ocean eyes || c.evans

xix.

You didn’t associate colours with memories very often, but if there was a single colour you would put to that night, it would be red.

Red lips, red dress. Red heels and for the first time in the longest time… you were at perfect ease, devoid of stress.

Chris had told you he was coming home tomorrow, having to return to L.A. for a couple studio shoots. You’d left him in Italy, a lingering hug as your goodbye, and picked up Dodger from Scott. Lisa hadn’t been there, but you’d asked him to thank her for you one last time.

Scott, knowing the toll flying takes on someone not used to it, didn’t ask too many questions, but promised a full interrogation once he came by L.A. again.

The inquisition he held was a fun one, both of you sat on the couch, Dodger cuddling up to Scott while you both spoke over some coffee. He wore the same knowing smirk on his face while you told him about Rome that he had worn seeing the glow you still shone with at your return.

That thing you felt – pitted in your chest like a heated ember – hadn’t left since that night at the bed and breakfast. That little spark of hope.

That night, you were meeting with the boys – what you had taken to calling the inseparable duo that was Anthony and Sebastian. You hadn’t seen them since the Hamptons, and they were finally both back in L.A.

You found that you’d missed them, and asked them out for a couple games of pool at the old bar and maybe some dinner and beer.

They’d been all for it, expressing their excitement with overlapping sentiments on the group call.

You had been about to grab your keys when the front door opened. You were pleasantly surprised, but your primary focus was on locating your keys, so you didn’t bother looking. The scent that invaded your senses was purely Chris, and the tension that had risen at the threat of an intruder faded from you as quickly as it had risen – making it an afterthought. You were already running late.

“I thought you were only coming back tomorrow.”

“Where you headed lookin’ so pretty?” Chris had murmured. He sounded entirely drained, like he was exhaustion incarnate.

“Just meeting Seb and…” You had finally glanced up, and needed to do a double take. Because Chris was in red too.

He stood in the doorway, bags in hand, covered head to toe in red – dressed in blood.

“What the fuck?” You whispered.

“Finished filming early, thought I’d come home,” he sighed. The set of his shoulders – drooped instead of their usual position of being pushed back – and the tired lines creasing his usually smiling face, paired with his emotionless voice and incapability of forming an entire sentence without strain; you knew something was wrong.

He looked… broken. Like something weighed on him so heavily, he couldn’t even stand anymore. And it unnerved you to see him stood there in half dried prosthetic gore.

You knew he had to shoot a death scene, but you’d never once think it’d look like this. He must’ve left the set immediately, not waiting for the makeup removal process, just getting out of his costume and changing before driving home. You wondered what happened, but that wasn’t the question you asked.