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Paintbrush had always felt most at home in the treehouse in Lightbulb’s backyard. Courtesy of her dad, it had been built when Paintbrush was nine; they were now eleven, spinning a die on one of its many points as they waited for Lightbulb to return to the treehouse- hopefully with the cookies that her mother had been baking with her.
At long last, Lightbulb climbed up the somewhat rickety ladder with a white paper bag in one hand and an already-bitten into cookie in the other. “Painty! Look, I stole some from the cooling rack,” Lightbulb said as she took the final steps into the treehouse, holding up the paper bag triumphantly. It rustled, the promise of cookies inside growing stronger.
“Good, I’m so bored up here,” Paintbrush said, swiping their bangs away from their eyes as they grabbed the white bag from Lightbulb’s outstretched hand and peered inside. Sure enough, there were a handful of round chocolate-chip cookies inside, slightly burned at the edges but most definitely still edible.
The die they were spinning was put to the side as Paintbrush took out a cookie, taking a bite into it. It was warm and soft, yet chewy at the edges. Lightbulb’s mum always knew how to make the best cookies- when they weren’t oatmeal raisin, of course.
“My mum is the best at cookies,” Lightbulb boasted, and Paintbrush rolled their eyes despite knowing the fact to be true. “She says it’s because they’re made with love.”
“I thought that love was with your soulmate,” Paintbrush said, mouth half-full of cookie. They swallowed the chewed-up treat, giving a sheepish smile with dough still stuck between their teeth.
“I think it is,” Lightbulb said. “Mum and Dad are soulmates, but she made these for me. does that mean that it was made with non-love love?”
“Mum love?” Paintbrush suggested, taking another bite out of their cookie.
“Mum love,” Lightbulb agreed, biting into her own almost-finished cookie. She took the last one from the white bag, and Paintbrush glared. She’d get more later, when they cooled down, and Paintbrush would have to go home for dinner! They wanted an extra cookie.
The two of them ate in silence for a moment, and Lightbulb looked up from her cookie with a perplexed expression on her face. “Hey Painty?”
“Hm?”
“Do you ever think about… what our soulmates will be like?” Lightbulb said, voice teetering on uneasy. “Will they be nice, I mean.”
Paintbrush considered this question for a moment, swallowing the cookie still in their mouth. It felt like they were swallowing a lump in their throat at the same time. “Well, they have to be, right?” they said, even though they weren’t so sure. They couldn’t think of any particular person they’d want to be their soulmate, no matter how much they try to imagine the quote-unquote dream person.
“I can’t think of any soulmate I’d want,” Lightbulb said. “I just think of you- or any of my other friends! Yeah.”
“Yeah, but I’m sure our soulmates will be great,” Paintbrush reassured. It was strange, because every single time Paintbrush tried to imagine a soulmate for themselves, they thought of blonde pigtails and bright blue eyes. All features Lightbulb had. Really, the only face they imagined was Lightbulb’s.
“I wonder if our soulmates will be friends,” Lightbulb whispered offhandedly, lying on her back on the floor of the treehouse. “Like us.”
Paintbrush swallowed another lump in their throat. Their cookie had already been eaten, and they weren’t sure what exactly they were swallowing down. Face tingling, they remembered the time they had to present their show and tell in front of the class. Feeling a little bit like that, they looked at the floor.
Both of them were silent for a moment, and this was unnatural. Even if they claimed they weren’t talking to each other, they always spoke; the words were just more distasteful than usual. Now, they were enveloped in a charged silence, and neither of them knew what to do with it. Scared to touch. Scared to do anything at all.
“Do you ever…” Lightbulb said, but after her last question starting with this, she seemed more hesitant to say it. So she didn’t, and Paintbrush silently pleaded for her to continue.
Silently, because they could not find it in themselves to break this silence. This silence that meant something.
“Lightbulb!” Her mother called out, cutting off the long moment. Paintbrush felt as if they had slipped out of a trance, feeling much more aware of the feeling of wood underneath them, Lightbulb’s presence at their side that sprung to life. “Cookies are cooled down!”
“Aw, awesome!” Lightbulb said, as if the silence had meant nothing after all. Like it was that easy to break that long moment. Paintbrush felt as if their head was spinning, spinning like the die on its point earlier. It was still at their side, so they picked it up and placed it in their pocket. Sure, it was Lightbulb’s, but she stole it from the classroom when they were learning times tables.
Besides, it wasn’t like she was gonna miss it.
“Paintbrush, I think your mum’s looking for you,” Lightbulb’s mum called out. The sky was painted orange, and the streetlamps had begun to turn on. Yes, their mother was most definitely going to be looking for them. Paintbrush cascaded down the ladder, careful not to fall down, and felt the grass beneath their shoed feet for the first time in what had to be hours.
“Okay!” Paintbrush said, the first word they had spoken in goodness knows how long. There was still a lump in their throat, and their words came out choked. If Lightbulb’s mother noticed this fact, she didn’t mention it; just opened the gate into the street and let Paintbrush rush home.
With one last look at Lightbulb’s house, the one she was currently in- probably speaking with her parents, despite the charged silence that was still having a strange effect on Paintbrush- they ran down the street, to their own home with its lit-up rooms and steam coming from the chimney.
Paintbrush was tired, and they wanted nothing more than to lie down. Their father would most definitely scold them for spoiling their dinner with cookies, but sacrifices had to be made for cookies baked by Lightbulb’s mum.
And for the treehouse, where Paintbrush had sat the entire time. The place without lit-up rooms or a chimney. The place that still felt like home, despite that fact.
The treehouse was still Paintbrush and Lightbulb’s primary meet-up spot, even as they started as freshman in high school. Paintbrush, now 15, spun the now-worn out die on its point, the thing only spinning for a little while before falling on its side.
Paintbrush couldn’t tell which one; all the painted-on dots had worn away from the consistent use. Perhaps it was a three, that was the energy Paintbrush got from it.
Lightbulb climbed up into the treehouse, a spiral notebook tucked underneath her arm and her newly-acquired pencil case full of different coloured pens and highlighters in the hand she wasn’t using to haul herself up the ladder. “Hey Painty!” She greeted merrily, throwing her pencil case on the floor without much of a second thought. It disrupted the spinning of Paintbrush’s die, and they could do nothing but sigh and pocket the previously-spinning cube.
“Hey,” they said. “You ready to get to work on this?”
“You bet! We’re gonna smash this science project out the park!” Lightbulb exclaimed. Grabbing the science textbook they brought along, Paintbrush opened it up to the page on light refraction.
They studied the many diagrams and small fonts on the page before looking up at Lightbulb, who seemed as eager and determined as ever. “So we need to write up a formal report on light refraction and the different forces that go into light,” Paintbrush explained simply, and Lightbulb nodded.
“We’re not the brightest bulbs in the shed, but we got this! You read out those words to me, and I’ll write down the points that really point us in the right direction.” Grabbing a blue pen and clicking it a few times, Lightbulb hovered the pen over an otherwise blank page in her notebook and waited intently for Paintbrush to begin speaking.
Feeling very put on the spot, Paintbrush felt their face begin to glow red from embarrassment. Clearing their throat apprehensively, they began to recite the text in the textbook to Lightbulb. Immediately, she began scribbling things down. The date was placed on the top of the page, and the title was highlighted yellow.
“So the rays of light are opposite of what they’re supposed to be?” Lightbulb said. “And that’s… refraction?”
“Yep,” Paintbrush confirmed, pausing their reading and swallowing down the nerves that built up in a ball in the back of their throat. “You don’t have to write down what the textbook says word-for-word, by the way.”
“I’m not,” Lightbulb said, flipping the page she was writing on to present to Paintbrush. Sure enough, there were neat dot points across the page- well, as neat as you could get with Lightbulb, anyway.
Paintbrush nodded, feeling like they were reassuring themselves more than they were Lightbulb. Looking back at the textbook, they weren’t exactly sure where they had left off now. Dragging their finger along the page, trying to find the last sentence they’d read aloud, Paintbrush felt sweat bead above their brow.
“You were talking about refraction,” Lightbulb said, coming up behind them suddenly. Paintbrush felt an arm press into their own, and immediately they turned their head to the book. Don’t look to the side, don’t look to the side, don’t look to the side.
“See? Here’s where you left off!” Lightbulb said merrily, pointing to a block of text in a red font. Right, that was where they were previous. Paintbrush attempted to let out a thank you, but it came out all strained and stuck in their throat, like a sticky taffy.
Clearing their throat once again and begging for their vocal cords to work, Paintbrush continued to recite the words in the textbook. The letters seemed to vibrate underneath their gaze, and for a moment Paintbrush thought they may have forgotten how to read. How to even breathe, for that matter.
Thankfully, Lightbulb didn’t question how slow they were to read each statement; she just waited patiently, pen hovering over the paper and smiling an encouraging smile every time Paintbrush let their eyes wander away from the white pages.
Once they had gotten their nerve back- and remembered how words work- Paintbrush got back into the rhythm they were previously holding. As collateral in this case, Lightbulb also got into the rhythm and the two of them worked in silence except for the words flowing from Paintbrush’s mouth and the scratching of Lightbulb’s pen in her notebook.
“Hey Painty?” Lightbulb asked as Paintbrush took a deep breath, catching their breath from the long paragraph they had just had to read.
“Yeah?” Paintbrush said, keeping their finger on the sentence they had just finished. They didn’t want to lose their place once again. They read the sentence in their head over and over again, making sure not to forget it.
“Can I ask you a question that’s… not about light reflection or whatever?” Lightbulb said, tripping over her words and wringing her hands.
Paintbrush let their finger be taken off the sentence, dog-earing the page and closing the textbook. Lightbulb now had their full attention, and they intended on keeping it that way. “Sure,” they said, hoping their voice was open.
The treehouse was silent for a long moment, and Paintbrush was suddenly taken back to when they were eleven, and Lightbulb had stolen some cookies from the cooling rack her mum had set them on. The discussion was about soulmates, and Paintbrush remembers it somewhat vividly. As much as they wish they didn’t.
That day… Paintbrush had felt something spark in their chest. It confused them to no end. Still did, despite the fact that it had been years since that moment.
“You’re fifteen now, right?” Lightbulb asked into the silence, finally. Paintbrush let out a small breath they didn’t know they were holding.
“Uh-huh,” Paintbrush confirmed, fiddling with the pages of the textbook. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, that means next year you get your red string of fate,” Lightbulb said, face burning as red as the prophesized pseudo string that wraps around your ring finger.
“I’m not all too excited about it,” Paintbrush confessed into the otherwise silent air. “I’m just hoping it’s not someone I know; that’d make a friendship really awkward, wouldn’t it?”
Lightbulb got really silent, her eyes drooping for only a moment. Once Paintbrush blinked again, the distraught expression was gone. It must have been the light filtering through the leaves, Paintbrush thought. It always made weird shapes on Lightbulb’s face.
But usually that was just a shadow moustache, or something that Paintbrush could laugh at. This one just tugged at their heartstrings a little. For some unimaginable reason. It wasn’t real, after all.
“Also hope they speak English,” Paintbrush continued, hoping that doing so would take their mind off the pain in their chest that they were so suddenly feeling.
They didn’t want to think about their soulmate, they realized. They didn’t want one.
They didn’t want anyone but the people they already had. That was enough for them.
Looking at Lightbulb, smiling into the notebook she was doodling into the margins of, they questioned if it was. Enough for them. What was enough for them? What was too much?
Maybe…
They thought back to that day when they were eleven, again.
“Do you ever…”
Paintbrush never did get to hear the end of that question, and yet they wanted to say it back to Lightbulb. Hell, they didn’t know what she was asking, even now. Did they even know what they were asking?
Yes. Yes, they did know. The question surfaced at the forefront of their mind, and suddenly it was all they could think about.
Do you ever wonder what it would be like if we were soulmates?
The thought made their eyes and ears burn, their cheeks to hurt from warmth. The textbook, the one that Paintbrush really should continue writing out of, continued to taunt them with the front cover clear to see.
But was it really, with the blur that took over their vision?
Lightbulb as their soulmate. Paintbrush doesn’t know if it would even work.
Did they want it to?
Another doodle of a whirlwind, another empty tic-tac-toe board. Paintbrush had their answer, and it was one that they could not mention to anybody.
One that they had to hide until they got their red string of fate and got over this terrible- but was it terrible or sincerely elating?- feeling.
Paintbrush’s sixteenth birthday was not as exciting as one would think.
“Come up to the tree house,” Lightbulb whispered to them at school at the lunch table. “At midnight, I mean. I wanna be there when you get your red string.”
The conversation turned to the topic of Paintbrush’s soulmate for only a moment- Paintbrush stayed silent throughout it, and surprisingly, so did Lightbulb- before quickly switching back to the algebra test in a few days.
Tuning out of the conversation, Paintbrush thought of the words Lightbulb practically whispered to them. Of course, nothing was sacred at their lunch table, but that was about as close as you could get.
And now, Paintbrush felt a painstaking pang in their chest. Their eyebrows furrowed, and they stared into their lunch of now-cold premade pasta. They picked at it with the plastic fork provided and thought about how a red string around their right ring finger would feel.
Would it be tight if it was pulled too taut? Would they even feel it, or would that phantom touch not exist?
Paintbrush really didn’t know, and they continued to let the conversation happening flow over them as they picked at their food with a frown on their face. Looking up, only briefly to try and catch a glimpse of the clock, they locked eyes with Lightbulb.
Neither of them said a word to each other, just looked in the other’s eyes and let the conversation around them turn to a mere buzz.
Lightbulb wanted to be there when Paintbrush got their red string of fate. She wanted to bask in the excitement of the whole situation with them because she was a good friend.
But what if Paintbrush didn’t feel excited? What if they felt so nervous and apprehensive that they wanted to throw up the few bites of food they had taken previous?
Well, then they’d have to fake it ‘till they made it.
-
The day ticked by quickly, and before Paintbrush even knew it the final bell of the day rang out. Lightbulb once again reminded them to come to the treehouse as the rest of the school flooded the hallways, eager to get home and kick their feet up in front of the television, most likely. Before Paintbrush was able to provide an answer, they’d lost Lightbulb in the crowd.
It wasn’t like they could say no, anyway. Paintbrush found that recently, it was much harder to say no to Lightbulb.
They spent the actual day celebrating with their friends and family- their dad baked a cake and piped happy birthday with a precision that Paintbrush could only dream of having- and was told that at midnight, once their birthday was over, they would see their red string of fate. As if that was not the same thing they had heard many times.
“Now Paintbrush, I know getting your red string is very exciting, but try not to stay up too late tonight. You’ll have a busy day tomorrow, I’m sure,” their mother reminded, handing them a plate with a slice of cake atop it. They had the Ha of Happy Birthday, and they dug into it after a frankly quite embarrassing rendition of Happy birthday that everyone sang out.
Paintbrush holed up in their room until their alarm for 11:50 rang, staring at their ring finger and wondering how much they actually wanted this at all.
Once the alarm rang, Paintbrush snuck out their window; this wasn’t something they’d do commonly, but it certainly wasn’t uncommon either. Sit on the windowsill, feet against the wall, and leap toward the branch closest to their window. Nine times out of ten, they stick the landing. The other times… well, they may or may not have had a few close calls concerning their legs and breaking them.
Whatever. It was ten minutes until they got their red string, and they wanted to be beside Lightbulb as they got it.
Getting into Lightbulb’s yard was easy, and getting into the treehouse was even easier. This wasn’t the first time the two of them had had a secret rendezvous in the rickety treehouse, and Paintbrush was certain that it wouldn’t be the last.
The die in their pocket felt like it weighed a thousand pounds with every step, and Paintbrush absentmindedly wondered how much the string would bother them in their day-to-day life. Shaking the thought, they continued to climb up into the treehouse.
Lightbulb was already waiting as Paintbrush ascended, doodling in an empty scrapbook with a single old pen. She looked up, and Paintbrush could’ve believed her eyes were brighter than the moon in the sky at that moment. Paintbrush walked over, crouching slightly- sometimes they wonder if they’ve outgrown this little treehouse, but they immediately forgo the idea- and sit beside Lightbulb.
“Not long now,” They said, holding out their right hand for Lightbulb to examine. It looked no different than it normally did, but Lightbulb ran her own hands over it regardless.
It made sparks run up Paintbrush’s back, currently leaning against the back of the treehouse. Bark dug into their skin, and they found that they didn’t mind even though they were now hyperaware of every inch of their body.
Lightbulb held the palm of their hand in their own, bringing the back of their hand up to her face, as if to examine it closer. Before Paintbrush could blink, she had placed a chaste kiss on the knuckle of their ring finger. “For good luck,” Lightbulb said, rubbing the knuckle that she had just kissed with her thumb.
Tempted to tell Lightbulb not to stop there, to kiss every knuckle of every finger and then some, Paintbrush instead keeps their hand deathly still. It’s still held against Lightbulb’s, and Paintbrush so desperately wants to turn the light support into a full hand-hold, interlock the fingers and lean their head against Lightbulb’s shoulder. Even if she was shorter.
…Goodness, what was wrong with them today? They were getting their soulmate and they were acting lovey-dovey about Lightbulb.
That wasn’t how it worked, and they knew it well enough. So they took a deep breath and closed their eyes, waiting for the moment a bright red string made its way into their otherwise dark vision.
Finally, it seemed as though the string was beginning to form around their finger. Paintbrush opened their eyes and saw nothing. You could only see your string when your eyes were closed, like a guardian angel to bring you your quote-unquote eternal love. They didn’t want to close their eyes, they wanted to look at Lightbulb for reassurance. Their hands balled into fists.
“I think it’s starting,” They muttered, hoping their voice didn’t sound as filled with dread as they currently felt.
“Close your eyes,” Lightbulb advised, as though this whole process pained her as well. There was an indecipherable tone in her voice, and Paintbrush followed her instruction despite the voices crying for them to never close their eyes again.
They could never say no to Lightbulb, after all. It was a new yet familiar fact.
The red string was definitely there, although there was something strange about it. It was as if it wasn’t tied to anything at all, hanging limp to their side. Paintbrush turned their face to the direction it fell in, and sure enough, the other end stopped short right beside them.
They opened their eyes again and felt their heart drop to their chest.
It stopped right where Lightbulb’s hand began.
“I think my string’s formed,” Paintbrush said, voice just barely audible. Below a whisper, if that was even possible. Lightbulb, sitting beside them, smiled. It was forced.
God, how was Paintbrush going to tell her this? If the very idea of soulmates seemed to freak her out, how would she react to the fact that she was Paintbrush’s?
“Where does it lead?” Lightbulb asked, voice strained. There was no way Paintbrush could tell her, it would ruin everything.
But… Oh, they can’t keep this secret. They can’t say no to Lightbulb.
The die in their pocket was as heavy as the tension filling the treehouse. “Lightbulb…” Paintbrush said, placing a hand on her shoulder, feather-light. “If I tell you something… can you keep a secret?”
“You don’t have to tell me who you think it is, Painty,” Lightbulb said, voice tinged with just a bit of hurt that made Paintbrush’s own heart ache in turn. “Just tell me which way the string goes. If it goes to Goiky, or… I dunno, England?”
“You have to listen to me very carefully, here,” Paintbrush said, their grip on Lightbulb’s shoulder becoming rougher. “The first time we ever talked about soulmates, where were we?”
“Here,” Lightbulb answered immediately. “Paintbrush, I don’t really understand-”
“Painty,” Paintbrush corrected. “Just listen. And answer, answer too. We’ve been completely honest with each other every moment of every day, right?”
“Is this some- some ploy? To make me feel bad for lying to you?” Lightbulb demanded.
Paintbrush paused, eyes growing wider. Lightbulb crossed her arms defensively over her chest, and her pout grew into a harsh, sharp frown.
“Yes, I’m jealous of whoever gets to be your soulmate. No, I don’t want to hear a word about any of it. I just- I didn’t mean to lie to you, but one thing happened and then another thing happened and I’m- Please don’t make me feel sad about it, you’re making me feel sad about it.”
Paintbrush felt their heartbeat increase at the sudden confessions, head spinning and heart demanding to hold her shoulders tighter, to change the small bit of contact to a hug, to jump up and spin her around- and at the very same time, Paintbrush felt absolutely paralysed in their spot.
“Who do you think you’re jealous of?” Paintbrush asked, voice rougher, sharper than they had imagined it would be. Lightbulb didn’t seem to have an answer, looking up at them with a slightly agape mouth and sharply downturned brows. Her eyes screamed sadness, her posture screamed defiance.
Eyes were the windows to the soul. Paintbrush should be looking into hers more, they think.
“Who do you think you’re jealous of, Lightbulb?” Paintbrush asked once again, voice more insistent. “Who do you think my soulmate is? Who do you want it to be?”
“I- Those are two very different questions, Painty,” Lightbulb said.
“Well then,” Paintbrush sighed, feeling their knees begin to ache as they kneeled in front of Lightbulb. “Answer both. Or just one, if you can’t find an answer to the other.”
A deep breath in. Lightbulb took one of those, the inhale of midnight air sharp and cold. “Do you want the truth?” Lightbulb said. “Because I will make a promise to tell the truth here; but neither of us will like it.”
“I think you’re thoroughly mistaken, Lightbulb,” Paintbrush said. “Just give me an a-”
“Me!” Lightbulb immediately exclaimed. “I want it to be me. I’ve wanted it to be me, since I knew what a soulmate was! I wanted it to be me when you turned eleven, or twelve, even when you turned fifteen! And now you’re sixteen, and none of those wishes changed anything!”
“But what if they did?” Paintbrush insisted, their nails practically digging into Lightbulb’s shoulders.
“Stop,” Lightbulb said, wiggling out of Paintbrush’s grasp. In the moonlight that filtered through the leaves of their treehouse, Paintbrush could see the beginnings of tears underneath her eyes. “Stop it. Stop,” she continued to demand, voice choked up.
“Lightbulb, you need to listen,” Paintbrush continued to coax. They felt their own tears spring to their eyes and wiped them away in a frenzy. Immediately after, their hand went back to Lightbulb’s shoulder.
“I don’t want to hear it! I don’t want to hear you say it, please don’t say it,” Lightbulb said. “I’m not ready, I’ve spent so long- please, tell me I’m wrong.”
Shaking their head, Paintbrush brought one of their hands to the back of Lightbulb’s head. They pushed her head into the crook between their neck and shoulder; once they were sure she couldn’t see their face, they let a frown overtake their face. They let the tears that continued to spring to their eyes fall down.
Lightbulb must have known, and she curled further into Paintbrush’s embrace despite her words, made of venom, making them believe she would never want to be there. “I’m so sorry,” Paintbrush said. “I know how you feel about this stuff. I just- I could never help it. Since we were kids, I’ve wondered- what it would be like if it was us. I never- I never thought it would be. Not even for a second.”
Lightbulb’s shoulders shook, and Paintbrush’s jacket shoulder grew damp. “Don’t apologize,” Lightbulb said, her heaving breath making every word she spoke all the more impactful to Paintbrush. “Don’t you dare apologize. Just- give me a minute. Please.”
Paintbrush would give her a million seconds, a thousand minutes, a hundred years. She’d give her as long as she asked. The die in their pocket made them feel worse. She stole that from them when she was eleven, and now they’re stealing the hope of a soulmate she’d love now that she’s fifteen.
“This is everything I’ve ever wanted,” Lightbulb said immediately. “I don’t know why, It’s just- it’s always been you. Morning, day, night. You, you, you.”
Paintbrush felt their breath catch in their throat. They felt a sob build up. “Lightbulb-”
“Let me finish,” Lightbulb pleaded. Paintbrush quieted. “I’m… You’ve always made me feel so much better than everyone else. i get that we have our lunch table, but none of them- it’s just always been you. It’s you, even if- we’re not soulmates. We can’t be, because then- then I’ve messed everything up.”
“We have time to fix it,” Paintbrush reassured. “We have so much time.”
The air was heavy, the night was cold. the irony of the only source of warmth being Lightbulb’s body pressed against their own was not lost on them. The hand on the back of Lightbulb’s head pushed it closer to the crook of their neck.
“You are my soulmate,” Paintbrush said, reaching for Lightbulb’s hand. They pressed their thumb against her ring finger’s knuckle. “And I wouldn’t change it for anything.”
“You’re gonna change your mind,” Lightbulb muttered into their neck. It sent tingles up their spine, and Paintbrush wondered if she wanted that statement to be true or not. Considering the way the hand that wasn’t held by Paintbrush’s wrapped around their shoulder and rested on the nape of their neck, they don’t think she did.
“I won’t,” Paintbrush insisted. “I haven’t changed my mind since I was eleven; granted, I didn’t know I loved you then. But I most definitely did, and that hasn’t changed.”
Paintbrush brought the hand they were holding of Lightbulb’s up to their face. They kissed the knuckle of her ring finger, mirroring what Lightbulb had done for them earlier. They noted the way Lightbulb’s legs shook at the action, and they did it again.
“Good luck,” They whispered into the slightly wet spot on her knuckle, rubbing it away with their thumb. “Remember?”
“You’re the worst,” Lightbulb muttered. “I love you so much. This isn’t real.”
“It’s as real as it gets,” Paintbrush said. “Do you want me to prove it?”
Entranced, Lightbulb took her head out of Paintbrush’s neck and nodded. They cupped her head by the jaw with a hand and brought it closer to their own face. They left a chaste kiss on her lips, both hers and theirs chapped by the midnight wind.
Lightbulb’s face burned bright red. Clearly she hadn’t been expecting that. Her mouth slightly agape, she brought her face closer to theirs once again. Paintbrush could feel her breath fanning on their face, and it made them go a little bit crazy.
“You,” Paintbrush whispered into the otherwise silent night. Clearly, the outside noises of the world had decided to subdue themselves for this little moment in the treehouse. “You are the only person I’d ever want. The only one I’ll ever want. Now and forever.”
“We don’t know that.”
“We don’t,” Paintbrush agreed, looking down at the ring finger’s knuckle that they had been absentmindedly circling with their thumb for goodness knows how long. “But we’ve got good luck on our side. And we’ve got the treehouse.”
“We’ve got the treehouse,” Lightbulb agreed.