color your judgment

Prologue

"Lines like poetry. She doesn't move in space, she dances in it. Asks you to take her hand and close your eyes and fly with her."

— Ezra Mason, from The Illuminae Files, by Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff

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Tonight was no different from the last, nor would it be any different for the next summer nights to come.

Like its fellow establishments along the seaside, the small tavern was full. The midsummer festival in this little port town was famous for the crowds it drew in, after all. Amidst the cacophony of chatter and frolic, a band played on drums and strings and flutes, and the drinks flowed as freely as the tunes.

In the center of it all spun a crowd of revelers, composed of locals and tourists alike. With rosy cheeks and jubilant grins, they danced in skips and twirls, laughing and celebrating and falling in love.

She was part of that whirlpool herself, giggling and dancing with anyone who asked. Upon the simplicity of her dress sat a paint-splattered apron, the fabric a flutter of hues. Swishing with her every movement, its chaos was a match to the wisps of color that stained her hands and cheeks, and its presence attested to what she had been doing before she found herself here.

The midsummer festival in this little port town was famous for the crowds it drew in, yes, and she loved being a part of that every year. She loved the partying that would erupt every night, at least until the summer rains came, and now that she was eighteen, she could finally experience everything in full swing. Most of all, she loved hearing the stories that would be told between mouthfuls of booze-that on midsummer nights like this, if you felt a little blue, the sea would try to sing to you, the song a dangerous lure.

For what felt like forever, she spun and danced and laughed. It was only until she paused, if only to catch her breath, that she caught it, then.

Eyes not quite like any other, gleaming a glacial blue. Eyes that felt like mist and snow and power, locked and trained on no one but her.

In the same way the tides were helpless to the moon, she blindly followed the pull. It led her to the other end of the tavern, to a young man nursing a glass of whiskey as he watched the festivities in solitude.

Sometimes, they said, on midsummer nights, the sea would try and sing to you, the song a dangerous lure. Right there, as she gazed back at the eyes that shone an ocean blue, she thought maybe, maybe, the stories were true.

Perhaps it was the whiskey. Perhaps it was just she. Perhaps it was the song of his ocean eyes, singing 'come to me'.

A little breathless, she tried her best to speak. "Hello," she said. "Would you like to dance with me?"

For a moment, he couldn't think. She looked just like a painting that sprung to life right in front of him. As he idly spun his glass, the ice in his liquor collided with a clink. "With you?"

"Well, who else?" she laughed. "Were you looking at someone else?"

He couldn't help it, then, the chuckle that suddenly leaped from his throat. With that kind of smile on those paint-stained cheeks, of course there couldn't have been anyone else. "No," he conceded, his voice a little hoarse. "Just you."

She held out her hand. "Dance with me."

Her palm felt rough in places where dried paint clung, but it made his heart race a little anyway. And in that whirlpool of revelry, as he spun her in his arms and she'd laughed at everything he said, as he held her and the conversations came as naturally as they went, he realized he'd never felt as alive, as electrified, and as blissfully drunk and eighteen as he did on this one midsummer night.

"Your eyes are pretty," she murmured, as the music slowed and the gas lamps dimmed.

Perhaps it was the whiskey. Perhaps it was just he. Perhaps it was the song of her colorful heart, but he'd never felt so free.

And so without thinking, without worrying, he put his arms around her waist and pulled her a little closer.

In the darkness that cloaked them, there was nothing but her kiss.

And by the gods—he felt infinite.

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Short A/N: This fanfic is also available on Archive of our Own!

Long A/N: English is not my first language, so I apologize for any inconsistencies in my grammar. This is a very, very self-indulgent bit of fanfiction, because gods, I love Aamon. Is it even possible to yearn this much for someone who isn't real?

Anyway, as a general rule, memories and/or information from ten years ago shall be indicated in italics (provided they're not implied to be present thoughts, of course). These memories will occasionally appear in between scenes like little puzzle pieces, so please bear with the narration as it switches every so often!

Finally, I want to share that so many songs helped me write this story, and listening to them while writing definitely helped me break my own heart in the process. With this, I definitely recommend checking out the songs at the beginning or end of each chapter, if only to accompany your reading. <3

See you in the next chapter!

Recommended music to accompany this chapter:

U (English version) - millennium parade x Belle