A/N: Just came out of nowhere. I hope it isn't confusing, but it most likely is. Well... yeah.

I disclaim.

The person.

The person, with the icy, witty, snarky remarks saved on the person's tongue and wired knowledge in the person's cheeks left and never deleted, hides purple and yellow shadows behind him. The December air he breathes in which swims in the pools of the person's lungs does not replace the faint smell of fresh and faraway coffee. The snow in his skin and the wood in his hair and the northern lights dipped in his eyes are all true and real, just defined with what a human is and what a human feels. Being left alone makes the person aloof and enigmatic and everything mysterious, attracting quite an oddly low number of people and speaking only when needed, only when there is an emergency. The foreign and tattooed words inked and scarred beneath his skin and lit on his bones were there to remain and there to remind. To remind the lonely person that he deserves the loneliness he is so full of.

Electricity flitters around the park. This is somewhere that is maybe London or New York or Bologna. The person's hands in his jacket's pockets, ghosts dancing in the snow like angels, whispering poetry. The fire dances with the Christmas lights tied to the posts and the high buildings around. The person walks around, slow but graceful in each step, letting the dancing fire cuddle close to him and warm up the hysteria in his head. He sits down on a vacant bench, one able to fit four people in and give each other body warmth they don't know they want. He sits in between where the invisible third and fourth persons could occupy, sighing in the cold and digging his hands deeper into the cozy furnaces of his brown pockets, breathing in the truth and blinking away old tears.

The person scans the park. A couple of snowmen stand, some tall, some lazy; young kids dressed in comfortable clothing, suitable for the wintry weather. Their parents sit on benches and watch their darlings make worlds of their own, men of the worlds, happy smiles from curved sticks. And they still watch as they tear them apart and stomp on their creations.

The couples feed each other stares filled with love and quick kisses on the cheek. Their cheeks flush and he sees. He sees and looks away.

He looks away, and he sees. A flash. He sees a flash.

A flash of golden and amber and honey and fire and sun and heat. A flash of something very warm.

The stranger walks around and his eyes glitter, almost like they reflect the lights. He smiles and he looks carefree and warm like his eyes do. But warmer than the person's empty pockets.

And, in some way, he also looks tired. Deep down inside, he must be.

When the person with the scary thoughts – with the perfectly coiffed hair but imperfectly prepared fragments and sentences, with the sea in his eyes which hold down the waves – doesn't look away and the person with the sunny, summer smile – with the five year old curls, with the calluses marked on his fingers – meets his gaze, it's like everything stops and whispers underneath their ribs escape and touch. Promises and vows from the future screech and collapse and move in between the two of them. Sparks are suspended in the air and questions swirl. Maydays fly and the person with the sea in his eyes wants to –maybe – speak. Because this is an emergency, because he thinks it's a need, because because because.

He's not safe anymore, but maybe he never was.

The magic stops. For now.

The person with the calluses glances around, eyes wide, blinking and surprised. He looks around more, for a while, wondering what the heck happened, then his eyes find the place where they want to be – where the person with the perfectly coiffed hair is.

Meanwhile, the person with the scary thoughts and the hesitant heart breathes in while he exhales. He's not looking at the other anymore, but he wants to. He really wants to that the thought of everything that will be makes his heart beat irregularly and his head go dizzy. It's dangerous and stupid – fickle like the weather, so unpredictable; he hates, hates, hates it.

But he thinks that, maybe just sometimes, you can't hate love. Especially the love-at-first-sight kind of love. The one that makes your words stutter and your heart swell and shivers to run down your spine. He just knows it's love at first sight because he's never felt like this before. He's never felt the adrenaline and the sparks and the butterflies and everything just suddenly glows; everything feels like a daydream. The stars flicker repeatedly and it's like they're dancing. They took the place of the ghosts.

Maybe the person with the sunny smile can see and feel it all too.

He looks up and he's right there. He looks into his eyes–

"Hi," sunny smile says. A beginning.

Coiffed hair breathes, "Hi."

–and he knows he sees and feels it all too.