Hello Everybody!

Okay, here's another one. Just a short, short, tiny little oneshot. I promise. For real this time.

Based off of and inspired by something that really happened to me when I was very little, except this is happier. Kinda.

So yeah, Little!Hanna. Beware the fluffy. (Also, I know nothing of Hanna's parents; I'm just making shit up.)

Disclaimer: I do not own Hanna is Not a Boy's Name, nor any of the characters/locations therein. I do, however, own the story.

Atmospheric Perspective

Seven years old today. That's how old he was now. Seven. And while he hadn't had much in the way of a party, (that was still a few days away) Mama was there with him. Mama was there because she had called in sick to work just so she could take him to the park to play.

He had Mama all to himself today.

Mama was busy a lot. So was Daddy, but he would be coming home later and then they would all have that cake that Mama had made. They always tried to make time for him, even when they had to work. It didn't always happen.

But Mama had called in to work and packed a picnic and now they were at the park and it was beautiful out because the sun was shining but it wasn't too hot or too cold and the breeze coming off of the little creek by the tree they had picnicked under felt nice when it ruffled his hair. She had even let him stay home from school!

The sun was starting to set now, turning the horizon brilliant shades of orange and peach. Just like the balloon he clutched tightly in his fist. Orange was his favorite color. Mama had got it for him from the nice man who sold them. The man had said they were free to little birthday boys and he had almost told him that he wasn't a little boy anymore, (he was seven!) but he really wanted that balloon. And besides, Mama was getting it for him. So that made it doubly special.

He kept a tight grip the string, hot little hands holding on for all they were worth as the two of them walked back over to the tree to start packing up. He wanted to help Mama put stuff away and maybe even help fold up the blanket like the big boy he was, but Mama just smiled and said that he would have to do it with one hand unless he wanted to let go of the balloon and tie it to something. As much as he wanted to help, he didn't want to unhand his prize just yet. So he let Mama clean up while he sat and watched. He would help her unload the car and put everything away inside once they got home.

While she was busy he turned his attention to the orange balloon, the same color as the sunset. He watched it wobble in the breeze. It made him smile. He could still see the last few rays of sunlight pouring in through the treetops and when they hit just right, they shone straight through that balloon and lit it up like magic fire. He let his mind wander a little, imagining what it would be like to know magic and feeling the breeze from the creek at his back.

He must have let his mind wander a bit too much because the breeze came again, only this time stronger than before, and he wasn't ready for it. The wind caught at the flailing balloon and it tugged on the string in his hand, pulling it free and snatching it away. He gasped. Scrambling to his feet, he chased it a little ways as it started to float gently up into the sky.

He made a grab for it, letting out a hopeful uhn! as he hopped on one foot. His fingers just barely missed their target by an inch. He tried again, and then again, each time making the same little noise and not caring that it rose in pitch and desperation with every try. He hopped one final time, hands meeting nothing but air. As he landed, the foot that had been catching him slipped on the grass and he fell forward onto his face.

"Hanna! Oh my gosh, baby, are you okay?" Suddenly Mama's arms were around him, helping him to sit up.

He was aware that she was worriedly checking him over for injury, but he was too distracted to really notice. He sniffled, just softly. He could feel his arms and hands stinging from where they slid across the grass. But that wasn't why he was upset. (And he wasn't crying either, because he was seven, darn it, and seven-year-olds didn't cry when they fell down.) No, he was upset because his balloon was too far up now, too high up into the air, and he would never be able to catch it now.

The man that Mama had got it from was gone, but it didn't matter anyways. Even if he could get another magical orange balloon it just wouldn't be the same. It wouldn't be special. No, he wanted the one that was now nothing but a fading blob of color rising higher and higher. He sniffled again, bringing his palm up to rub at one eye. His lower lip stuck out in a tiny pout as he looked mournfully up into the clouds.

"Oh honey," said Mama, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "It's alright."

He didn't look at her, instead keeping his gaze on the almost-invisible speck of orange against the twilit sky.

"Hey. Do you want to know a secret?" She smoothed his hair down with a gentle stroke of her hand.

He nuzzled closer to her and she pulled him tight against her body.

"Whenever a balloon gets loose and flies away, it goes all the way up into the atmosphere; almost into outer space."

He sniffled sadly.

"And when it does, it pops! And then as it falls back down to earth, the colors catch the light and it becomes a rainbow."

He looked up at her with wide eyes; his lips pulled into a little 'o' of wonder. "R-really?" he asked in quiet awe. "They make rainbows?"

Mama smiled down at him nestled in her arms. With a chuckle, she touched her nose to his in an Eskimo kiss. "Mmm-Hmm. Somewhere in the world, right now, there's a rainbow that you made." She tucked him under her chin and inhaled deeply before letting out a little hum, her arms wrapped around him completely. "Oh, my precious little boy," (and there it was again, he was not little anymore, but it was Mama, so it was okay.) "You gave somebody a rainbow. I'm proud of you, sweetheart."

He was grinning now. Yes, the balloon had been special but this way he could share it with somebody else, somebody who needed something to make them happy. If he could make another person smile then it was worth it. And besides, Mama had just said she was proud of him. That was what really mattered.

"I love you, Mama."

Twenty-four. He was twenty-four now. Almost twenty-five. It was cold and miserable and there was snow everywhere but it was melting into slush more than it was sticking to the ground and now everything just looked dirty and wet. Normally it wouldn't have bothered him, but today, as he watched the dazzling gold and orange sunset across the skyline of the city, he felt strangely solemn. Sober. Like his heart was tired.

And weirdest part was, he couldn't for the life of him think of why.

"Hanna?"

He started at the sound of his name. Slowly, without really moving much more than his gaze, he looked up at the figure beside him. His friend.

Glowing orange eyes surveyed him curiously, if not a little concernedly. Orange. His favorite color. Like magic fire… He blinked in surprise, not sure where that thought had come from.

"Are you alright?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, I'm fine, Winston." He did his best to put on his usual carefree smile and nearly failed. He just couldn't put his all into it. 'Winston' cocked an eyebrow skeptically and he knew that his friend knew that he was lying. He sighed mentally.

The pair of them stood at the crosswalk, waiting for the damned light to change so they could continue the journey home. It was chilly, damp, getting dark, and oh hell it was starting to snow again. Not cool. He looked up to the sky and let the somber mood wash over him. He silently sent up…what? What was he feeling? What was he hoping for? He didn't even know. It was almost like he was trying to remember something but he couldn't quite figure out what, exactly. (Was this how Damon felt all the time?) Something was making him ache inside.

Maybe he was just going crazy.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted movement. Of course, movement wasn't all that uncommon in a crowded city, but this was different. This was slow and lazy and peaceful and…innocent, maybe? He flicked his focus to whatever it was.

A single, white balloon, floating slowly up above the rooftops and headed for the sky.

The image of himself in a park with his mom when he was seven flashed briefly in his mind.

"I love you, Mama…"

In that moment he almost wanted to cry. But he held it in. He was in his twenties now, and twenty-somethings didn't cry. Least of all, over a balloon. He swallowed.

Then he felt his friend nudging him gently in the shoulder. "Hmm?" He turned to meet those orange eyes.

"Look." His friend shifted his chin upwards, pointed a relaxed finger in the same direction. His face was fixed just so that it could almost have passed for a soft smile.

And so he looked. And he let out a nearly inaudible exhalation of breath. A rainbow. There was a rainbow just over on the horizon. Sure, it was small and not a complete arch like in one of those cartoons, but it was a real, honest to goodness, rainbow. In the middle of the city! That never happened! Ever! Holy crap!

He felt his face split into a grin as he stared at the colored lights up in the sky. Red, blue, purple, green, yellow, indigo, and orange. His grin softened into something akin to a nostalgic smile. Suddenly he was seven again; back in that sunny little park from oh-so-long ago, watching with wonder the gift he hadn't even known was being given. Silently he sent a hug and a thank-you to whatever little kid had lost their balloon.

I remember now, Mom.

"Hey, Rue. You wanna know a secret?"

Alternate title for this was Atmospheric Radiance but I chose the current one instead; it is a term that I learned in painting class. Atmospheric Perspective is how when you look at the sky, the colors seem darker and more vibrant the higher-up you look – especially right over your head. The closer to the horizon you look, the lighter and paler the colors become. It's an illusion.

Originally, I was going to make it {…} before he died that tells Hanna about the rainbows after stumbling into him at the park, but I thought it would be sweeter and probably mean more if I wrote it this way. I think it worked.

Grr. I don't like the part near the end. Oh well.

Musical Muse: Daniel Powter – Bad Day