Explosion of Colors

Off-White

Mew's voice reaches Gulf's ears, sounding distant and faint. The pillow muffles the sound, but Gulf has put Mew on speaker so he can continue doodling on his notepad. With his left hand free, he absentmindedly scribbles random squiggles while they talk.

"Hey," Gulf greets.

"How are you?"

Mew asks this question every time, as if he expects Gulf's condition to have dramatically worsened since their last conversation. It irritates Gulf slightly. The truth is, he's actually doing better and has even stopped taking pain medication a few days ago. There are still lingering reminders of his injury - twinges of discomfort and stiffness in certain movements - but nothing he can't handle. He's mostly confined to bed rest and still unable to use his right hand, though.

And his left hand is utterly useless. In a fit of frustration, Gulf tosses the pen aside, but not too far. He doesn't want to get out of bed to retrieve it.

"I really want to get back to work," Gulf expresses.

"You will," Mew assures him quickly. It's amusing how Mew fears that Gulf's health will deteriorate with each call, yet firmly believes that Gulf will effortlessly return to tattooing once he's cleared by the doctor.

"Yeah, if there's suddenly a surge of people wanting crooked and hideous tattoos they'll regret for the rest of their lives, then sure," Gulf responds bitterly.

"Well, perhaps you should cease your despair and recall that tribals were once the biggest trend in tattooing a few years ago," Mew suggests, fully aware of Gulf's disdain for that particular trend.

Gulf had vented his frustration after a particularly aggravating day at work, exclaiming, "Not only is it cultural appropriation, which is absolutely terrible, but they all want the same generic solid black designs. It's nothing more than glorified flash art, if even that." Mew had chuckled, planting a kiss on Gulf's lips and pulling him down onto the couch, skillfully relieving the tension in Gulf's shoulders with his warm hands.

Even though Mew isn't physically present, he still manages to uplift Gulf's spirits. Gulf picks up his pencil once again.

"I suppose," he says. "I wish I were left-handed."

"I'm willing to bet that you'll become left-handed soon enough," Mew remarks, causing Gulf to smile momentarily before it fades away.

Gulf knows he should stop doing this. He realizes that he should have never initiated these calls in the first place. It's harmful and unfair to both himself and Mew. And while Mew may deserve it, that doesn't make it right.

He's no longer even attempting to let go.

"By the way, how are you?" he asks. "Czii mentioned that she accidentally gave you a black eye during training the other day."

Mew chuckles. Damn, but it's a beautiful laugh. "In my defense, I overslept, arrived twenty minutes late, and missed most of the warm-up. I was half-asleep!"

"Sure," Gulf retorts, moving the pencil in broad, smooth strokes, trying to get his left hand accustomed to holding it and moving it.

"She's really good," Mew comments. "And I look like a fool. But it's starting to fade."

"Things have a way of doing that," Gulf replies without understanding why. He's still angry at Mew, still feels betrayed, but he wishes he didn't. He's lost Mew, maybe his job, and, for now, his mobility - he just wants Mew back.

"I have to go," Mew says abruptly, in an unusual tone. "I'll talk to you. I suppose. Bye."

Gulf barely has time to respond with a "Bye" before Mew hangs up.