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Chapter 1 : the blue that i am
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I watch you as you paint and paint and paint and you say there is something tragically beautiful about painting, about tainting the canvas with your own colors. You stand in a room of darkness and see only light and breathe and paint and how you paint. You look nowhere and see everything and I watch you, I watch you. Heavy curtains block the morning light, but outside, the sky is the clearest blue.
And you and I stand, rocks among the wooden sea. You are the sunlight and I am the heat and together, we suspend time’s heartbeat.
You hold the brush to your lips and today, as always, I am your canvas.
“Let me paint you,” you ask without asking.
“If you want to.” I say without saying.
And you paint me.
You hold my arm upward, to the sky or doves or your eyes and you spread the brush across me, letting the bristly fibers prick and paint and pull and twist and turn and talk. They talk, your eyes dance, and you sing.
“If you were a color, you’d be red like the desert sky,” you say and you paint me the green of grass tendrils and rainy fields and all the things that are not red nor deserts nor skies.
Your hair falls into your face and across my arms and the ends are tinged the green that I am not.
“Perhaps you would be blue.” You say it like you do not know, but how you know. “Blue like water, like the ocean,” you say and I think how water is not blue but green like grass tendrils and red like the red that I am but cannot be and all the colors that spiral upward when you close your ocean eyes. Blue, I want to tell you, is the color of the sky. And you paint me the soft yellow of your hair which is tinged green, the soft yellow of the grain fields which I have never seen and the golden canaries I have never been. Your clear skin is splashed with yellow as you grip my arms. To paint the right angle, you say, sometimes you have to get messy. And you hold my arms and to paint me, you paint over own fingers.
“Hold out your hand.” And I do and your paintbrush kisses the thick paint and my hands feel thick and sticky, but are suddenly the smooth texture of plastic.
You flutter your hair and softly murmur, “Crimson, it should be crimson. Like a rose, a rose.”
We stand, held together by the heat and your words echo around the flat. I hold my palms to you and you paint them, how you paint them.
“Arose, arose,” your echo says, “arose, arose, arose,” and I cannot help but think that your voice, even when stolen, is beautiful.
You paint my palms the easy pink of sickly sweet cotton candy and cherry blossoms. You hold my palms and your own are splotched with the pink that neither of us are.
You paint me.
You paint me a hundred different colors. You paint me in yellows and crimsons and pinks. You paint me neither blue nor green but the purest aquamarine. You paint me the color of children’s dreams.
You paint me until your arms stiffen, until your elbows harden, until your lips chap and your eyes redden.
You paint me.
I cannot move my arms, coated too heavily by the thickness of your acrylic. I cannot curl my palms or walk too fast or smile too much.
Across my forehead, you have splashed the lightest of periwinkles and across my feet, the brownest of browns and across my eyes, colors of your smile.
You have painted me all the colors that I am not. But what is blue if not yellow and green if not red and for birds, the earth is the sky and the sky the earth and you are my wings and I am your freedom.
I am the beginning and you the end and between us is the fifty thousand different colors of life and love and memories.
You have painted me.
I look at you, your hair tinged green, your fingers yellow, your palms pink.
You have painted me.
And I, you.
You smile and I laugh and we have painted each other.
“We look silly,” I confess.
“Of course we do,” you say. “But no one’s watching, so who cares?”
And you drop your paintbrush to the wooden floor and let the bristles stiffen past use, watch as paint permanently clunks between their fine hairs. You let your palette fall. A summer wind blows in through the window we did not know was still open and all your blank canvases fall onto the ground. You smile as they are stained by the colors splotched onto the wood.
And you fall into my arms and your green hair falls into my pink palms and your yellow fingers trail my green elbows and we melt and I am mold and you mould. We mix and blend and fall together.
And we color each other blue.
Author’s Note: Cloud or Why Celeste should never be let near a computer with a lack of sleep was written in about 30 minutes. In my mind, the shipping was Dominique/Scorpius, though it was pretty open-ended. This one-shot is in no way connected to my Dominique/Scorpius novella, The Sound of Silence.
I’m curious to know: who was Scorpius and who was Dominique in your mind?
Thanks so much for reading and don’t forget to review!
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