DISCLAIMER: If you recognize it, I don't own it.

There was hardly a soul in San Angel who understood why Maria loved colors so much. She didn't blame them: they didn't grow up amidst shades of grey.

It was how her father had always seen the world. Each day was a new battlefield, and each face was either an ally to fight beside or a foe to strike down. As a girl, she often found herself wondering which one she was. When he tore himself away from his maps and miniature soldiers to give her a moment of his time, it came in either harsh words or commands disguised as lessons. "A good child is the kind you hardly notice until you need them, Maria," he would frequently remark with a sullen look. "The same goes for a proper lady."

Thus, her room was the grayest in the house. The sheets, the curtains, the stripes on the wallpaper, everything. It was almost maddening, and she fancied it would have been had she not put up the posters. On many nights, long after she was supposed to be asleep, she would stare up at the bright pictures and dream herself to the places they depicted. The words hardly meant anything to her. It was the colors that captured her view of the world, the beauty and wonder that her father seemed blind to.

"Which one's your favorite?" Joaquin had asked one day when she told the boys about them.

"I dunno," she had lied. "All of them, I guess." It had always been red. Red was life and excitement and a love for everyone and everything. It was the one you could never take away.

Life had tried its hardest, she'd give it that much. Especially at the convent. Black dresses, no visits home, endless rules and harsh punishments if you broke one even by accident. The term "solitary confinement" became a familiar one. Her beloved colors were reduced to the flickering flame of the candle she used to read forbidden books in secret, to sneak out to the empty horse stall where she'd hidden Chuy, to teach herself fencing and kung fu. By the time the ten years had passed, the colors had become more than just the beauty of the world itself. It was the things within the world, the things that made it worth living in. Things worth fighting for.

Like him.

When she had told the boys what the colors meant to her, Joaquin had looked confused while Manolo had smiled and nodded. In this regard, she had learned even before marrying him, her guitarrista had not changed a bit during their time apart. If anything, he had come to understand it even more.

When she saw his room again - only now it was their room, she reminded herself with a slight blush - it had felt more like a homecoming than the lavish celebrations. It was small and messy to an untrained eye, but the books and clothing and papers covered in musical notes lay piled in an orderly clutter. On the walls and ceiling were an explosion of radiant, varied hues in wallpaper, curtains, pictures, posters of his ancestors and of musical instruments. There were the deep reds she loved, but also yellows, blues and greens. It was all so…Manolo, for lack of a better term.

"It usually isn't this bad," he'd said with a slight stutter as he tried to clean up.

She had just smiled and taken him by the hand. "It's fine."

The next day, he helped move her chests full of books out of her old house and into an unused room of her new one. Shelves went up, volumes sorted and put in their proper place. That evening was the first time she read to him. It was a Tolstoy, long and boring, just to test his dedication. He hung on her every word, asking her all sorts of questions. What did that word mean? What were these people doing? Had she read this one before? When she admitted that she hadn't, they found themselves going over it together. They talked, laughed, read and re-read, praised or gently mocked. The hours slipped by unnoticed until they heard the clock striking midnight.

Yawning, Manolo rested his head on her shoulder. "Can we do this again tomorrow?" And so they did, the next evening and every evening after.

Then there was the day she had happened upon some old drawings done for schoolwork. New pictures stirred in her head, aching to be brought to life. Most people laughed or looked shocked when she told them she was going to paint. Manolo had asked if she needed any help getting material together. Before long, she had half of the music room to herself. Sometimes she emulated the soft brush strokes of the painters she had studied. Sometimes the wild, colorful patterns of her homeland's art called out to her. Sometimes she felt like flinging paint at a canvas just to see what would happen. Manolo had once looked up from his work at the sound of her laughter and found her elbow-deep in several different paint cans. She had blushed and muttered something about not mentioning this to anyone. He had grinned, rolled up his sleeves and joined her.

He always accompanied her on her trips to the orphanage, and when she couldn't go, he went in her place. At first she thought it was only to be near her, until she noticed that he was bringing his guitar. The children sat around him while he played, eagerly asking for certain tunes and wondering how it was done. He would show them, gentle and patient as he guided their fingers over the strings. Soon they all had little guitars of their own to follow his lead with. She watched them all play, trying not to let her expression betray her thoughts. Why can't everyone else see this?

Whenever they walked through town, he had a kind look or word for those who averted their eyes in guilt or fear — it was usually fear. She'd give anything for his ability to put on a smile, to block out the needling whispers and rumors that always seemed to reach her ears. One night, about a month after the wedding, she had stormed through the front door. Her hands were balled into fists, her face flushed red with yelling, her voice was hoarse and tears brimmed in her eyes. Manolo had been startled by her appearance but let her crumple into his lap nonetheless. He had stroked her hair and held her close while she switched between ranting and crying until she was too tired for either. "I know what can help," he finally said.

"I doubt it."

"Just wait."

He carried her upstairs, tucked her in and the next thing she knew, faint morning light was leaking through the curtains and he was flicking her nose to wake her up. "Come on, you're going to miss it!"

"Miss what?

"You'll remember."

She did soon enough, after he led her outside and across the bridge. Despite what had happened the last time she saw it, the buildings of San Angel sparkling in the sunrise still managed to take her breath away.

"See?" Manolo said. "It's not all bad."

As they sat down, she rested her head on his chest and smiled up at him. "Yeah…"

She knew exactly why she loved colors, and so did he. The colors were hope and joy, finding wonder in everything and making something beautiful.

The colors were them.