Of Clichés and Winter Romances:
Month One: December
Nachzes Black-Rider

Christmas. Skye laughs, and allows her head to fall back, opening her mouth and twirling around to catch the light, fluffy snowflakes on her tongue. Phoenix watches her, and leans against the car door as the younger continues to whirl about. Sighing, Phoenix checks her watch and glances at Skye, then goes back to her watch again. “Skye,” she tries half-heartedly, but the other girl either doesn’t hear her or chooses to ignore. Phoenix is cold; the small patch of bare skin on her back feels prickly and strange, pressed up against the icy car door, and the new-fallen snow under her shoes has long-since melted, managing to seep through the cracked soles, soaking her socks. Uncomfortable. She shifts, wincing as her sodden socks make an odd squishing sound. She glances up, hopeful, when she hears a muted thwump, but it’s just Skye dropping down to make a snow angel. When done, the blonde hops up giggling and smiles proudly at her work, and then turns around to face Phoenix.

Skye laughs, and allows her head to fall back, opening her mouth and twirling around to catch the light, fluffy snowflakes on her tongue. Phoenix watches her, and leans against the car door as the younger continues to whirl about. Sighing, Phoenix checks her watch and glances at Skye, then goes back to her watch again. “Skye,” she tries half-heartedly, but the other girl either doesn’t hear her or chooses to ignore. Phoenix is cold; the small patch of bare skin on her back feels prickly and strange, pressed up against the icy car door, and the new-fallen snow under her shoes has long-since melted, managing to seep through the cracked soles, soaking her socks. She shifts, wincing as her sodden socks make an odd squishing sound. She glances up, hopeful, when she hears a muted , but it’s just Skye dropping down to make a snow angel. When done, the blonde hops up giggling and smiles proudly at her work, and then turns around to face Phoenix.

“Come on!” she calls, waving frantically and shouting as if Phoenix is miles away, even though it is only feet. Phoenix looks blankly back at her, and Skye pouts. “Phoenix, it’s fun,” she whines, batting huge baby blues at the redhead.

Phoenix groans in response, and reluctantly peels herself away from the car door, slouching her way over to where Skye is standing.

Still pouting, Skye pokes her on the shoulder. “You have to do something!” she says indignantly, and Phoenix rolls her eyes—long-suffering—and plops down in the snow beside Skye, yanking on the other’s arm so that she tumbles onto the ground, a startled squeak slipping out from between her lips.

“There. I did something.”

Flop.

Phoenix falls onto her back, staring up into the white December sky, eyes squinted against the bright sun. Skye glares at her, also squinty-eyed.

---

A few minutes pass in silence, and Phoenix hears a sigh as Skye plops down next to her.

“Sometimes I don’t know why I go out with you,” Skye muses.

Phoenix blinks, and turns her head to look at her.

“Oh, right,” Skye says gravely, meeting violet eyes. “It’s the sex.”

Phoenix laughs, and Skye grins.

“Figuratively speaking, of course,” the blonde adds imperatively, nodding to herself, white-blonde hair knotting up against the snow.

“Figurative sex?” Phoenix asks.

Skye nods seriously. “Or maybe futuristic; it’s a metaphor.”

Phoenix raises a doubtful eyebrow.

“Well, alright,” Skye concedes, waving one hand dismissively and turning her head back to squint up at the clouds, “so it’s not technically a metaphor. But it is a clichéd, over-used figure of speech to say that something is a metaphor, even when it’s not.” She pauses. “Since when do you know what a metaphor is, anyways?” she says, and Phoenix just looks at her. Heaving a sigh, Skye says—long-suffering—“I’ve taught you too well,” and promptly bursts into a fit of giggles.

“You’re so immature.”

“And you’re a bitch,” Skye retorts, smiling.

There’s silence for a few minutes, as Phoenix and Skye look at each other, expressions grave. Finally, the elder speaks up.

“But I love you anyways,” she says, and Skye’s blue eyes widen briefly before her face breaks into a smile, and she responds:

“I love you too, bitch,” she whispers, eyes shining.

Phoenix smiles (her first real smile, Skye thinks), and reaches over to kiss the immature child-genius.

And even though it’s December, and the freezing snow is soaking through her fake leather jacket, Phoenix is warm, and happy, and filled with love.

Because of Skye.