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Billows of lilac-tinted gas slowly ripple around you, ebbing and flowing and shifting alongside your scribbling hand. It is freezing cold on Punk Hazard, and you need to get this lab report done. Your frozen grip welds your fingers onto the pencil, an issue of minor frostbite you resolve to take care of later.
Yet the soft head of violet-tipped hair resting on your shoulder seems to beg otherwise.
Caesar has been drifting off to sleep ever since he suddenly attached himself to your back a few minutes ago, claiming he was just “overseeing” the lab results. The small chair creaks as he shifts a bit, letting out a badly masked content sigh.
It’s difficult to tell what’s gotten into him. There isn’t a shred of his usual maniacal air in the side glimpse you catch—it’s almost refreshing to not see his joker-esque smile tugging at his face.
Your eyes pan back down to the report. Caesar responds by nuzzling his face further into your neck, seeming to sense the loss of attention. As much as you try to get your final scientific conclusions down, his hair is as wild and soft as ever and only invades your thoughts more and more.
“Caesar.”
His even breaths pause—then resume. Tendrils of wisteria colored gas seep from his coat and draw you further into his embrace.
“Caesar.”
Maybe this time he notices a shift in your tone of voice; caught onto that volatile mix of annoyance and longing. He opens his eyes a bit, meeting you with intense gold. He only murmurs a vague affirmation that he heard you, obnoxiously shooting for faux oblivion to the predicament he has subjected you to.
You huff, equal parts in frustration and fondness. “Come on you giant clown. You told me to get these results down by tonight.”
The jab at his name seems to strike a cord—Caesar finally responds with actual words. “And you, my little scientist,”—he scoots ever closer to you—“seemed cold.”
It takes a moment for his words to register to you.
“What.” You can’t hide the exasperation in your voice as the triviality of his excuse settles in.
Caesar seems equally exasperated, his voice rising closer to his usual shriek. “The cold was practically turning you blue! I thought I’d go out of my way to be a gracious co-scientist and assist you by warming you up! See, red is warmth…” he snaps at a Bunsen burner, intensifying the waning flame so it was just where you needed it to be, “…and when you mix it with blue…well I suppose I can make you purple. Just like me.”
You snort at his uncharacteristic flowery poetry, more entertained than wooed. He’s acting dumb and drunk and you just want to get the job done.
But—
A hand slithers away from your torso to meet your numbing fingers, gently prying your dull pencil from them, bluing skin intertwining with indigo gloves.
You can’t take your eyes off the image, the merging and melting colors, the gas coat swirling around you, Caesar’s warmth against the sharp cold surface of the lab table. You’re caught in the moment, emotions a lavender haze, the report a fading ultramarine. Mesmerized. Involuntarily drawn into his poetry, you dare to admit: “Maybe blue and purple aren’t so far off.”
You feel Caesar smile into your shoulder and a new warmth in your heart.
“But you’ll always be golden to me.”