Janoskians, 5sos and 1D imagines

Red. M.G.C

Red was the color of the tufts of hair poking out from under his SnapBack when you met. You were perusing the aisles of the record store, your fingers dancing over the square edges of the packaging when you felt a tap on your shoulder. A gorgeous stranger stood behind you, arm outstretched with what appeared to be a phone in his hand. "I think you left this on the rack over there," he said, pointing to the aisle you had previously been in. You thanked the stranger, grabbing the phone from his hands but before you could walk away he spoke again. "I might have put my number in there too," he smiled, cheekily. "I'm Michael."
Red was the name of the first album the two of you listened together. You had absentmindedly mentioned you loved Taylor Swift that first day in the record shop and Michael had taken note. He showed up to your house one Saturday with the record in hand, a box of pizza in the other and a cheesy smile plastered on his face. You sat for an hour, five minutes, and eleven seconds listening to Taylor's voice fill your small studio apartment. The pizza box left open in between the two bean bags as the two of you belted the lyrics to "I Knew You Were Trouble." Michael adding his own flare by screaming like a goat during the chorus. It sent you into a fit of giggle so bad the two of you ended up sitting for an additional five minutes and twenty-nine seconds to give "All To Well" the attention it deserved. You don't think you've ever had that much fun screaming Taylor Swift songs with someone before. Michael quickly became your best friend after that.
Red was the color of the blood stained on his knuckles. A stark contrast to the purple ring forming around his right eye. You lead him to your kitchen, pushing him towards the sink while you rummaged through your freezer silently cursing yourself for not listening to your mother and investing in ice packs. He let the cool water submerge his hand, the once clear liquid now tainted with a hue of pink. Meanwhile, you held a bag of peas to his eye, praying it would get rid of the swelling before he had to report to work.
"You didn't have to do that," you sighed.
"Course I did," he answered, shutting the water off, turning towards you. "He deserved it. That little prick, can't believe he actually cheated on you in front of us."
"He was a loser," you admitted. "Wasn't even good in bed."
"You deserve better," Michael said, hoping you'd pick up on the tiny hint.
"Mmm," you hummed, absentmindedly tossing the bag of peas back in the freezer. You pulled Michael towards the couch, letting him get situated before climbing on top of him, nuzzling your head into the fabric of his shirt.
"You're never getting back together with him," Michael said.
"We are never getting back together," you smiled.
Red was the color of the key that dangled on Michael's lanyard. It's wasn't the only key on the tiny silver ring, but it's the most important one he reckoned. You gave it to him one morning after he'd crashed at your place for the third night that week. He claimed he was banned from his apartment by his roommate and his lady friend of the week, which was the truth for the first night at least. Truthfully, he couldn't imagine ever sleeping alone ever again. The way you subconsciously curled into him in the early hours of morning was a drug Michael couldn't quit. A drug that forced him to tell little white lies and paint his roommates in a negative light. But it was all worth it, when you gifted him the red key. "Stay here whenever you need," you said. And boy did he take you up on that offer.
Red was the color of the roses you nearly tripped on on your way to the store one afternoon. Your arms flailing in the hopes of balancing your body so the flowers, and yourself, didn't flatten into a pancake. You glanced around looking for the mystery visitor before picking up the beautiful bouquet and heading back inside your home, your plan of picking up milk forgotten. You scoured the bouquet in the hopes of finding a note but there was none. The tiny card blown away with the morning breeze along with it's mystery deliverer.
Red was the color Michael's cheeks turned when he saw the bouquet sitting in a beautiful vase in the middle of your kitchen counter. There was hardly enough room for a full sized toaster to reside on the counter and yet you'd made room for the gorgeous flowers. He hadn't thought you'd actually put them on display, especially after he'd watched you nearly trip over them from his safe spot behind a tree across the street from your apartment complex. "Aren't they beautiful?" you gushed, coming into the kitchen. Yes, Michael thought, but not as beautiful as you.
Red was the color of the wine you had poured yourself only moments ago. The glass poised in your hand as you raised it to your lips, savoring the taste before setting it down on the bathtub's edge. You grabbed a bath bomb from the basket to your left before dropping it in, watching as the water changed to a beautiful purple hue. You let your ratty robe fall off your shoulders, leaving you naked as you dip your toes into the warm water. You were nearly waist deep when you heard the front door click open followed by Michael's booming voice. Any hope of having a pampering Valentine's day night to yourself fleeting as you pulled the robe over your shoulders and drained the water from the tub, watching as six dollars and forty cents got washed away.
Red was the color of the plush movie theater seats Michael and you sat in. It was a bit of struggle to get you out of the house that evening but Michael knew it was worth it, especially when you sauntered out of the bathroom hair in a bun, a baggy sweater slipping off your shoulder, and your trademark red lipstick perfectly painted on your plump lips. Michael paid for the two tickets to Deadpool and though you protested, he bought the snacks too. The two of you diving your hands into the bucket of popcorn as soon as the trailers started, only acknowledging each other's existence to comment on if the movie was worth seeing or not. When the theater finally dimmed and the opening credits began Michael found himself staring at you, captivated by your effortless beauty instead of the action going on onscreen. It was the best twelve dollars he'd ever spent on a movie and he could barely remember what happened. He had been too focused on how he'd toss his arm around you luring you closer to him.
Red was the color of your lipstick left lingering on Michael's skin. The stain prominent amongst the love bites occupying his neck and collarbones. The outline of your lips left kissed down his torso and across his hips before smudging in the corners of his lips. It was the perfect hue, contrasting beautifully with his pale skin in the scintillating moon light poking though your thin curtains. It was the only way to properly thank your best friend for the evening. More importantly, it was the only way to consummate the confession he had let slip from his lips only minutes after the final credits scrolled off the screen. "I love you," he whispered. And you whispered back, the three words of adoration you thought you'd never say again, before adding your own flare to the confession. "Loving you is red."