behind the streams | dnf

thirty | red

DREAM

I smile as I watch him. As I hold him and see him in fiery red, dazed and alive and stunned and real. Atop my fingertips, across my palm, as the hue blooms hot and bright like all the color's desire. 

Carefully I let my thumb smooth once more. The smile grows. 

Looking over the invisible mark on his cheek, focusing on the feeling of control. In his suspension, in my lift, it occurs to me in a slow soar, a slow dawn, of how attractive he really is. And not just for the compliments, not out of courtesy. It's always been there, of course, but as I flit over his features again, it really, truly, stands out to me. 

Dark, dark eyes, unwavering in the red.

The smile falters. 

Peering up at me with something I've never seen before.

The smile dies. 

My heart stumbles as an unexpected spike of nerves grips my chest. A singular plea silhouettes through the beginnings of a crumble. 

Look away. 

He holds. 

Look away. Why aren't you looking away?

He doesn't. 

Silent panic steals my breath, enough to stop my thumb from tracing back and forth a third time. My hand slips away in a jolt along with the rest of my body as it retracts a little too suddenly. 

It's not- he- I'm supposed to be the one-

He blinks in a rushed flutter before sitting up hesitantly, looking away. "Oh my god," he mutters.

I stay silent.

It's hardly a choice, my words that can't form through the strange uncertainty lodged in my chest, searching for a former air of impulse that just isn't there anymore. 

Coming up empty-handed as inexplicable confusion fogs up my coherence. I push myself up urgently, only now realizing how heavily I'd been leaning on the headboard. How heavily I had been leaning towards him. 

It's all gone. The confidence is gone and I can trip over a few words at best.

He gives a wince of a grin, moving his sleeve, and after a lull the self-consciousness shines on through. "Is my face really, you know, again?"

"I haven't noticed," I stammer. I almost want to laugh, that this is what he's worried about. It's the farthest thing from my mind. 

"Really?" he hesitates. "But yesterday? You pointed it out, and-"

I swallow, still trying to recollect myself. "Yesterday the lights were white." 

"Oh." 

Anticipation creeps in through my inward struggle as I sit back, already hearing the question before he even asks it. 

"What color are they now?" 

My heart drums. "They're red," I begin quietly, and then my memory forces itself back and the words spill in an unintentionally low whisper.

"You look good in it."

It's the easiest thing in the world to say. He closes his eyes but the flush is etched all over his face even in the unfair lighting. 

"Stop," he breathes. 

The half-hearted command strikes me with staggering force. And suddenly I'm backtracking, backtracking for no good reason. "Sorry."