a/n: oof.
When they are very young, Rand is saturated safely — bright, but not enough to scorch fingertips. Perrin likes Rand's hushed hesitance but scope for adventure, the brightness of his smile save for a fresh gap in his mouth from where he's gotten one of his baby teeth dislodged. Perrin is content to act as a quiet protector for him when he has need for one.
And then, one day — it's utterly innocuous to Perrin, but:
"I like your hair," he says, "It looks nice when it's short, but it looks very pretty when it's longer, too."
Rand starts growing his hair out after that.
The gesture is absentminded, but it happens anyway.
Today they laze about beneath a sky of deep, unbroken blue. Rand turned about on the ground claiming that he was a little cold, but winter's cold embrace is so far away; today's spring can only be called crisp with a slight nip to it. They aren't doing much of anything save for lounging about on the soft, sweet earth, but Perrin finds his hands reaching down to stroke at Rand's hair.
"Hmm?"
He jerks his hand back, flush with regret. "Sorry, I should've asked—"
"It's nothing to get worked up about." A poised little silence, then Rand adds on, "Besides, I like how it feels when you're playing with my hair like that."
On the nights where they meet up and stay at Perrin's house, he likes working his fingers through Rand's hair at his behest till the faint golden glow of the candle in their room finally sputters out. As Rand's gotten older, he's gotten prettier: Clear gray eyes fixed in his face, a gently curved mouth, red hair spilling soft past his shoulders. He's gentle, but his vibrant appearance betrays a demeanor soft as moonlight.
His fingers stroke over the braid that Perrin's fashioned his hair into and he laughs to himself, "Just like Nynaeve, eh?"
"I suppose so" is all Perrin says, but he wants nothing more than to tell Rand how pretty he looks.
He uses flowers this time: Presses tiny pink wildflowers into Rand's hair, weaves dainty lilacs into the strands of red that he weaves together. Perrin is always a little surprised at his own tenderness; considering his line of work as a blacksmith he's more than a little surprised that he's even slightly capable of that.
"How do I look?" Rand asks, eyeing what he can of the flashes of pastel petals that he's already begun to shake out by accident.
"Beautiful." So beautiful that I could kiss you.
"You can kiss me if you want."
"Ah…" It hadn't been his intention to say anything aloud. But Rand smiles and pulls him close, so that their mouths are pressing warm against each other. Perrin can feel himself smiling widely into the kiss, fingers looping through freshly-done braids of red.
At night in Fal Dara, Rand curls close to him. So many words are capable of passing past Perrin's lips, but he doesn't dare say a word to him: I love you, he wants to tell him, I'm not sure for how long I have, but that's the truth I have to tell.
Rand understands, though. It's all in the way he tips his head to rest upon Perrin's broad chest, in the way he silently and solemnly guides Perrin's hand to drift through his hair again.
(Perrin thinks of the flickering and wants to inquire to the Wheel, How could you let my colors fade? Rand's dripping with color, but it isn't anything like the saturated sunrise Perrin loved. Rand is ethereal and distant, out of orbit — spinning aimlessly during nights of drudgery.)
(They love each other, but it is a starved copy and the Wheel is slowly undoing the stitches and leaving them threadbare and bedraggled, empty, bitter, bitter, bitter.)
Rand lets out the first quiet "I love you" at night when he perhaps thinks that Perrin is falling asleep. It's when Perrin curls up close, hand stroking clumsily at Rand's hair, too tired to braid it to comfort them both. And as the years go by Perrin always remembers the crystal-clear edge of fragility and warmth like dying embers to his voice, letting it envelop him with all the softness of a fresh blanket. He had to watch Rand's light go out before his eyes — but even the most luminous of stars get snuffed out, don't they?
Faile holds him as he sobs weakly in her arms, and he feels helpless and vile. It wasn't as though he was slaughtered along with his family, yet still there's a vile taste of salty blood in his mouth.
Who will be next? He can't help but wonder at that, because it's so horribly inevitable.
You could have been the shade of my heart, Rand. In another time, another place.
He hates seeing the cruel, paper-dry imitation of Rand that took his place: Dressed up in his finery, so cold. It's all in the way his hair is tied back, too: Restrained and sharp, cruel as a miserly dragon keeping greedy watch over its gold — his namesake.
During the fight Perrin finds himself startled by how he, too, descends into the animalistic: He tears Rand's hair out in his hands, and stares at the strands of dark scarlet that he used to tenderly run his fingers through and braid and tell Rand how pretty he was. But stars will falter and collapse, and even hair that's the brightest of reds will fade to gray. This is Rand in name only, the Pattern having fragmented and broken him into a million, tiny pieces. And Perrin breaks him again and again and again. They're all broken, distorted and mangled by that damned Pattern, and they are trapped here for good — once they're dead and gone the cycle will begin anew.
His eyes burn gold with fury when the fight finally ends and he sees the bruises faintly flashing along the red tattoos running their way up Rand's arms.
And in the end?
Perrin has only memories. He loves Rand, but perhaps that's faded to a dying ember. They exchanged warmth and softness in the form of secret codes: Through silent gestures, through only the most hushed of "I-love-you"s, and through Perrin's hands braiding Rand's hair. Now the Dragon Reborn has drawn his last breath and let one final, shuddering wisp of smoke curl past his gaping maw.
There was never any ending to their story — Rand was the first love, didn't burn gold but was still saturated crimson. They burned every last thread that held them together and spiraled into the unknown to survive. And Perrin is left to observe the broken pieces that sparkle like crushed stars on the floor.
Perhaps, though, if the Pattern decides to be merciful (and that much is truly, truly wishful thinking) they'll be able to encounter each other once more in another life, clad in different skins, and Perrin will get to braid his hair all over again.
After all, you never forget your first love.