Work Text:
Red is brave.
Like the quiet resolve in your friends’ eyes when they face life’s many trials—small, yet kindling a daring that swells, grows, and echoes without end.
(Truth is, it isn’t a bad thing; you hate it because you’re a coward afraid to rise up.)
-*-
Red is angry.
Like the unseen flare on your father’s face when disappointment struck like thunder—aching deeper than any punch.
(You called it forth yourself, even though you never meant to.)
-*-
Red is fiery.
Like sparks igniting into flame as your sister scatters embers—burning everything they touch, casting it mercilessly into oblivion.
(You are no exception.)
-*-
Red is pain.
Like the fever that besets your mother—drying her throat, throttling her breath, weighing down her eyes, and weakening every limb.
(It takes something so small to remind you how little your mother is—how little humanity is—compared to the power of the Mother in the heavens. Yet you still refuse to admit it.)
-*-
Red is madness.
Like the glint of sarcasm in your opponent’s eyes, harboring a fierce desire to pierce the pulse still humming in your veins.
(Perhaps you’re tempted to return the favor—just to honor his vengeance.)
-*-
Red is dark.
Like the fluid seeping from every wound on your uncle’s body—until no blood (life) remains.
(No need for mourning; sooner or later, the same fate awaits if luck abandons you. Let’s hope you still deserve compassion.)
-*-
Red is weak—yet proud.
Like the heavy cloak draping your kins and the titles they bear, concealing vulnerable hearts beneath.
(Oh—truth is, you are too. How could you forget?)
-*-
But—
Red is gentle.
Like the soft brush on your cheek when the girl fills the space between your fingers with laughter.
(You like her, don’t you?)