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When the rest of the kids are inside, you always find an excuse to be out in the garden, tucked into a shaded corner of the building with a sketchbook on your lap.
You’ve been doing this for as long as you can remember. Slipping away. Finding hiding places. It’s gotten to the point where the Elder Siblings don’t even bother looking for you when they come round up everyone else for structured time or whatever seminar or workshop is on the docket for the day. They know if you were interested in it, you’d be there already waiting.
You’ll be back inside for dinner, anyway, or when the sun goes down, and you’ve promised to never leave the grounds without supervision. You aren’t stupid.
It’s not that you don’t like the other kids. It’s not even that they bully you. They just leave you alone because you want to be left alone, and they will only ask, “you sure?” so many times before they know what the answer will be.
Sometimes you do want to talk. The words dripping orange and red and black filling you so full you could burst, and they love you then. They’ll gather around as you pull dreams and lies out of the blank pages of your books, transfixed as you mindlessly illustrate whatever fancy is attached to your brain like a leech, sucking you dry, and you need to manually burst the grossly fascinating thing.
It’s only the newcomers who try to wrangle the words out when you don’t have them to give. You’ve been here all your life, and so have many of the others. You’ve grown up with these kids. They’ve grown up with you.
It’s your island, this home. Your apartment in the middle of the ocean. You think hazy thoughts of climbing to the roof to look, beyond the moss covered walls of the gardens meant to give the kids a quiet, secluded spot to sit and enjoy the sunshine. To see the shimmering water and that far distant line where the sky meets the sea and the sky catches on fire.
You never do, because you know there’s no water.
Only buildings and streets and people, so many people, so many lives going on and moving and shifting outside your cave. You could sit up there for hours, watching, building stories in your head, wondering what they were doing, where are they going, and you don’t care about the truth because your fabricated stories are far more interesting than humanoids would ever actually be. You did it once and an Elder Sister came over and screamed at you. And then cried. And then hugged you and you didn’t know what to do about it.
The birds would scream. The birds would chatter at you. The birds had no faces.
Everyone here had faces. Had voices. Had names. They weren’t text on a screen or colored words and sometimes it got to be too much.
You like to assign colors to people. Why? You don’t know. Maybe it was growing up with trolls, who still seemed to prefer wearing their blood on their sleeves. It makes drawing them easier. Ferahn is lime, Judy, blue, Pawn is aquamarine, Jake yellow.
Dave is red.
You don’t give adults colors, because they never come back, aside from the Siblings. They see, they talk, and they vanish, maybe eventually taking one of the kids with them. There’s no point in giving them colors. They take colors away. They take the crayons out of the box and color their own world, but it leaves the spot behind to be filled by someone new.
You aren’t sad about it. Or resentful. Or whatever Renare tried to coax you into admitting, the one time you’ve told anyone about it. You don’t think you feel anything at all about it, other than satisfaction at sufficiently figuring out how the system works. It was the point, wasn’t it? For people to leave? Either through being taken away to a new home, or growing up enough to leave themselves.
You never give the adults colors.
But Dave is Red.
A bright candy apple red you refused to give to anyone. Ever. Because it’s yours. Orange and red and black and sometimes, occasionally, you can feel a very specific shade of blue.
It’s not a pleasant shade of blue. Like staring into glass eyes for so long you drown in them.
You didn’t think of it much at first.
It wasn’t the first time someone had taken an interest in your art. It wasn’t the first time Ferahn had brought a visitor to talk to you. You told her you didn’t care. That you’d just grow up. It’s fine. Take them to the younger kids. They deserve it more. You don’t like talking anyway.
You were nine. Not even halfway there.
She said you’re just a kid too. And she always made a point to find you if she could.
But even as that encounter with the weirdly talkative man with hair like yours and dark shades and his grumpy but eerily quiet troll partner faded from your mind, you realized He Was Red.
Your red.
The realization hits you like a punch to the jaw. You reach for your mental crayon box and find the red one missing. Straight up snatched, crayon-napped by a man in shades that make you jealous and a smile that was too bright for you.
It made you angry.
That was Yours.
You ignore the rec room. You ignore dinner. You flee the light and hole yourself up in the bedroom you share with a troll, sketchpad balanced on your knees, and the lights off, squinting in the dark.
You grumpily pull out the colored pencils you long since stole from the rec-room and attack a blank page. Red and orange and black scribbles. Text. A sword. A kid. A hat. A face you don’t remember.
Green sky. Red sky. Skies aren’t green. Hot as balls. Sweat rolling down your neck. Poison in your lungs.
Cracked glass.
You never remember it.
Normally that doesn’t bother you.
It does now.
You tear the page out of your notebook, feeling the paper crinkle between beneath the force of your ire, sending the smashed ball flying and bouncing under your roommate’s bed. You’ll have to retrieve it. You know you will. Get down on your knees and crawl to retrieve the broken bits of your dream. It’s yours. You’re just…
You don’t want to look at it right now.
Nothing feels right.
You don’t feel right.
The Siblings say it’s not supposed to. That you’re growing. That it’ll go away.
They don’t understand. You’ve felt that way all your life.
You’re missing something.
Many somethings. Your searching fingers dig into Cadance’s plush flesh and you drag her over, squeezing. Burying your face in her mane, just above the obnoxiously pink bow. She smells like you, because you don’t let her out of your reach. Because you’re always missing--
“Dirk?” The voice from the cracked open door forces you to surface. Breaching the water. Breathing again with a near silent gasp. You’re good about hiding that. About how you drown in your head. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Do you have a minute?”
You nod, then remember she probably can’t see you very well, and push a, “Yeah.” out of a closed throat.
It’s Ferahn who pushes the door the rest of the way open, letting the light from the hall spill into the room, even as it doesn’t stretch to the bed. You know it’s Ferahn because she doesn’t immediately flick the light on. She’s the only one who never asked why you prefer to draw in the dark sometimes. There’s a reason you room with a blueblood, and it’s not because you’re particularly attached to Drizir as a person. “You didn’t come down for dinner. You alright?”
You shrug. “Wasn’t hungry.”
“I see.” She sits down on the edge of Drizir’s bed, across the room from you, “I suppose you know where the leftovers are if you get hungry later.”
Nod.
The seconds pass and you pull your knees up onto your bed, squishing Cadence between your knees and your chest. “What is it?”
She seems surprised. “What do you mean?”
“You wouldn’t’ve come down here just fer that.” You mumble into her mane, “I’ve missed dinner before. S’not unusual.”
“Like I said. I’d been hoping to talk to you after dinner.”
“Then talk.”
You like Ferahn. You do. You don’t dislike any of the older siblings, really. But sometimes you do get frustrated with the kids gloves. You wish they’d just say what they wanted to say instead of awkwardly trying to nudge you into asking for it.
“Do you remember the couple you spoke with the other day? Who asked about Cadence?”
You pull your hat down over your face. Yes you’re wearing it inside. No she doesn’t ask you about.
The one who genuinely seemed interested in Cadence. Who didn’t think it was weird you knew how to sew. Who seemed enthralled with your artwork, freezing up and hovering over the shadowed scribblings you never remember after you wake, not until you put pencil to paper and pushed the Colors out.
The one who stole your Red.
Or did you steal his?
You’ve always had it...right?
You shift uncomfortably.
“Yeah. What about them?”
“It seems Mr. Strider has requested another Interview with you.” You can hear the capitalization in her soft words. You know what it means.
You ask, “Why?” anyway.
“What do you mean?”
The troll didn’t come this time. It was just Dave. His words drip red. He’s dressed up for the occasion this time, snazzy black suit and red tie and you wonder if he thinks he’s fooling anyone with that easy going rambling about literal nothing and small talk pleasantries that you just interrupted. For the first time you push your hat back, purposefully uncovering your eyes to meet what you assume to be his shaded ones.
“Why me?” You repeat, clearly enunciating, as if he didn’t understand. Because you don’t. “No one ever wants me.”
“Well why the fuck not?”
You want to laugh. You don’t even let your mouth tick into a smile.
“This isn’t my first time in this particular pony show.” You admit, wishing desperately you hadn’t left Cadence in your room. Fidgeting with her mane, running the plush fabric beneath your fingers brings you comfort. Right now it’s just you and Dave around an empty table. “I’m tired of being trotted out before someone showing the slightest bit of interest only to be told I’m not ‘the right fit.’”
“Dirk.” Something about the way he says your name...You want to look away as he sighs, mumbles something while rubbing his temples. “I’ve placed my cards on the table here, lil’dude. I got a room and a house and a life with space for you in it. That isn’t being dangled in front of your nose just to say psyche and pull the carrot back at the last minute, I promise. As for why? Fuck knows, I liked talking with you. You like ponies, I think ponies are cool, why the f--does it matter?”
Because I don’t deserve it.
You don’t say anything
“It’s cheesy a f to say I fell in love with you so I’m not gonna waste your time with that bullshit,” Except he did, didn’t he? “But I’ve seen your file. I’ve seen your work--we’re far beyond that point in this whole adoption shindig. This isn’t just a meetcute. We’re literally a signature away from the dotted line--the dotted line is the finish line, the end zone, pack your bags you’re comin’ home.”
There’s a sense of rhythm to that rhyme and you close your eyes.
“It sounds like you’ve got all this shit figured out already.” The interview had gone on for what had to be a half an hour before you dragged it out of useless small talk and into what really matters. “Why do you even need to talk to me then? I ain’t in a position where I can really say no.”
You just want to go back to your room and go to sleep. At least if you sleep you can pretend you’re with your friends again. Your friends with their brushed out faces and voices you can’t hear.
“Because I want to give you a choice, little dude.” You resent how soft his voice is. “You can’t tell me it doesn’t rankle, not to have any control over your life. I can’t give you the keys to the city, but I ain’t gonna tell you ‘I’m upendin’ your life’ without so much as any input from you. Karkat and I got some nice digs, all the love and affection we can muster between us two knuckle heads who are actually probably allergic to that word, and plenty of opportunity to pursue whatever the fuck you want to in life. But we’re… well, weird is probably the understatement of the universe, and I’m not gonna pressure you into going home with some weirdo in sunglasses and his troll matesprit just because you and the home think we’re the only crazies who’ll take you. You’re a smart kid, Dirk. You’ll probably be f--fine without us. But we have a place for you if you want it.” He laughs nervously, “Karkat thinks I’m an idiot for doing this, because we really do want you to come with us, but Idunno man, it just feels important to let you decide.”
You don’t say anything.
“No rush on that decision by the way. I’ll hold on to the final papers till you give me an answer. You could probs ask Ferahn, she can get in contact with me one way or another--”
While he was babbling you’ve been thinking. Looking at the crossroads before you. It’s tempting, you’ll admit, to say hell no. To, for the first time in your life, choose something that directly impacts your status in the world. You'll be outta here in a few years anyway. That was the plan. Has been the plan since the first time and the second time and the third time these chances fell through and you stopped caring if you were too--too much. People didn't like their generosity being questioned. Their motivations thrown back in their faces. You could stay here. You wouldn't even be that unhappy. But...
This choice is a false one, an empty gesture, a pit trap, no matter how well intended. Either you exercise your choice and nothing changes...or you allow yourself to be swept up as if there was never a choice offered at all.
You appreciate the sentiment, but you’ve never really felt like you had a choice at all.
“Where do you live?” You ask finally. He’s left gaping like a fish. It makes you want to smile, but you don’t. You smile on the inside though. “What about family? Am I gonna have to deal with bein’ the odd kid out?”
“Uh. No. No kids. I mean jesus I’m not sure the equipment is even comp-- You’re--you’d be our first. Our one and only. Stars aligned to bring us across your path that day, and all that. Honest. As for family, I have a sister and a...she’s not my mom, she’s my age, but I call her mom and it’s a weird thing. We’re kinda weird. Rose and her matesprit work outta the brooding caverns in Afterallthis, up North, and we do shindigs for holidays, but I’m sure we can start small--”
It feels wrong, here. But everything feels wrong. You’re too big. You’re too small. You’re too--something. Too everything.
What do you do for a living? Will you have to go to school? Why isn't Karkat here? You ask and ask and take each nugget of information away, and try to see if you can put together a picture that could have you in it.
It's not right.
It's never right.
But when Dave pushes up his shades to let his anxious red eyes meet yours it makes you feel--
A little less wrong.
Dave's words drip red. As red as his eyes.
Red has always been your color.
You’re either staying here till you’re 18 and set loose on the world, or you take this opportunity and milk it for all it’s got.
You’re young. Not stupid.
“Okay.” Then you pause, “But Cadence comes too.”
“Of course Cadence can come too. I’ll go talk to Ferahn ASAP and we’ll get this sh--stuff worked out. Let’s go squirt.”
“Don’t call me that,” You grumble, but follow the excited man out of the room. God, if it wasn’t impossible you’d swear he was floating for how over the moon he was. Shiny polished dress shoes skimming the floor, barely touching.
You think of a distant cityscape and an emerald green sky, as an arm loops hesitantly over your shoulder.
Dave's matesprit is waiting for you both in the administrative office, the bright red turtleneck matching Dave's eyes. "Given you're two seconds away from doing a fucking pirrouette in midair, I'm going to go out on a limb and assume I can say I told you so?"
"You told me so!" Dave chirps, sliding his arms into the troll's pits and picking him up off the ground and nearly spinning him around.
What the fuck are you getting yourself into?