Work Text:
i.
The first day of their relationship is red. It's fire and passion and lust because they meet at a club when both of their bodies are singing with alcohol and other unspeakable things. They make their way to Kun’s flat; it's closer, and they don't have enough change to rent a shitty motel room.
It's only when they're lying in bed, basking in post-coital bliss, that they introduce themselves.
I'm Sicheng, the stranger in the bed says with a smile that makes Kun momentarily blind.
ii.
The first month of their relationship is orange. There's still lust, oh god is there lust, but there's also a questioning curiosity. Do you like me? their eyes ask each other in bed every other night. And even though they can see the yes, they're still unsure, dancing around three words that can make or break them: I love you, I hate you, or, even worse, I don't know.
There's a thin line between red and yellow, fire and light. They can't seem to find a happy medium in that first month, but that's okay, Kun thinks as he licks a long line up Sicheng’s neck one night. They have time for all of that later.
iii.
The first year of their relationship is sunshine smiles and a new apartment with a bedroom painted a cheerful butter yellow. They settle down and find comfort in the way that Sicheng dances through the halls to music only he can hear, or the way that Kun practices his singing in the shower before Sicheng pops in to throw a bar of soap at his head.
Sicheng is the light to Kun’s dark, and every laugh, every I love you brings Kun closer to the peace that he's been searching for his entire life.
iv.
The last year of their relationship is green, because Sicheng’s sick. Their lives go from dull office work and their lovely loft to hospital visits and a ratty apartment because with the medical bills they can't afford anything else.
It's also green because of the jade pendant Sicheng buys Kun with his last paycheck, to remind Kun of his home - both in Fujian and in Sicheng’s dark eyes and warm hugs. Their names are carved into it, one on each side, and maybe it's a shackle but Kun takes it anyway. He knows Sicheng will let him go if he wants to leave, that maybe this is his way of saying goodbye. But Kun just takes Sicheng’s thin face into his hands, presses a kiss to his forehead for reassurance, and spends the night in the hospital listening to the beeping of the EKG and staring unseeingly at the wall in front of him.
v.
The last month is blue lips and bulging veins, skin that stretches too tightly along frail cheekbones and eyes that are almost dead but not quite because this is Sicheng we're talking about, and he always has a joyful glint in his eyes.
Every time Kun leaves is a question. Do you want me to come back? and Will you be here when I do? Sicheng always gives a brittlely strong smile to assure Kun Yes, yes.
But one day Sicheng can't keep his promise, and Kun finds no EKG in his room, no IV, just a white sheet. He sinks to his knees next to the empty bed, trickles of grief running down his face, and part of him dies then, but the other part says, Thank God. Thank God.
vi.
The last day of their relationship is purple because Sicheng’s mother throws cala lilies everywhere at the funeral. She insists that they were Sicheng’s favorite flowers, but Kun knows better, knows that they were lavender because Sicheng always had loved the scent on Kun’s skin.
The last day is the hardest because Kun knows he'll never be with Sicheng again, never come home to see him dancing or burning down the kitchen or sleeping with the stupidest endearing expression on his face. There'll be no more hospital visits and no bills. It's freeing, in a way, but Kun fingers the pendant around his neck and wonders when he won't feel chained down, so hopelessly in love with a memory. He looks up at the bouquet of multicoloured balloons in his hand and thinks that maybe he doesn't ever want to feel free.
He lets the balloons go, after a while, and watches them disappear like pinpricks in the cloudless sky.