| old, being redone |
[I know this is what kicked off my readerbase but PLEASE don't read this omg]

Thwack. Groan. Drip.

Your knuckles were bloody, crimson. The color of your hair. Before you had sheared it off. Before HE'D sheared it off. Most of it. The poor wall you'd been punching had experienced almost as much as you. Your locked away locks. Trash.
You bit your tongue. It tasted the same as your torn and inflamed flesh. Crimson, scarlet, red. Vibrant against your knuckles. It shone like gold against the wall. Just like he did, against the dark. Against you. This was not love.

But he'd love you when he took the chains off.
Just like he'd put them on.
Three months ago.
Then again, you sense of time was his now. You were his.

You'd probably been proclaimed dead. Had anyone looked for you? Maybe. Just the way you'd looked for him on the roof of Wangshu Inn. He looked so pretty. Illuminated against the sky. Now he seemed like a monster. You hadn't seen the sky for a while, so how did you know what it looked like then? Was it still blue? Blue, the color of your sadness. Indigo, cyan, baby. Baby blue. Soft and kind, like his hands were. The way he looked at you.
Now you can't even bring yourself to stare at him.

He always approached you with warning. Lust. He needed to be known, the most important thing in the room. Your knuckles weren't the only thing bloody when he walked away. Velvet, rogue, coral.
Your constant denial of his love drove him crazy.

Like he hadn't been before.

Sob. Scream. Hide.

Your wrists were swollen and purple, sensations spreading from the way he'd held them. Lavender, grape, violet. Violet, the consequence of the violence committed against you. It hurt, so bad. Just the way he said his longing was for you. The hurt made it hard to say his name. Your refusal caused him to make it hurt worse.

You always found retreat in colors. Just like his karma retreated in you.

Envy sprang in its place.

To you, envy always looked green. Lime, pastel, turquoise. The same green you felt the first time he touched you, the same green as the vomit that came afterwards. Your fighting spirit went with it. Everything about him was green. His clothes, his adeptal energy, his powerful and terrifying vision. You used to have one of those. Now you were just scared. Fear always seemed yellow. Lemon, cream, royal. He treated you like royalty. Until you flinched away. Then you were a creature locked in the dungeon.

His eyes were the only thing untainted by the color green. Just envy.
They were the same gold that embedded itself within mora.

It made the gold coins look hideous.

You felt that way. Like the atrocious beast he'd made you into.

Spill. Slash. Whisper.

The way he whispered praise into your ear, of the obedience he'd forced you into. You wanted to run, to hide. His arms always trapped you, just like your skin behind the spear. Jade had never looked so ugly. Repulsive. He treated you like that, when you wouldn't give him what he wanted. Call out his name. You always did in the end.
Because of such, you hadn't run, or moved much, since two months ago.
He was terrifying. You were terrified.

Tonight was different.
He'd loved you the way he always did. The way that stung. This wasn't love. It was thirst. Evil. You wished he would die. You wished you would die too. One time, you tried. He hadn't been helpful. He made you feel worse. Disgusted. With him, with yourself. Alone. Orange. Citrus, peach, coral. You assumed your eyes were that color. But you couldn't remember.
Death was a blessing now.
His favorite thing to do was spill scarlet. All across the floor. Like he spilled you. Over and over again, color switched, mingled, but the bitter taste was the same each time. You wished it would end. The scarlet would be done, as would you.

You wanted to run. Where would you go? You wanted to hide. The only things there were you, him, and the spear. You were only a thing. Corrupted and plagued by the loss of others, yourself. The only hope you'd had, three weeks ago. She was as red as your hair, as dead as you wished you were. He had gotten rid of her as fast as he'd gotten rid of your "troublesome" traits.

The body had taken two days to disappear.

He was your everything, everywhere. You wished you could beat him like you beat the wall, until your knuckles were bloody and bruised, until you had run out of tears. It had been four hours since he last gave you water. Your vision was all black and white, drained of all color. His love choked you until you couldn't breathe. Just like his hands, except they had let you live.
The same hands that rocked you to sleep.

The same hands that threw you into insomnia, your eyes bloodshot, your mind flooded with colors. His palette.
He was everywhere.
You wanted to fucking die.

It all went back to him.
The way you'd met.
The way you'd clung onto him, memorized the shapes in his eyes.

How was he now, the boy you'd loved, unrecognizable.
Xiao.
The last surviving yaksha.
The teal in his hair. The slight tones of citrus in his pupils. The crimson, velvet, scarlet, rose, every last red or pink you could think of, it all stained his spear. Those colors belonged to you. He drew them out.
Before, your friendship, the way you thought of him, had been pink. Champagne, lace, orchid. You haven't ran through a meadow in so long, felt the grass on your skin. He felt your skin. He tore it apart. You felt so caged. Like a bird.
Now the surviving flesh was pink with scrapes and scars, pink knees and pink bags under your eyes.
Your skin was white, like cotton. White, like snow. It was so sun-deprived, it made you feel sick. Sick. He was sick.

Colors. Warmth. Shelter.
Colors. Warmth.
Colors.

His favorite color was crimson.
Your crimson.

Yours had been gold.

(Word count 1045)