yeah u got ghosts in your blood, you should do cocaine about it

i don't have a clever title for this

It had been seven months, three hundred sixty two days, eight hours, twenty three minutes, and nine seconds since that summer evening when Lightbulb and Paintbrush became an official, not quite, but maybe, unofficial couple.

The sun was setting over a hill just by the lake, and the fireflies had just started to blink into existence when they had kissed for the first time and it was a done deal from there. Neither one of them had ever said it out loud, but they held hands and slept in the same bed and kissed sometimes, so Lightbulb thought that it was a pretty legal relationship. Although, she was pretty new at the whole "romantic thing where you both liked the other back and" kinda thing, she wasn't sure the limits of their whole... thing. Sure, just because she could make Paintbrush melt under any kind of sweet nothings she murmured against their cheek doesn't mean she wasn't, completely, hopelessly out of her depth.

She had left the hotel earlier than usual, well before Paintbrush, or anyone else for that matter, was awake. She wanted to beat what would surely be an enormous crowd at the local flower shop. Y'see, Lightbulb could not recall a Valentine's Day where she actually had a Valentine's; therefore, despite all the constant barrage of ads for balloons and cards and romantic gossip at the hotel, Lightbulb wasn't sure what kind of gift would be appropriate. Certainly, Lightbulb reasoned, not all relationships were the same, just as people were not all the same, and everyone likes different things. Her relationship with Paintbrush, after all, was anything but conventional. Plain roses and a heart shaped box just doesn't seem quite right.

"What sort of partner, then?"

The kind of partner that makes her heart skip one too many beats. The answer floated on the surface of Lightbulb's mind, unspoken and only partially bidden. "Ahhh... they're. Paintbrush."

The store owner, to his credit, only smiled. "So... What? Sort of an art supply?"

"What? No! No, no, Paintbrush is... well. Paintbrush is just, Paintbrush." Lightbulb spluttered, hands splaying helplessly in the air before her. "They're. Special."

"Well," the clerk tries again,"what colors do they like?"

"Colors?"

"Not every Valentines bouquet has to be a bunch of roses. Tell me about them."

Lightbulb became more and more lost as the florist spoke, asking about their first meeting (in a cage), or their relationship described in terms of living arrangements (in a hotel room), and Paintbrush was simply described as Paintbrush (even though they were fiery and vibrant and ever so unique.) The more he talked, the more Lightbulb answered in clipped, short sentences, because Valentine's Day was just supposed to be a special day where you did special things for that special person in your life and Paintbrush was... special. There was really no other way to put it. They were special in that way that made her light up whenever they smiled, special in that way that made her head feel like it was full of cotton stuffed fireworks every time their fingers brushed together, special in that way that made her heart trip up and become untied and laced with lovely dreams because their hair is colored in popcorn and Lightbulb's hair was covered in popcorn and they didn't even mind picking each piece out for her, special- special...

Special in that way that made Lightbulb compose romantic soliloquies in the middle of a busy flower shop and aw geez. She was holding up the line now and the poor clerk is doing his best to look polite. Oops.

She left the flower shop with a modest bouquet of lilies and magnolias flushed with pinks and blues and alstroemerias, because Lightbulb couldn't pronounce the name but they still reminded her of Paintbrush when their hair lit up in a blaze of yellows and oranges. It was a raucous assortment of color and shape, and the modest size troubled her briefly on the way home. Until the moment she stepped into her hotel room and heard Paintbrush bustling about in the bathroom. It turned out that her modest bouquet was just the right size to hide behind her back.