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He falls down, and suddenly the whole world is orange.
A bright, vibrant kind, slipping through between his eyelids, filling his vision with abstract spots and shapes that constantly move and transform, merging with each other—their own ecosystem, that captivates his attention and catches his breath. He holds his breath for now and shuts his eyes tightly to try to preserve the moment, to save the precious seconds for himself, but behind the eyelids it becomes blue, dark, and cold, and it's unfair, absolutely unfair, that a moment like this almost demands that you become blind to fully appreciate it.
They were wrong, all of them, who kept teasing that Kenny wore the same orange, joking that those two kept sharing the same kind of fashion taste through the years. Should’ve checked their vision, probably, because who in their right mind would not see the difference between that cheap, synthetic, absolutely unnaturally bright imitation of a gorgeous color, and the real thing, so rich and vivid and warm? This family has always been a cunning kind, after all, pretending their financial situation is not that drastically different from the rest—they’re not the ones owning the only mansion in the town, you see!—just because they shop at the same thrift stores. The fact of the matter is that their son keeps showing up to school wearing cool, woolen jackets, while the majority of his friends have to be content with polyester garbage.
The fabric feels soft and a bit ticklish under his fingers, he lost his mittens somewhere along the way—probably at the top—so he slowly drags his digits along the jacket, along the neat seams at the sides and around the arms, trying to find warmth between the folds, and the orange jacket stops being stiff and trembles a little, letting out a chuckle.
“God, Eric, stop! Tickles…”
“Nyehh….”
There are noises around them that feel so far away—a laughter ringing through the grounds and between the trees, a subtle crunch of snow, and echoes of birds singing, if you can call that annoying repetition of the same four sounds singing, of course. The world is alive and moving around them, too big and heavy all of a sudden, so he reflexively clutches tighter to that orange instead, because he can only handle that much of the whole world for now.
The orange jacket wraps its arms back around him, preserving in its warmth, filling his vision with a comforting glow that reflects on his slightly red cheeks even more.
“You guys alright there?..”
“Yeah! I’m... I’m with him now, it’s okay!”
A long-forgotten moment from the past flows inside his mind, the first time he was fascinated with that orange, the first time he inhaled it so close to him like an addicting drug, through the running nose and tears shed while it kept him in its embrace, soothing him in his arms with its warmth and brightness, almost like now, and he had to wait years, so many years, before being offered the same closeness again, always observing from a short distance how this orange kept being so close and yet so far from him. Something inside him had opened that first time, filling his head with never-ending desires to dive his head deep into this fabric and drown in it, never letting go, keeping near it, digging his fingers into the thick folds and clutching them with such strength as if his whole life depended on his ability to paint the world around him in a single color.
“We should go,” the orange jacket whispers, in such a manner that you don’t even have to look at its face to know that it says so with a fond smile. “The guys are worried.”
“Nngh…don’t wanna…” he says, as he wraps his arms tighter around the jacket, because leaving would mean being separated from that breathtaking source of light, which would probably make him wither this instant, get lost in the cold without its shimmering gleam. Get lost in his life, even, most likely.
The orange jacket laughs and rubs his back a little, and he reflexively curls under its arm like a cat, still unused to the sight of the fabric being so near, still unused to being allowed so near the piece of clothing that makes the insides of his stomach flutter and join together in some silly celebration dance that in turn makes his head feel a little dizzy.
It's been a few months already, a few fucking unbelievable months since the world around him shattered and broke in a million pieces that got carefully glued back together with the help of the hands of the same orange jacket that once again kept him close and near, while he stumbled words upon words of incomprehensible mess that his whole lifelong beliefs turned into, after the walls of his principles broke and got flooded with all those scary emotions, making him feel aware of every single little thing. Crushing him with the weight of self-awareness and guilt, painting his vision black until the orange brushstrokes broke through the doomed canvas and painted a picture of a future he couldn't even imagine before, offering him a chance that he tried to cling to this time like a beacon of hope.
The warmth is spreading through his face and insides now, his eyelids are growing heavy as he feels tempted to close them again and dissolve in that glow completely, spreading himself into thousands of particles that would land in the safety between the folds of the fabric, far away from all the burdens that his life keeps challenging him with.
“You’re shaking,” the orange jacket whispers worryingly now, and he realizes he hasn’t even noticed that, all of his attention focused on keeping the orange from slipping away from his fingers and vanishing in the cool winter air. “And burning. We should get you home, c’mon. What have you even been doing up on that tree the whole day? And with your phone off, too?”
“But… Kyeeehl… the squirrels…”
“You’re such a dumbass. They’re not here. They’re in another part of the forest.”
“Guys, sorry to ruin your sweet little moment, but his mom called and she’s really worried! We should really hurry now.”
“Oh, shut up, Stan!” the orange jacket yells somewhere far for a second and then lowers his head back to him again. “See? Let’s go home.”
It was good while it lasted, he thinks, but still lets himself be brought up to his shaking legs slowly, the world spinning around him, his head hurting like hell. But the orange jacket holds his hand tightly and helps to keep his balance, grounding him in this world, making him belong somewhere, even, if you will.
They start walking away from the sight of a broken tree branch, and he makes sure that he follows just a little behind the back of the orange jacket, while he still has time when no one else sees him like that.
It feels nice to be taken care of, he thinks. It's a really nice color, that orange.