Work Text:
It is Christmas.
And…
You are ten, your first gift (ever) comes from your best friend. He’s the only other foster kid you know, fifteen-year-old troublemaker with a bright smile. You give him a pinecone in return.
You are twelve, and you like girls. As if your patchwork skin and tight curls weren’t complicated enough in your too-small town. You don’t tell anyone. You don’t need that kind of drama in your life.
You are fourteen, and your punk-ass best friend has all the luck; elected to city council, shotgun marriage to the most beautiful woman in the world. They weren’t even pregnant or anything. Just that much in love.
You are fifteen, you are out, you are homeless. For two hours. Then Padmé shows up and you find home for the first time in your best friend’s spare bedroom. You also find your first crush, as Padmé smiles at you, softly lit by the twinkling lights on their oversized tree.
You are sixteen, you are happy. Padmé throws the best Christmas parties. She laughs when you dance with her.
You are seventeen and your best friend is a fucking idiot. He’s partnering with the sleaziest motherfucking bastard in the senate for...power? Money? You don’t even know. Padmé calls him out publicly. He accuses her of cheating, says she’s pregnant by another, he drags her name through the mud.
You are seventeen and your former best friend offers you a comfortable life as his aide. Apparently, “Go to hell you fascist pile of shit!” was not what he expected to hear.
You are seventeen and homeless for the second time in your life. For three hours, this time, before Padmé shows up; her life in shambles but determined to do right by you.
You are eighteen, and you love her, and she is so sad. “All the trappings of the season used to make me so happy, but now everything just…” She wraps her arms around herself and nearly bursts into tears at the sight of a Christmas tree.
You are eighteen, and you love her, and you want to burn the world down. “So we make new traditions,” you say, holding up a lighter. “Christmas tree bonfire?”
You are twenty and have found the best possible cookie cutters. “Time to decorate the Christmas Dicks!” you croon, presenting an entirely inappropriate tray of sugar cookies. Padmé laughs to tears, viciously biting the heads off of the green and red striped phalluses.
You are twenty-two and spend the day blaring Beach Boys and watching classic surfing films. Padmé snuggles up next to you and you don’t care if the rest of your life is spent pining after her, it will be a life well-spent.
You are twenty-four, considering mistletoe. “Alright, new tradition—” is as far as you get before Padmé is kissing you, holy fuck she is kissing you.
You are twenty-four and Padmé says, “I think we keep this one.”
You kiss her again and again, year after year.