MileApo Universe Month 2023 - Collection

Day 1: Color - (KP) Red and Blue

CW: Hurt no Comfort, Major Character Dead

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Sometimes when he misses him, like right now, he would come out on the balcony and light a cigarette.

Autumn paints cobalt and softens the sunlight. The cigarette brand he's having is cheap, the one Porsche used to have even when he owned enough money to buy any expensive, overpriced one in the world.

"That's the taste of the memory," Porsche explained with cheerful laughter.

Red of the burning tip.

Blue of the sky.

Kinn, in fact, never considers himself a fan of nicotine – he's more of a drinker because alcohol works way better, faster. He doesn't hate it, doesn't like it either. He doesn't like the dry, acrid taste. He doesn't like the smoke stinging his eyes. He doesn't like the odor overpowering Porsche's unique, lovely scent. Yet, sometimes, as right now, it's the only connection between him and his beloved. Making this a habit is easier than he thought. Kinn often wonders, was Porsche also like that, at 16 years old and easily turned smoking into a habit? He wonders what Porsche was thinking at that moment, when the realization that he was falling hit him and those tasteless, self-destructive routines became the only thing holding him back.

Kinn often wonders likewise, as a way to torment himself, what Porsche felt, or thought, while he was falling from the 5th floor. Was he scared? Was he angry? Did he regret Kinn and this life? Did he hate Kinn because Kinn couldn't be there to save him? Those questions are unfolded one by one like an old treasure map, although in the end it has to be enclosed and stored away neatly, for no one could be able to give the correct answer.

Red of his blood.

Blue of his skin.

Kinn remembers Porsche once said red wasn't his color. Kinn thought it absurd, Porsche made every color pretty. However, nightmares happened, and Kinn changed his mind. Red truly wasn't Porsche's color.

He takes another long drag, then breathes out. Under the azure vastness, clouds are cotton-white. Down here, smoke is gloomy grey and fragile like a shadow of his sanity.

If only Porsche could be here to assure him everything is ok. If only Porsche was here so he could be a boy, instead of a thirty-somewhat-grown man, and crying on his shoulders. Kinn wishes he could wake up in Porsche's arms, listening to his steady heartbeat and drowning in his familiar warmth. He wants to fall apart, for his heart to shatter into millions of fragments so a certain someone can hold him together and glue him back. But no. Porsche isn't here. He died painfully, bearing the label of a traitor. Kinn is furious. Kinn is devastated. And Kinn misses him, misses him a lot, constantly and boundlessly.

Red of his madness.

Blue of his despair.

"Khun Kinn," Arm says, voice professionally emotionless. Kinn doesn't know how long he has been there, nor does he care. "Everyone is ready. We are waiting for your order."

The cigarette is almost burned out. The heat from the tip touches his fingers. He recalls Chay's loathing eyes when the boy heard about his brother's tragic death. At that time, in spite of his crumbled heart and his numbed brain, he knew he deserved that look.

Because he understood that feeling. He understands it from the deep of his soul.

"Alright." He turns. His desk is a mess with documents on which the names of his father and a few others are highlighted.

Pressing the still glowing roll down where his father's name lay, Kinn reaches into his drawer for his lucky gun. He walks away, straight ahead into whatever fate is waiting for him, ignoring the dwindling flame that is flaring up, spreading out on the pile of papers like an oil stain.

People would call him heartless after this, but it doesn't matter. His heart died long ago.

Red caused by a fire.

Blue of the high sky.