Chapter 1 : Colour
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It took three summers and together those summer days could be added up to make a year. So, one year, one sun-filled year spent barefoot with long hazy nights sleeping under the stars.
His hair changes colour when he sleeps, it's like a sort of book, if you know how to read it. A soft golden for good dreams and a deep purple for nightmares. Pale blue is me. I am a colour made of cold and light. Sometimes I tell myself it's a good thing, that he thinks of me as a cool breeze on one of those summer days with a wide, pale blue sky above. Other days I am struck by how close blue is to purple on the colour wheel.
I am part nightmare. Still it's pale blue, soft like the golden of good dreams, so maybe I'm part both. A little nightmare beneath my skin, a little good wrapped 'round my bones. I am a swirling canvas of gold and purple shot through with pale blue.
I've asked him what it means but he just laughs, says it doesn't mean anything, it's just a colour. But when my face falls he tells me quickly that it's a pretty colour, just like me. Still when I started painting he would ask me about the colours I chose when painting him. I told him it's because they're pretty, just like him. He laughed and said boys aren't supposed to be pretty. He is though. He's beautiful, blue eyes and pale skin.
I always paint him in soft colours, nothing bright, nothing to shatter the weightless feel he fives me. Still, I'm only beginning with paints and my brush betrays me all too often. The slight circles beneath his eyes become too dark and turn to bruises. The pastel colours of his lips turning harsh and making them look swollen, cracked. It seems painting him is equivalent to hurting him.
Still, he tells me he loves the paintings, they're beautiful, but he's started wearing chap-stick, scared I might have actually painted him with some accuracy. I haven't though, and I don't think anyone could, even photographs aren't the same. He's far too alive to be caught with paper and ink. That's why I've given up painting him, for I did him a disservice with every brush stroke.
I painted myself once, me without a face, just a washing canvas of purple, gold, and pale blue. When I was finished he came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and staring at the canvas from over my shoulder.
“Why does it matter?” he whispered “Why is it so important?”
To be honest I wasn't sure, it just was. “Because I love you.”
That was the first time I had said those three words to him. He had gone still, his breath hot on my cheek.
Finally he spoke, “Pale blue is the colour of forget-me-nots and the colour of the sky just before sunrise. It's the colour of your eyes when you're happy and ice just before it melts. It's soft like gold because you never cease to make me happy. It's part nightmare because I'm scared of messing this, whatever this is, up and losing you. But I love the colour, and I love you.”
A/n: So I was just sort of in an angsty-romantical (yes it's a word) sort of mood and this just sort of happened. There will probably be a sequal soon as Victoire has officially fixed up a little painting studio in my head and is staunchly refusing to leave. But in the meantime any reviews would just be lovely. Really, really lovely. Anyway, thanks for reading :)
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