The Color of Life is Red

The Past

"When is Mom coming back?"

A bigger man looked down at the small child that spoke to him. His hair was a rough brown and he had a distinct scar through his eyebrow. His skin was tan and his jaw was squared. His dusty honey eyes stared at the boy. He sat on an old couch as he sharpened a blade. Setting the knife aside, he crouched down to the ignorant child.

"Keith, my son," he placed his hands on Keith's shoulders, "Do you know where your mother went?"

Keith's curious wide eyes inspected his father's somber face. He hesitantly shook his head, "No."

He gave him a short smile, then stood with a huff. "Keith, your mom won't be coming back." His voice was laced with a thick southern accent.

"Oh," he lowered his gaze and kicked his shoe. They stood in silence for a few moments before a small voice cut through it. "Why?"

He spun around and met Keith's timid eyes with overwhelming authority. They didn't live in a grand house; it was a rough little cottage out in the desert. They needed to stay hidden away from the world. Keith was dangerous, and it was way too risky for him to be around other people. His chest ached a little, but he would never let his emotions show. He spoke in a stern tone, "She didn't want to be here. With you."

Keith's eyes shimmered, "Why?"

"Because you're too dangerous."

A tear fell from his cheek, "Why?"

He turned away from his son, "You're just different."

The sound of gentle sniffling grabbed his attention and he spun back around, triggered by the fatherly instinct to protect his child. Keith stood in his saggy overalls and worn out shoes. A stuffed rabbit hung from his right hand; and his jet black hair shaded his crying eyes.

Keith brought a thin wrist up to wipe his red cheeks, "I don't wanna be different."

"Do you want blueberry or chocolate chip pancakes?"

Keith was brought out of his daydream by a cheery Lance. He stood at the counter with an orange mixing bowl in his hand, wearing his tiny pink shorts and a grey sweater. He set the bowl on the counter and lowered his voice, "What's wrong?"

"Ah," Keith scratched his head and sat up in the dining chair, "It's nothing."

Lance didn't look convinced, "Are you sure? You don't look so good."

"Yeah," he stood and walked over to him. "Chocolate chip." He kissed his temple and walked into the living room, leaving Lance to his cooking.

Keith sat on the couch with a huff and rubbed his face. A gentle arm was wrapped around his bicep as Lance sat down and cuddled him. He nuzzled his head into Keith's neck with a kiss. "You're not okay."

"Lance, I'm serious."

He placed a hand over Keith's mouth, then let it fall, "But that's alright. You don't need to talk about it." He lifted his head and kissed him gently, "Just don't go through it alone."

Keith's chest warmed, bringing a smile to his face. He cupped Lance's cheek in his hand and stared into his dusty crystal blue eyes. "Please don't leave me."

Lance leaned their foreheads together, "Never. We're a team now."