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Disclaimer: Don't. Own. Nothin'. 'Cept. This. Fic.

This was actually my first fanfic. Just came across it the other day and thought I should post it. Reviews would be divine, thanks.

She tasted blue. He didn’t even know what that tasted like except that it didn’t taste like anything. It just tasted. A perfect hue. Blue ice. Warm ice. Warm, blue ice. Blue flame. Piercing flame. Piercing, blue flame. And he wanted to taste blue, to hold blue, to feel blue, to stay blue. And then her blue moved, it shifted, its waves parting, its hue dissipating. But when it came back – those dewy lips, beautiful, harmonious hands – they held him, like glue. Like warm, piercing, blue glue. And he was held. He was loved, his blues anew. The blue grew. But then it slipped, it pushed, it broke. It came, it went, it stood, it flew. Can blue break?

 

He watches her. Her brows crease, her tears creep. Her arms back, her body defends. Her face blue, but not like her dress. Not like the light. Not like the blue of a moment ago. Not true. It was too blue, not true blue. And he feels himself sinking, sinking like the haunting, vast blue of the ocean, beneath the too blue of death, of impossibility. And her voice, all too dark for his mind’s eye, cuts crisply like black blue.

 

“I…can’t.”

 

But nothing shatters. Black blue cannot beat back the fleeting true blue. He’d heard those words before. Black blue does not ring true, its falsity is pathetic. He waits for her to hear the difference.

 

“I should go.”

 

Should. Should not like desire, not like want, not like blue. Should like spirits broken. He waits for her to hear the difference.

 

“Jim – “

 

He hears blue. It does not crash, it does not part. It flows endless. Timeless. Like melody to his harmony, like like doesn’t even describe. Is this a clue? His hands fly – flew – to her face, his thumb tracing blue, changing blue, drying blue, making blue. Her hands come to his aid, touching blue, forgetting who, what, when, where, and how. They just knew – know – the moment is true, is truth. He moves downward, his face meeting hers, his lips parting hers, his taste tasting hers. He moves upward, his hands grasping blue, his body holding blue, his chest exploding blue, his soul surrendering blue. The blue of her tears wash the blue of his fears, her blue his blue.

 

And then she pushes, this time to run. To clear blue from her mind, for throw blue to the wind. And, though he should not wait, though he sees black blue again, though he knows true blue is too blue, he stands.

 

True blue always returns for the second wave.



proudgirl is the author of 6 other stories.



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