~*Author's Note and Disclaimer*~

Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight.

This story contains love between two women.

This is just a very short one-shot I had to write. Yes, it's a little wrong for the season. I couldn't resist it though. This might eventually be a scene that is involved in a larger, multi-chapter story I'm going to write.

There are no definite plans as of right now.

Enjoy, and review. Tell me what you think about it. It's very different from "Love in the Mirror Room," in every single way.

~*~*~*~

The snow drifts lazily from the inky darkness of the midnight sky. Every shift in the air sends the flakes tumbling from their original path. They curl and dance their way through the night, some traveling only inches from their original path, others make a sharp turn and land delicately feet or even miles away, collapsing softly on top of the trillions of other flakes. The powder coats the world, or at least the entire college campus, in perfect white. A dim, golden glow from a streetlamp serves as the only source of light, illuminating just a small circle around the wrought iron pole.

There is silence.

The entire world is asleep now, covered in the soft blanket of snow with just the one streetlamp disrupting the peaceful darkness.

The world continues its quiet napping for several minutes until the sound of giggling echoes throughout the seemingly abandoned campus. Once the sound is heard, the rest of the nighttime noise comes floating back: the deep rumble of plows crawling their way through the roads, the metallic clamoring of a trash can hitting the ground followed shortly by the rustling of a raccoon in search of food. In the distance, the low thump of a bass line from a too-crowded house with red cups sprinkled along the property-- makeshift lawn ornaments.

None of those noises seem to reach this particular spot, where the lantern stands, an ever-vigilant soldier. The snow is still perfect, still crisp, and the warm glow has revealed the source of the laughter. Two girls stumble blindly through the almost-darkness, clinging tightly to one another in an effort to remain upright. Rather, one struggles to keep them both up while the other struggles to keep her footing as the world spins a little too quickly. They are both equally lovely, so petite, and so very pale, although the combination of alcohol and frigid winter air has left their cheeks and the tips of their noses a soft, rosy pink.

The similarities in their appearance end there.

The drunken, faltering one is several inches taller than her supportive counterpart and when she stops suddenly, it forces her little pixie friend to look up in question. Neither speak; one is trying to remember just why it was she stopped in the first place, and the other is reflecting on the meaning of 'beauty' as she peers up at her friend. The thought occurs to the pixie that never before has someone fit their name more aptly. The drunken girl is merely staring and blinking sleepily as a smile slowly curves her full lips. She is beyond beautiful, the tiny girl thinks. They are close enough that it would be no problem for her to count each and every flawless eyelash framing the rich mocha eyes in front of her. Their proximity is doing funny things to the sprite's stomach and she is struck by a sudden urge to trace the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of her friend's nose.

"Do you ever want things you can't have, Alice?" the drunken girl asks after a moment, the question escaping on a wave of warm breath. The pixie, Alice, is astounded; her lips part, revealing a quick flash of pink as she swipes her tongue across her dry lips. She swallows visibly, trying to quell the desert that has suddenly taken residence in her throat so that she might be able to answer the beautiful, wonderful girl in front of her.

The girl that she so desperately wants but cannot have.

"I do," she continues, not allowing Alice a chance to speak. "There is something I want so badly it hurts but I can't have it. It's tearing my heart into a million pieces."

A single tear falls from her chocolate eyes, beginning its slow descent down her flushed cheek. A delicate hand rises and uses numb, cold-reddened fingertips to wipe away the tear.

The two look ethereal, standing there in the honey-toned light of a single antique streetlight with the snow tumbling all around them, speckling the spiky black 'do and the wildly waving espresso colored hair of each respectively. Both sets of eyes, earthy brown and brilliant blue, shine with emotion.

The pixie can feel her heart swell with pride that the girl in front of her belongs to her.

Her conscience interrupts, reminding her that she is not, in fact, Alice's. They are merely best friends. They will continue to be best friends, living in this not-so-blissful ignorance of the love they could share, unless she takes a chance.

Perhaps it was the whiskey, or maybe the magic of the moment, or maybe it was just the pixie's heart growing weary of suffering for so long. Whatever it is, and before she can think to stop herself, the words are bubbling from her slender throat.

This is it.

This is the moment where Alice will change both of their lives.

"Bella, I lo-"

"Will you make a snow angel with me?" Bella turns, unaware of what nearly transpired. Her voice is reverent as she drifts away from her lovesick friend, her face upturned toward the falling snow. The question is punctuated with a hiccup and a quiet giggle that Alice can't help but find painfully adorable.

She wants to kiss her.

She wants to confess her love.

She wants to bundle the poor girl up and take her home and put her in bed, safely tucked away from the cold. But as Bella continues to wander around innocently, arms outstretched toward the sky, little pink tongue stuck out in an attempt to catch snowflakes, Alice knows she won't do any of those things.

She can't refuse Bella.

She never could.

She can only hope that one day, Bella will realize that she loves Alice.

That there is a happy ending waiting for them.

"Alright, Bella girl. Let's make snow angels."

~*~*~*~

Hope you enjoyed this.