He was a fool.
How could he ever think that he would like him or that he would ever love him.
He was a drunk.
He was an alcoholic, and he knew that; he has been one for years.
No one ever had to tell him, like his parents did every chance they got, or keep it behind hushed lips like it was a secret, like his friends.
He knew after all his years of drinking, drinking like it was water that passed his lips and not poison to taint his body and kill him slowly.
He knew the term for what he was; he didn't have to be told.
He knew all the AA pamphlets in his dresser drawer that were lying under a fine layer of dust knew it as well.
He can still remember meeting him for the first time, he had made a fool of himself and had blushed redder then ketchup but he paid him no mind, he never really has.
He knew he caused trouble for him at every chance he could get, after all didn't they tell you that you always pulled the pig tails of the little girls you had crushes on in kindergarten.
Well this is him pulling his pig tails; pulling them so hard his beautiful blond hair should be pulled from his scalp by now.
What with the force and length of time behind the pulling, his blood should be rolling like a river down his skull painting his hair and his face a shade of red that makes him tingle to think about.
He looks amazing in red; red was made for him.
Red is him.
But he knows he's fool, he's a fool loving the colour red, loving the man in red.
He knows that loving the man who wears red like it was made for him is something he will never stop doing; he will never stop drinking or breathing or loving the colour red.
He will never stop loving his red wearing man.