You grabbed the railing, leaning forward to look at the moon behind the mountains. "It's midnight! Ace, it's midnight!"

"Yes, yes."

He put one hand over his eyes, looking up at the sky for something. You jumped excitedly beside him, looking in all directions rather than at a fixed point. The mantle of stars above you brightened the night more than the distant lights of the village.

"Where is he? I don’t see him." Your complaint did not go unnoticed.

You had been looking for two minutes. Izou had told you that the magic happened at midnight sharp.

Ace, like the year before, was about to give up when he glimpsed something falling from the sky. Its size, colour and the absence of clouds indicated that it was not snow. Sudden snow would be a problem for your purpose, which, if it continued on its course, would result in another year of unsuccessful searching for Santa. Another island to rule out.

Unlike your trembling hands, his remained steady as he reached upwards, trying to grasp what was being handed to him. He wrapped his fingers around it, feeling its soft texture. In a hasty movement, he brought it up to his face, trying to get a better look.

It was mistletoe.

Mistletoe wrapped in a red and gold ribbon, with a pretty bow created by an eye for detail.

He didn't know which had been his worst mistake. Taking it or not putting it away in time. All the traditions he had experienced the previous year came flooding back to him when you turned to look at him, the words dying on the tip of your tongue as you looked up. He wanted the earth to swallow him up as he remembered Vista or Jozu receiving kisses on the cheeks from the nurses for doing this. Would he get one too? He didn't want to think anymore. You had no reason to kiss him. Besides, he remembered that the nurses' kiss had been in the wrong place. Marco confirmed that their final destination was the lips. Your Apollonian lips that he could never have.

Your fingers began to sweat, sticking to the frost on the railing, waiting to freeze if you didn't remove them in time. But you didn't want to. You thought that if you removed them, that hallucination shining before you would disappear. It would be carried away by the wind along with your feelings.

Your heartbeat quickened as if a bomb had exploded beside you.

Ace, the man you loved, for whom you would give your life.

Ace, with his beautiful smile, the one who mesmerised you with his good deeds and sweet words.

Ace, the one who held mistletoe between you, looking into your eyes as if the most important event of his life was about to happen.

Neither of you knew how to act. He didn't want to let his insecurities and his past ruin his life. You didn't want your heart to be exposed in a cascade of love to give away. So you both did what you did best when you were together. Joke around.

"Are you serious, Ace?" you said, putting on your best mocking smile. "I didn't know you were that type. Just like Vista and Jozu."

Ace smiled amusedly, moving the mistletoe between the two of you. It had to be now. He had to bet everything on you. Win or lose, he would have tried.

"Except that my kiss can only be on the lips."

You bit the inside of your cheek, holding back your excitement.

"It's tradition, isn't it?" you whispered.

Your hand caressed his cheek, gently tracing his freckles. Those freckles you had wanted for so long. Suddenly you were more aware of the pressure in your chest, the one that took your breath away when you realised that finally, finally, you were about to kiss the love of your life.

The smile that emerged from within you was genuine, with a sparkle that left Ace speechless. There was no trace of nervousness in you. He only perceived the confidence and affection with which you touched him, as if he were your most precious talisman. He allowed himself to smile. He allowed himself to trust you. Trust the future.

Confessing could be another day if the steps were taken one at a time.

Ace trembled. Not from the cold, not from nervousness. He trembled from clumsiness, placing his hand on your waist to pull you towards him. You let out a gasp as you stumbled over the tip of his boots, your hand slipping towards his earlobe.

"Cute," he whispered, pressing you against his chest. And the blush on your cheeks worsened.

You stroked the hair at the nape of his neck as he drew closer to you, leaving the mistletoe trapped between his hand and your waist. When his lips touched yours, your worlds seemed to fit together. The uncertainty and thoughts that had plagued you vanished in his kiss, finding what you had long needed.

His lips moved at a slow pace, tasting sweet from the chocolate-covered strawberries he had eaten earlier. You smiled in between, and he returned the smile, kissing you gently again before you tried to pull away. He was ecstatic, lost in the sensation.

He loved your lips. He loved to confirm their softness and discover how perfectly they fit with his, as if you had been created just for him.

You were so immersed in each other's feelings that you didn't hear the hurried footsteps climbing up to the Moby Dick.

Marco, Vista, Jozu, Izou, Curiel, Namur, and Blamenco opened the kitchen door with a loud bang, raising the stolen mistletoe in their hands. Thatch shook his head amusedly, leaning with his arms crossed against the window.

"I don't think he needs it anymore," he said with a smile, turning his gaze to you.

Your kiss lasted a few seconds longer, putting on a show for the commanders who continued to celebrate with low shouts inside the kitchen.

Ace rested his forehead against yours, unable to open his eyes. He snorted amusedly before pulling away, looking at you with a slight blush. His hands caressed the wool of your jumper, which matched his own, a bold move on Pops' part when choosing them.

"Am I allowed to use the mistletoe again?"

You tilted your head to one side, pretending to think. Seeing you like that, Ace wrapped you in a tight hug, making you groan in pain. It felt like he was capable of breaking your bones. You struggled to pull him away from you, but he wasn't going to let you anymore.

Now that he had a chance, he wasn't going to waste it. He spun you around several times, laughing, and as he endured your punches to his back, he looked up at the moon behind the mountains.

A gasp escaped his throat.

The moon reflected a shadow flying in front of her. A red glow surrounded that object, dissolving into the air.

After years, after denying it, there he was. Flying on a sleigh pulled by nine reindeer, a man held his red hat, laughing loudly as he pulled on the reins, asking his friends to go faster.

Suddenly, he remembered your question. What would he have asked Santa for? He had requested you, and the magical man had listened. He squeezed the mistletoe with a smile unhinged by happiness, looking at him from behind you. Its red and gold bow sparkled in the same way as that sleigh.

Ace turned you around in his arms again, facing the opposite direction. You looked up to complain, tired of being held so tightly. Your complaint turned into a stammer and then into an excited scream.

"Ace! Ace! There he is!" You shouted, trying to break free from the embrace to get a closer look. "I told you he was real!"

"You did."

The sleigh disappeared at the speed of light, leaving behind a person with the heart of a child jumping for joy and a sceptical boy watching everything with a smile, tucking a mistletoe sprig into his trouser pocket.

The commanders looked at their sad mistletoe with disappointment. It was broken, missing leaves, and didn't have a white ribbon like the ones they had made before, but it was mistletoe. They sat at a table, nibbling on biscuits while grumbling under their breath.

Thatch raised an eyebrow when he saw something sticking out from under one of the trees. A box was wrapped in red wrapping paper with a gold bow. He picked it up carefully, reading the card.

"Y/N! You have a present."

Piltover was a beautiful city, and you knew you could paint it if you just found a nice spot to view it from. Somewhere high above, where you could see it in its entirety. But until you found that perfect place, you roamed the streets, closely observing the architecture, the flora, the fauna. You walked on grass — you weren't sure it was allowed — and found a fountain, clear water trickling down the granite curves and slopes. Whoever sculpted it did a brilliant job, despite the water eroding the stone. In fact, the erosion added a certain charm to it.

You took your sandals off and sat down on a patch of grass to sketch the fountain, steady, so as to not mess up your drawing, even if it was just a guideline for your future painting. It was then when you saw him — the most beautiful creature you ever laid eyes on. His unkempt chestnut brown hair framed his face in a way that made your heart flutter, but his striking amber eyes had you hooked. Even from such a distance you could see the yellow and orange hues mixing in his irises. 

Quickly flipping the page of your sketchbook, you began to draw him. Graphite slid up and down the parchment as your hand moved naturally, like it had a mind of its own. You sketched and shaded, not stopping until he did. Until another man joined him, effectively blocking your vision. No matter, your visual memory aided you in finishing the drawing, but you didn't stop there. You found your muse, and you needed to paint him.

Your nights grew restless as you juggled between painting Piltover, the councillors, and him. But he inspired you somehow, leaving only Councillor Medarda, half of the landscape, and his portrait unfinished. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't get the colour of his eyes right, and it drove you mad. You couldn't remember exactly how much yellow you needed, or how much red. Was there a hint of green? Did you need to add a drop of blue? 

A soft knock on the door of your atelier startled you, and you opened it, greeting Councillor Medarda. You forgot she was due for her portrait, and invited her into your messy chamber.

"My apologies, Councillor, I didn't have the time to tidy up." 

"It's quite alright. I prefer this — the raw, unfiltered creativity. Besides, I've never met an artist that's organised." She smiled. "May I?"

"Of course." You nodded, bringing her more canvases and sketches to look at.

"You truly are gifted. The colours, the highlights, you must be a prodigy." The councillor nodded. "Is that-"

You snatched the paper from her hand, clutching it at your chest.

"Sorry, that one's... personal." 

"Funny. I thought I recognised that man." She pondered, and the gears in your head rotated. 

"If you do know him, could you introduce us?" You chewed on your lower lip, then left to show her another one of your paintings. "I just can't get his eyes right."

"Viktor." Councillor Medarda gasped at the sheer hard work you put into the portrait. "You weren't commissioned to do this."

"Like I said, it's personal. Practice." You swiftly corrected yourself. "Yes, good practice."

"I suppose I could take you to his lab. A fair warning — you might have to bring your supplies there, because he will never leave his work to pose for a painting." She scoffed. 

"I can figure something out."

Mel Medarda kept her promise after what seemed to be an eternity. Although you hadn't finished her portrait, you managed to paint a good chunk of it, laying down all the base colours and shapes. She would have to come back another day, however. You walked with her, closely trailing behind with a box full of paints, brushes and thick paper. You didn't bring his portrait with you yet, because you needed to assess him first, and you couldn’t paint anywhere else but your atelier. Sketching was different — that you could do anywhere, at any time. But painting was intimate. However, you were considering making an exception for him.

"Goor afternoon, Jayce." Councillor Medarda greeted a very cheerful, very lovestruck scientist. 

You could clearly see that he was doting on her, and she tried to hide her own excitement while maintaining a professional persona. It was cute to see a respectable scientist and a reputable councillor behave like teenagers — her hitched breath, his voice cracking, the quiver of her lip, the twinkle in his eyes — they were adorable. But you were here for someone else, not to witness their blooming love in a cold lab.

"Ahem." You cleared your throat inconspicuously, feigning a cough, and she remembered her promise.

"Jayce, this is Y/N. She's been commissioned to paint portraits of the councillors. Y/N, this is Jayce Talis, scholar, scientist, politician." Mel said, and you reached out your hand to shake Jayce's while propping the box in your hand with your knee.

"Nice to meet you, miss." His grip was firm around your fingers and palm. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The councillor stifled a chuckle, her thin, delicate fingers covering her mouth. As always, Jayce thought himself to be the centre of attention. He was the centre of her attention, that much was certain.

"She's here for Viktor. Have you seen him?"

"Viktor, yes." Jayce awkwardly rubbed the back of his head, then looked at the crate in your arms. "Do you need a hand?"

"Thank you, Mr. Talis, but these materials are quite precious to me. I'd rather hold them myself, if you don't mind." You gripped the box tighter. 

Jayce found it amusing how fond you were of your paintings supplies, something you had in common with Viktor. He, too, was possessive of his work, in an incredibly stubborn, annoying way.

"Very well. Follow me." The scientist said, and you and councillor Medarda walked down a corridor of marble and limestone.

In classic Piltover architecture, golden columns decorated the tall walls, with blue spheres embedded in them, contrasting the polished white floor. Whoever designed it had a keen eye for details, you thought. Jayce and Mel partook in small talk, but you didn't intrude. You much preferred memorising the way to the laboratory, the number of stairs, and the motifs on the walls.

Two wooden doors stood in front of you, intimidatingly tall. Jayce opened one of them, inviting you and councillor Medarda in first, like the gentleman he was. You were taken aback by the materials on the worktops, the tools, the lights, the runes. It was a lot to take in, and you wouldn't understand what you were taking in exactly. But behind the tables full of hammers, screwdrivers and wrenches was your muse. He was focused on something, brows furrowed and lips pursed. A tiny bead of sweat trickled down his temple, slowly reaching his jawline, and you instinctively licked your chapped lips. 

"Vik!" Jayce called out, but the man offered no response, still concentrating on whatever he was doing. "You'll have to excuse him. When he's working, he seems unable to hear."

You smiled — it was a trait you both shared. Whenever you immersed yourself in painting, you couldn't pay attention to your surroundings. 

"Viktor!" Jayce moved closer to the table, snapping his fingers in Viktor's face, until the man scoffed.

"Yes?" Voice laced with irritation, he finally looked up at Jayce, then behind him. "Oh."

"Viktor, this is Y/N. She's an artist." Mel's hand reached out, and with a nod, you stepped forward, placing the heavy crate on an empty chair.

"I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but I... well, how shall I put it?" You rummaged through the box and pulled out your first sketch of Viktor. "I would like to paint you."

He took the paper from your hand, amber eyes wide at the beauty of it. Viktor scanned the sketch and every detail that went into it, pale cheeks tinted pink.

"I understand if you find this awkward, or if you don't agree." You carried on, but there wasn't an ounce of emotion on his face.

"When did you do this?" Viktor asked, still staring at himself. It was like looking into a mirror, yet he couldn't recognise himself.

"A few days ago, by the fountain." You tried to guess his feelings, but he didn't let you see them. "Again, I understand you probably consider me strange for doing this, but I must paint you, sir."

"I'm flattered, miss. But perhaps Jayce would be a better candidate? You'll find he is much more appealing to the eye." He handed you back the sketch.

You glanced at Jayce, a look of disgust on your face that you tried to hide. Sure, he was objectively attractive, that you could agree on, but you didn't want that. You wanted him. You wanted your muse.

"I think it would be a great idea, Vik!" Jayce beamed at his partner. "You need a break."

"That is precisely what I don't need." Viktor rolled his eyes. "Besides, I don't want to leave my lab."

"I could do it here." You offered. "I won't talk, I won't disturb you, you won't even know I'm here."

"It's already crammed."

"Please." You leaned forward, palms slammed on his table, trying to get a better look at his eyes. You probably looked insane like that, but you didn't care — you were desperate. "If you don't like it, you can hide it, break it, burn it. It will be yours to do as you please."

Viktor was past the point of being irked. He was downright furious, but he had to shut you up somehow. And Jayce, who really needed to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face.

"Fine." He mentally scolded himself for agreeing to do something so stupid. Posing for a painting? Ridiculous. 

"Thank you so much. This means the world to me!" You picked up the crate to find an unused spot in the lab. 

Viktor didn't mind your presence. You were true to your word — quiet. You didn't ask questions, didn't walk around the lab, didn't make him sit in some egregious position. In fact, he was surprised to see just how focused you were on your paintings. The fact that he didn't pose made it difficult for you to do a portrait — the whole point of it was for your model to sit still. And he did, just with his back at you, slouched and avoidant.

And you weren't always there. Bouncing between your atelier and the lab, between sleepless nights and painting, your schedule had become hectic. The bags under your eyes and poorly buttoned shirts, the strands of hair that stuck out from your updo, or the lines of green and blue on your cheeks were a dead giveaway. 

But Viktor was the exact same, missing only the paint on his face and the skirt. You were like two peas in a pod, so much so that it drove Jayce up the walls to practically have two Viktors in the lab. Stubborn, hard-working, irritable, he found it ridiculous that you didn't become friends yet, or at least something more than strangers, considering how similar you were.

But you weren't strangers.

The act of transcribing one's mind, body and soul onto canvas, without losing any tiny detail in translation, was intimate in itself. You had to study Viktor, to memorise his gestures, his quirks — the way his forehead creased when he focused, how he found comfort in gripping the handle of his cane, the twinkle in his eyes when he had a brilliant idea. You didn't need words to understand him.

At first, he found it odd. Having an intruder in his lab, in the only place that brought him comfort, joy and privacy, felt violating. It definitely didn't help that you kept a close eye on him. He understood why — you needed to look at him to be able to paint him. But it was, naturally, strange. Then, he became used to you, to your shadow, your scent — of roses, cinnamon, a hint of vanilla. Viktor never grew tired of the smell of copper and smoke, but whenever you walked past him in the afternoon to set up your easel and paints and brushes, he took a very deep breath in, just to oxygenate his brain with your scent.

The utter silence in the laboratory frustrated Jayce. Since you trespassed with their consent, his partner became quieter, and you barely uttered a good morning or goodbye. He really hoped you being there would help Viktor socialise, but it did the opposite. The sound of graphite scraping on paper, or bristles on canvas was the only thing he heard in days. It was too much.

"I need a break." Jayce slammed a screwdriver on the table, startling you, but Viktor was unmoved by the sudden rattle. "Viktor?"

"I'm fine." His partner waved his hand dismissively. 

"Y/N?" 

You set the brush aside, then cracked your knuckles. It had been hours since you had a drink or food.

"I'll take a break. I can't be efficient if I burn out, and I still need to finish the landscape." You got up from the wooden stool to stretch.

Behind the cogs and tools, Viktor glanced at you, amber eyes fixated on your neck, trailing down your collarbone, and your half-exposed chest. He didn't know when you unbuttoned your collar, or when you bunched up your skirt, but the clothes looked like an uncomfortable confinement on you. Like they stopped your body from flowing naturally. He wondered — an intrusive, improper, shameful thought — if you sometimes painted naked. If you were more creative when not clothed. But he shook the thought away when you walked around his table to the small stove behind him.

"Would you like some tea, Mr. Scientist?"

Viktor had forgotten how sweet your voice was, like a siren lulling sailors to their demise. He nodded, back facing you. He didn't dare to look at you after picturing you nude.

"Where did you study?" Jayce asked, and you really wanted Viktor to make that sort of small talk with you.

"Ionia, the Academy of Arts." You stirred the honey in Viktor's cup of tea.

"Mel tells me you're quite talented." Jayce complimented you, and you should've thanked him. 

"Talent is nothing without hard work, Mr. Talis, as I'm sure you already knew, given your career."

Viktor smiled, even if you couldn't see him. He wholeheartedly agreed with you — even if both him and Jayce were geniuses in their fields, they wouldn't have accomplished anything without sheer hard work and dedication. 

"You need to stop calling us Mr. Talis and Mr. Scientist." Jayce chuckled. "You've been in our lab for weeks now. You're part of the team."

"I wouldn't say part of the team, but I do appreciate the company. I can be quite lonely in my atelier." You placed the Viktor's tea on his table.

He couldn't help but feel a slight jab from your words. He, too, was lonely when Jayce left. But he didn't make an effort not to be. Work was more important, and he hadn't yet found anything to prioritise more than that. Jayce pulled out his pocket watch, and froze.

"Shit, I must go. I'm late to my date- my meeting. Sorry, Vik. Be right back! "

"Eeh, we both know these meetings take some time." Viktor grinned.

It wasn't the first time the two of you were alone in the laboratory, but it always happened when you were both working. You, however, were taking a break, and you needed it before returning to your portrait. Sitting in complete silence, you sipped on your tea, brainstorming ideas for the title of your painting. Viktor's Portrait didn't have a nice ring to it.

"You never asked to see it." You spoke, fingers wrapped around the warm mug, interrupting him for the first time.

He didn't, because he only agreed to it to shut you and Jayce up. He was never curious to see it finished, let alone in progress. But after spending weeks in your presence, and after you said that, he couldn't deny the curiosity that bubbled in his chest. Still, by this point, he could wait a few more weeks.

"I don't have any inclinations towards the arts, Miss Painter." Viktor playfully mocked the way you called him Mr. Scientist for so long. "I doubt any feedback I give will be useful."

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Why were there two wrenches on his table? And two cogs? Two cups of tea? No, he was seeing double, his head was pounding, ears ringing. Viktor reached out for his cane, but when he took one step, his legs wobbled, refusing to support him. You caught him, a firm grasp around his forearm, and pulled the nearest chair for him to sit down after setting aside your mug.

"I suppose I am in need of a break, too." The scientist sighed.

Lately he had been looking paler, thinner. His clothes didn't fit him like they used too, trousers loose around his waist, held only by a leather belt. You brought his cane before he even asked you for it, and dug into your bag for food. Unwrapping the muslin cloth, you offered him your lunch — bread, cheese and a few dried fruits. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. 

"Eat, please." You encouraged him, breaking the bread in small bites. 

"No, it's your food."

"And I'm giving it to you." The stern tone of your voice had him oblige. 

"I've wondered, Miss Painter-"

"Y/N." You corrected him.

"Right, Y/N. I've wondered why did you want to paint me?" He asked after swallowing the food. "I'm a broken scientist, surely you could do better with your models."

"I am doing better." You pulled a chair for yourself. "I haven't had any inspiration in a very long time, despite being commissioned to paint fairly simple things. But then I saw you, and everything changed. Like it or not, Viktor, you became my muse that day."

"Well, I'm flattered. Truly." He winced at the weight of his brace around his calf. "I need to take this off. Too tight." Viktor bent over but his vision blurred, forcing him to lean back in the chair.

"I'll do it."

"Please, I don't need pity. Just to rest." He scoffed.

"It's not pity, it's help."

"Help because you pity me." 

"Help because I want to help. Have you never experienced honesty from people?" You kneeled down between his legs to get a better look at his brace.

His jaw clenched at the sight of you like that. It has been too long since he touched someone, and although your intentions were pure, he could not block his sinful thoughts from tainting his mind. You were beautiful, clever, and you shouldn't waste your time with someone like him. Yet there you were, nimble fingers working the leather straps of his brace. You pulled it off, resting it against the table behind you.

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" You looked up at him, and he drowned in your doe eyes.

Oh, there were plenty of things you could do for him, he just couldn't utter them, only imagine them.

"No, I'll just rest here if that's alright with you." Viktor nodded.

"Very well. I shall get back to my painting, but please, if you need any help, tell me."

When Jayce returned, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. You were meticulously combining colours, eyeballing the necessary amount you needed to create the shades you desired. Viktor was back at his table, brace around his leg and a chair closer to him. And it was quiet, normal.

Days of hard work proved fulfilling — you had finished the landscape of Piltover, handed the portraits to each councillor, and got paid. There were other requests that you received, but they could be postponed. You were so close to finishing Viktor's portrait, and you didn't need to do it in his lab anymore, only adding minor details.

But you couldn't just gift it unframed, and so you bought a simple wooden frame that you painted yourself to match the portrait. Purple and golden. You signed it and added something only the Academy of Arts in Ionia taught — a magical rune. Focusing your intentions in it, visualising the magic in the painting, you wrapped the canvas and took it to the laboratory. 

Jayce wasn't there, and you were so grateful for that, because you wanted Viktor to see it privately. You wanted to cherish that moment, just the two of you. Opening the tall wooden doors that you were so familiar with, you walked into the lab, portrait in your hands. Viktor was shocked to see you look so well put together — a dark green dress and heels that clicked with each step on the cold stone floor. He had seen you at your worst, face covered in paint and fingertips darkened by coal and graphite. But now he had the privilege to see you at your best, he thought. 

"It is done." The smile on your lips was contagious. 

His long fingers touched the twine knot around the canvas, almost afraid to untie it and look at the portrait, but your encouraging, eager eyes stopped him from hesitating. Viktor pulled on the string and unwrapped the paper, looking at himself. But he was different. His hair was longer, silver mixed in his brown locks. A purple cloak was wrapped around him, with golden adornments, and his cane was a staff, the handle circular and matching the golden in his outfit. The dark background was lightened by pale yellow shapes and lines, and his eyes were identical, the same amber hues he saw when he looked in a mirror.

"Have you thought of a name?" Viktor asked, still shook by how beautiful he was in that portrait.

"The Herald." You nodded.

The painting belonged in a museum, not in his bedroom to collect dust. He examined every detail, even the frame that was in harmony with him. Was that how you saw him? Like a god?

"I honestly don't know what to say. It's beautiful." Viktor's eyes narrowed down on the small rune in the corner of the canvas. "What is that?"

"Magic." You grinned. "At the Academy they taught us to weave magic into our art."

"Magic? What for?"

"Hopefully to help you get better."

"I'm afraid that is impossible, Miss Painter. But I do appreciate the thought." Viktor offered you a bittersweet smile. "How may I repay you?"

"By doing me the honour of modelling for me." You folded your arms across your chest.

"Didn't I just do that?" He snorted.

"No, you worked. I would like to study you more. Your features are unique, Viktor."

"That one I have never been called. Weak, broken, handicapped, but unique is a new one." Viktor sighed. "I think you've had enough fun, Miss Painter. I won't be an object of mockery."

You were stunned. Did he honestly think you were making fun of him? That you spent countless days and nights painting him just to ridicule him? That you lost sleep and hurt your fingers just to insult him? No. He was insulting you.

A GUIDE TO UNDERTONES

(Credit to: dear peachie)

Quoting directly from dear peachie's video here:

**Note**: "Mastertone" is a rough translation for skin "overtone."

People with cool mastertone skin: they often have hints of bluish, pink, or a ruddy complexion. Warm mastertone skin radiates the yellow, sallow, peachy, or golden tone. Whereas the neutral tone skin has no obvious overtones of pink or sallow skin, but rather the skin's natural color is more evident.

(To identify your skin's mastertone, you can take a picture of yourself without makeup.... It is advised to take the picture in indoor setting: make sure the lights are not too bright; and can have a mixture of both indoor light and sunlight when the picture is taken. Also, avoid wearing bright color shirt as it will affect the color of the picture, too.)

The skin shade intensity and mastertone are two different aspects. Many people mistakenly assume that people with deeper or darker shade skin are classified under the warm mastertone skin, and people with fair or light shade are those with cool mastertone. However, both light or deep shade skin can also have warm or cool mastertone.

Pink

You have rosy cheeks with a light blush across the chest and ears; you can burn easily in the sun.

Blue

Skin that radiates very cool plum undertone. Your skin tone deepens in the sun.

Green or Olive

The skin tone has a hint of bronze or green in daylight. It is also somehow on the borders or neutral, but it contains both yellow and blue hues.

You can see that the olive undertone skin can be differentiated in the warm or cool mastertone, too.

Neutral

In which the undertone is roughly similar to your actual skin color [overtone.]

Yellow

Your skin shows golden, especially in the paler areas. You achieve [a] golden glow in the sun.

Orange

Your skin will appear peachy or apricot. Your skin takes on bronze tones in the sun.

Red

Cinnamon skin hues that intensity and deepens in the sun.

Which one is Gillian?

SKIN

Using the skin tone color wheel (developed by Terri Tomlinson), we can see that GA's circle swatches slot her more on the left than right side, i.e. more cool (lower-left quadrant) and more red/red-orange/orange (upper-right quadrant.)

The green (lower-right) and yellow (upper-right) sections are "separate" from her skin (and eye) colors.

When comparing the wheel to Gillian's bare face, it becomes obvious that the red quadrant more naturally aligns with the very red/pink hues in her undertone (as depicted by her swiped and boxed swatches on the left):

Because her skin is soft pink rather than apricot or cinnamon, we can infer (quite clearly) that Ms. Anderson's undertone is (surprise) Pink.

As mentioned in the above section, Gillian's Light Summer gives her a little wiggle room, tipping her away from very gray cool hues (that of the other Summer seasons) and dipping her just enough into warm and bright tones (that of her Spring sister palette.) Due to this miracle, she can pull off warm colors quite effectively--

(L, warm hues; R, cool hues)

--often with the careful introduction of spray tan (a quick-and-easy way to tilt her cool and warm balance.)

PINK UNDERTONE, THE COLOR WHEEL, AND PRIMARY COLORS

When examining the color wheel, it becomes quickly apparent that pink is not represented as a primary or secondary color. As we know, pink is simply red tinted with white-- a diluted, cooler, lighter hue. Separate from the complexities of skin tone and seasonal palettes, we are left with a simpler consideration: that Gillian has, ultimately, a primarily red-based undertone.

(Credit to: color-hex)

Given this state of affairs, it makes sense why she is able to pull off red so magnificently: not only because of the Romantic elements of her Kitchener Essence (post here) but also because of its harmonious mirror to her dominant skin tone.

While the warm red (left) is not as cleanly native to her cool undertone, it is still as stunning on GA as the neutral and cool reds are (middle and right, respectively.)

THE NUANCES OF THE SEASONAL PALETTE

Yet, the fact remains: Gillian's skin tone is pink-- a cooler dilution of red. We can see the proof of that when exploring her wheel hues' primary, secondary, complementary, split-complementary, monochromatic, and triadic colors.

Red is lightened (tinted) with white, creating a softer, cooler pink:

The same follows with Orange,

Red-Violet,

Yellow,

Blue-Green,

and Blue.

Red's complementary color, Green, acts as a marked contrast against Gillian's skin-- one that looks striking if allowed to carry its own presence.

Still, Gillian Anderson is human; and, as any other mortal, subject to the nature of an individuated skin tone, one requiring more nuance than the primary hues and their tints.

Therefore, we have her unique Light Summer combination: gray poured into white, softening the pink into a more grounded, watercolor glow.

To quote this blog post:

This aesthetic is soft, understated, and refined, with a focus on blending tones rather than creating contrast. Light Summer embraces subtlety, using light, cool, and medium-saturated colors...

Colors include Morning Mist, Seafoam Veil, Lavender Haze, Silver Rose, Wisteria Whisper, Dusty Sky, Petal Blush, Serene Teal, Frosted Lilac, Misty Mint, Ash Blonde, Soft Heather, Pearl Gray, Morning Dew, Rose Taupe, and Cottonball White.

CONCLUSION

As a rule, Gillian looks incredible in red and green (mostly) because they act as her primary and complementary colors; and is able to wear warms as effectively as cools because of the camouflagic nature of her neutral-cool skin tone.

Thanks for reading

Processing:

The stills from this shoot have low color saturation and a little too much cyan in the color balance (more about that later.)  I first switched to 16-bit color, then fixed the basic color and contrast.  Next I increased the color saturation, then copied the green and blue color channels into two layers contained within a layer set, and used overlay blending mode for the set to boost the contrast in the red hues throughout the photo.  I’ll skip the finer details of tweaking the layer blends and just mention the final tweak using the shadow/highlight filter that brought the photo to what you see above.  (Original version is below, for comparison.)

Color in Portrait Photography:

First, a brief note about my own background.  I have a college degree in fine arts and for several decades have pursued an avocation in landscape and product photography.  In those specialties, either rich color or stark black-and-white (or sepia, or whatever) are the usual color selections.  Muted color generally doesn’t sell.

Photographers and videographers routinely dial down the color saturation when photographing people, to avoid skin tones that are too ruddy, or otherwise not natural and healthy-looking.  This minimizes color shifts caused by subtle variations in lighting, such as light reflecting off of a nearby colored wall or filtering through trees.  It can also work against the photographer when color is a key part of the subject of the photo.  For example, a redhead in a midnight blue dress looks very different when photographed in rich color versus in soft black-and-white, so it wouldn’t make sense to use an in-between color saturation setting.  It usually weakens the photo.

I have also noticed that many photographers’ color balance is often skewed toward cyan, but I have no idea why, unless they simply aren’t seeing it in their own work and correcting it.  Having the white balance skewed to cyan only looks good on blue and green subjects like plants and Smurfs.

Cameras are usually good at auto-adjusting white balance for warm/cool lighting, but they don’t seem to do so well at adjusting for cyan/magenta color balance.  If you’re a photographer, you’d be well advised to always double-check the cyan/magenta balance in your camera RAW editor when you process your images.  Mine usually needs ~6% magenta, and I’ve seen that most of the online gallery sites need a ~6% to ~12% magenta filter added to get rid of the cyan haze in their photos.  Of course, make these adjustments using a color-calibrated monitor and with the room darkened, or you risk messing up the color due to your eyes & brain compensating for room lighting.

Okay, if you made it this far, you deserve a treat!