Disclaimer: I do not own Gilmore Girls or the characters. They belong to Amy Sherman Palladino and the WB.
Rating: PG-13
Part: 1/1
Word Count: 400
Author's Note: This was written way back when and I suppose it can fit wherever you want it to.
Palette
If you were a crayon, what color would you be?
He grins as the question is put forth in a drunken slur. It is directed at him and instead, he thinks of her; the color best suited for her.
Blue, he starts with, almost out loud. The obvious color. Her eyes are blue. Not light blue or navy blue or the color of the sapphires that belong to his mother's favorite pair of earrings but just blue - something nameless, deep, enchanting.
Red, he realizes almost suddenly. The not so obvious choice. He sees it in her. The color of passion, they say. Red lurks under her skin, in the movements of her limbs (that subtle something - he doesn't know what it is - grace? sexuality? a little bit of both?) and his system is tinged red, hazy, when he's moving inside her, with her. Her lips kissed red, her skin flushed; the intimate moments between them are red, rich, shocking, heart-stopping.
Yellow, like a sunbeam. He chuckles; she'd be mortified by that description. She's perky and cheerful, bright and blinding. Unwelcome, he thinks also, particularly when he is in a pissy mood about the place in his life she has occupied. Magenta too; the silly color of her frivolity. For the child in her, the story of an afternoon coloring an elephant and not staying in the lines.
No, they don't stay in the lines.
Brown. Not the ugly, muddy brown. But the color of her hair, of her favorite things: coffee, chocolate, right, smooth, forbidden. The color of the chestnuts they shared at Christmas.
White (is that a color of a crayon, he wonders idly. But it's her, nonetheless). Symbolic purity. The innocence she can't shake even with the smudges at the corners and the stains of past and present. White is the color of his guilt, his fear of commitment, the things he cannot give her.
Her colors mix, a Technicolor kaleidoscope. The red haze of desire, the smoky blue eyes lustful, locked on his as she moves under him, the chocolatecoffeechestnut hair like a lace across the pillow, her skin, her lips, her red kissed mouth on his, the incapacitating white, blinding, building, haunting, faster, faster, faster...
"Logan?" he is startled, snatched from his reverie. "If you were a crayon, what color would you be?"
"Grey," he answers and doesn't know why.
The End