Work Text:
There is a rainbow in the city, spanning the buildings and curling across the streets in a cascade of water colour. But the rainbow in not a reflection, not a refraction of light through water, oh, no. This rainbow is made of people.
Red is Lindsay, obviously. What else could she be? She is the read streaked clouds and blood running on the ground. She is the red of anger, hot and burning, but she is the red of love. She is protection, a shield to be held in clenched hands during the final charge. She is a warrior, meticulous and furious and feared, feared, feared. She is there, above the city, watching and watching and waiting.
Orange is Miles. What else could he be? He is like Lindsay, but different, so different, blinding in his own unique way. He is the orange of the sun, warm and dangerous, He is deception, a softer orange, paler, a whispered threat and a knife in the back. He is Lindsay and he is everything that she is not. He is protection, a lone sentry standing guard over his friends. He is a con man, wide grin, bright eyes, and he is bleeding out in an alley and the last, shallow breaths of life. He is stone cold, merciless, but he is funny and sweet and loved. He is there, above the city, watching and watching and waiting.
Yellow is Jeremy. What else could he be? He is the yellow of bleach in a sink and sand on the beach. He is fear, deep in hearts, and he is choking on blood. He is warmth, given freely, nothing expected in return. He is false happiness, hidden well behind a tinted screen. He is imitations and Ace bandages, bloodstained and tattered. He is companionship, a faithful dog following the footsteps of his master, unshakeable and permanent. He is a killer, regretful and guilty, but he is free. He is there, above the city, watching and watching and waiting.
Green is Trevor. What else could he be? He is moss, soaking up everything and growing, growing, growing. He is leaves on trees, seen but rarely thought about. He is the green of cover and the it’s all clear sign. He is safety and comfort and everything home should be. He is money, crinkled bills in pillowcases, collected and distributed, always keeping less for himself. He is compassion, soft and gentle, but he is death in dark clothes, unknown to the world. He us silence, foreboding, and ivy, taking over everything and choking out the life that used to grow there. He is friendship, easy laughs and simple grins, always there, always ready with a quick tongue and a faster gun. He is there, above the city, watching and watching and waiting.
Jon is blue. What else could he be? He is the ocean, deadly and powerful and beautiful. He is the sky, unfolding like never-ending paper, daunting and mocking all that resides beneath it. He is the blue of sadness and tears, but not anymore. He is the blue of ringing laughter and spray paint cans. He is silent steps and gloved hands in the darkness. He is ink thrown carelessly upon a page, artlessly beautiful and a chaotic perfect. He is running, running away from everything and he is turning to fight. He is death in panic, adrenaline rushes and decisions that can never be taken back. He is sly, broken windows and ajar doors, there but never seen, taking and giving in turn. He is there, above the city, watching and watching and waiting.
Kerry is indigo. What else could he be? He is whispers in the night and repeated words. He is the pastel sunrise, bringing new life and taking old away. He is flowers in vases and blueberries, inviting but bitter. He is death in the smallest of ways, the first domino that falls and everything follows. He is conversations, waiting and welcoming, always there, always visible. He is there, above the city, watching and watching and waiting.
Meg is violet. What else could she be? She is nen street lights and deadly heights. She is a tightrope, precise and balanced. She is throwing knives stuck in bones and perfect, perfect, perfect lipstick. She is intimidating death in skinny jeans. She is the moon, pale and perfect and all-knowing. She is what no one else can be. She is the stars, scattered to every corner of the sky. She is a vessel of blood, a transporter of death, and a life leeched like tears. She is unconditional love, loyal and constant, a kiss goodnight and a hug goodbye. She is there, above the city, watching and watching and waiting.
Kdin is what comes above the rainbow, pitch black skies making the rainbow stronger. What else could she be? She is suffocating confusion and crows in the sky. She is the support, the back up. The hire who wasn’t supposed to be permanent. She is journeys and gunshots and relief, relief, relief. She is solitude and togetherness, a mash of polar opposites. She is rain and lightning and rumbling thunder. She is death in its purest form. She is blood soaked ground and soot smeared on walls. She is secretive, small smiles and words said too quickly and tears, tears, tears. She is there, above the city, watching and watching and waiting.
The rainbow, a dab of paint spread in all directions, and the dark, dark sky. There is a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or rather, there used to be. The colours took it for themselves.
They seep through the city, staining streets and buildings and corners with their own colour of death. Beautiful in an oddly morbid way.
And unlike a normal rainbow, this one does not fade, does not disappear or evanesce. It only grows stronger.
Don’t go chasing this rainbow, it’s not a normal one. It is a prophecy written out in the sky, a telling of doom and death and people, real people, not colours.