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Lars has visions of red in the shades of green, of rusted shrapnel lodged into emerald eyes, droplets of blood on fields of dried grass and steel grazing his skin. He feels the blood trickle from fictional wounds, feels his throat tense up in each intake of breath as his hands begin to shake. He's merely writing a report, and he almost scoffs at himself when he realises that he hasn't been able to finish it even after so many years.
And yet, each evening, he tries.
Lars spends his evenings gazing into scribbled symbols, a failure of recollections of a more hopeful time followed only by an indefinite falling. It dwindles as the paranoia builds, subdued only by the distractions of losing ones life in battle, by the simplicity in mortality, and the epiphanies in past traumas. But even then in his solitude he finds that his mind fills with worry, an irritating hum in the back of his head, an annoying buzz that's become physically taxing. Usually he'd be able to pinpoint the absurdities in his worries, laugh at its lack of logic and push the insignificant aside, but today he sees her, pauses, and he nearly breaks down, shaky pen and chicken scratch in place of her name.
He takes a breath, crumples the paper and brings his pen to a newer crisp one, battling the paranoia that starts to dig into him. He feels pain in writing her name, like a rock slammed against his stomach as the memories come flooding back. But he gives in and thinks of the past, and he'd see the red eyes, hear the empty words and feel himself break into a million pieces. He'd convince himself that it won't happen again, that she's free from any external control but how can he be sure? He still sees the red, little hints of the past as a part of him anticipates a future betrayal even as he recognises that his thinking is irrational, and once again it occurs to him that he cannot truly trust her. Even in their closest moments, he can only wish that he can trust her. He still sees the red.
But he starts again, and he thinks of her while he writes; he writes of her in his reports.
A rise in heart rate, rapid breathing and tremors as he'd see her armed in front of him while in battle. She'd be smiling at him now, a reassurance of protection and loyalty but for him it'd feel more like a threat, a taunt of her hidden capabilities. Sometimes he finds himself jerking back under gentle touches, a primal instinct he'd now fooled himself into believing was for survival, and he feels lonelier because of this, more distant from the one he once trusted most. He looks back at the older times and he almost smiles at his own naivety, the oblivious nature towards all the signs of her unwilling betrayal. Deep down, he wishes he still had that same naivety; he knows he'd be happier that way.
But he thinks of the happier times too, of the typical battles, of shared meals, of late night confessionals, and a part of him would crucify himself for ever sharing those intimate parts of his life to anyone, let alone to someone he couldn't fully trust. But he doesn't care, he feels freed and he doesn't hesitate as he tells the tales to her. Even when the paranoia screams at him, even when he flinches back, he wants to stay, and he wants to trust her. So he pushes the pain away, cradles the warmth he feels, and he writes of her in his report.
Soon as the time passes by he grows tired, puts his pen down for the night and she notices this. She walks towards him, gets him the routine cup of tea and smiles, and he'd try his best to smile back even as the visions flash past him. At first he'd hesitate, hand moving back as he goes to grab the cup, slow sips as his subconscious analyses it as if in fear. But he relaxes, and he doesn't jerk back when she runs her fingers through his hair. He looks her in the eyes, and for a split second he sees red when there's really green. But he realises it's an illusion, a phantom of fiction, and he smiles softly.
So tonight he tells himself to trust her, if only for tonight. He won't let himself be miserable, even if it's just for tonight.