Work Text:
These are the colours of Venom's love.
A steel-silver grey euphoria that is the stretch of sky over cities. Sky that curls around and dances with the movements of their body, that touches them without holding them in place.
That is the rise of skyscrapers reaching to kiss the tips of wispy clouds. Walls of glass reflecting their perfect body. Capturing them for a blessed second before they are gone.
That is the coffee mug Eddie's rose-thorn fingertips, his Autumn flower lips, have stained. His tired eyes don't see clear, his tired fingers are crooked clumsy things that knock aside the mug and spill bitter coffee almost every morning.
A sunshine yellow serenity that is the cornflowers grown in the park by a loving hand. Cornflowers tended in gentle squares and soft circles, that beg pause and a second to adore.
That is the drying paint of their new apartment. Just like the flowers, Eddie. And Eddie's sandpaper sawdust hands do not hesitate to work to colour their flimsy walls. Their thin, paper-delicate walls that keep no secrets but make them feel secure.
A deep brown peace that is the blinds swaying over their windows; the thick rug lying at the foot of their bed and the creaking wood of their floors and the cabinets hanging slightly off their hinges.
That is the grounds of bitter coffee that litter the kitchen counter, that cling to the rims of cups and linger on the edges of their breath. The neat piles of chocolate in the cupboards that Eddie buys and whistles under his breath as he carefully stacks.
That is the the thick mop of hair that Eddie forgets to trim. Tendrils of it so long that they fall over the curve of his forehead, curl in delicate wisps over his eyes. Itches at his skin, is brushed away by the fingers of his writer hands.
A sunset-sunrise orange calm that is the crinkling leaves outside their living room window. Leaves that rustle with the nudge of a breeze and scratch against the peeling windowpane.
That is the collection of thrift store sweaters hanging heavily from inside their closet. Thick wool and hand-knit, it drapes off their shoulders and is a blanket of warmth.
That is the small boxes flowing over with wrinkled banners and cheaply painted pumpkins. What is this? He asks. And Eddie, balancing their body on the edge of a shaky ladder, says, Halloween, love.
A blue-green happiness that is the span of the ocean. The lines of the ocean that snags against jagged rocks and tickles the lip of the land, that envelopes their body in sweet inhales and exhales of breath.
That is the bark-and-sea shine of Eddie's eyes. Pools of teal-turquoise-blue in creased and cracked skin, rimmed in shades of blue-purple that kiss his skin like a bruise. Skin that wrinkles and creases into a plentiful of folds at the press of a kiss.
The rose-red of lips and powder-pink of a peeking tongue.
The sea-salt in Eddie's unruly mess of hair. Strands that Venom curls around a lick of obsidian oil as he curls around their body's shoulders. Getting old, Eddie.
The white-pink of old scars.
The purple of blunt nails.
The black ink stretching across soft skin.
These are the colours of Venom's love.