Work Text:
Sayori is, undeniably to a near comical level, blue.
Sometimes she thinks she managed to catch a splash of yellow, some orange, just a bit of pink, maybe. But it all ends up tainting back to blue.
It doesn't matter what she does, her hands will stain blue. It doesn't matter what colour the ink in her pen is supposed to be, her words turn blue.
Her nails dig into her own wrists and her food goes down wrong and her hair is still messy and her tears are all blue and everything is always so blue.
Monika is a vibrant green. She shines and sparkles like a polished emerald. Natsuki is a sweet pink. She burns like wildfire, uncontrolled yet so beautiful from a seemingly safe spot. Yuri is a regal purple. She's the gentle waves of the ocean as seen on the shore.
And Sayori must be filthy, because when she's with them, they become blue too.
It's dirty, gross. They're soiled. They aren't supposed to be blue, to be these shades of blue, so unappealing to any passerby's eye, Sayori being unable to explain no you don't understand, this is all my fault, I made them worse.
I made every part of them worse.
And she writes and writes and writes and ignores the blue ink fading and puddling and smudging and ruining yet another one of her poems, another one of her letters.
She tries again, she uses another pen, she tunes out the colour.
Blue no longer exists.