You can't help the way your eyes linger when he wears red.
Well, that's not quite accurate. Because that implies you can ever help the way your eyes linger on him.
You can't. He is burning bright, the flame to your moth, and you have always, always been drawn to things that will, in the end, destroy you.
But when he wears red…
He wears red like the garment itself is an act of rebellion, and you, who have never believed in anything, would follow his rebellion anywhere.
He wears red like it's a victory flag, like it's a triumph.
He dies wearing red.
He dies wearing red and holding your hand, looking at you with pride in his eyes for the first time ever and you want to tell him that you don't deserve it.
You want to tell him that it was never the rebellion you fought for.
It isn't the rebellion you are dying for.
But you don't get a chance to say any of that.
Instead, you watch blood stain the red of his garment and you wonder if all along his victory flag was never a victory flag at all, but rather a white flag of defeat, lifted high and stained with blood.