White Light | renjun | fluff
He walks into the room, smiling when you look up from your book to meet his gaze, and flips off the light switch without hesitation or warning. You roll your eyes in the dark, refraining from getting up and strangling him. You are used to it now. His little habit, his admittedly adorable ritual.
He dramatically clears his throat before announcing to the otherwise empty room, “Renjun, the one who lights up the world,” and flicks the switch, causing you to blink your eyes rapidly as your vision adjusts to the brightness.
He grins, content with himself, before striding over to the couch, plopping himself down opposite from you.
You try to focus on your novel, to ignore him and to engage with the story in front of you, after all a major twist had just happened with the main characters before he interrupted you. But you can’t concentrate now because of him. Because he’s sitting so close to you, close enough to feel his weight dip the couch, but not enough to feel his skin. Renjun is always a distraction, no matter where he is, or how close he is, he is simply always too close even when he isn’t physically.
Your thoughts wander from the pages of your book over to him, where they always seem to like to go and subsequently stay.
You think about colours, about the premise of your story and Renjun. In a world devoid of colour, of living life with a black and white perception of everything and then finally experiencing colour for the first time when you meet your soul mate. You think about if you and Renjun were the main characters in the story, and how he would never be your soul mate. You would bicker too often. You would annoy each other to no end, and he would probably say something a little insensitive, be a little stubborn, and eventually push you away because he couldn’t confess his feelings openly. You would be the same, and you would blame yourself for all the fights, all the petty arguments, mending the relationship one apology at a time.
But that’s what drives you to him. What attracts you. The fire, the excitement, the light. He doesn’t see things in black and white, he sees things in all wavelengths, in all colours of the spectrum. And he isn’t afraid to tell you exactly how he perceives things.
He sees red when he’s angry, balling his fists, trying to bite his tongue to avoid hurting you because he hates when you give him the silent treatment, when your eyes are red and tears stain your cheeks. When your cheeks are red from the cold, nose a cute shade of pink, when your cheeks are red from blushing and he teases you mercilessly. When he died his hair for a bet and regretted it for weeks until the die would wash out. When you smile and he can feel his heart pounding so hard against his rib cage, he feels the urge to run away, or to pinch your face. He can’t decide.
Orange for walls of his childhood bedroom, for the sunset drives to the beach you’d drag him on, the monkey bars at the park near your house where you’d both hang off wrestling each other using your legs and the first one to fall has to buy the other dinner, orange for the neon signs illuminating the dark roads on 2am drives to get snacks, for the autumn leaves falling in the park all around as if in slow motion, for grabbing Renjun at that perfect moment and standing tall on the tips of your toes and grabbing fistfulls of his jacket and kissing him like your lips were meeting for the last time.
He sees yellow in the stars, gazing out of the telescope you bought him for his birthday, memorizing all of the planets, mapping all of the constellations and planning your hypothetical escape from earth. Yellow for the light you give him, when you’re laughing so hard, no sound comes out and you’re doubling over clutching your chest, and he can’t help but smile because you’re so contagious, he can’t help but repeat your lame jokes and odd mannerisms in the presence of other people, the thought of you constantly in the back of his mind. Yellow for the mornings spent with you, in the sun soaked sheets, your head against his chest and him smelling the honey scented shampoo you steal from him. Warm arms wrapped around you, stealing kisses when you don’t notice, when you’re unconscious in a dream and he feels strong and protective because you look so vulnerable in his arms. But he would never confess that.
Green for the banter, for the tricks and sarcastic comments that form the basis of your relationship. When you try to tickle him, and he’s unresponsive, and you only manage to annoy him. Soon he has you pinned on the ground, hands mercilessly attacking your sides, you trying to push his chest away, and he sees your smile and all the anger goes away. When he’s jealous, and he rarely gets jealous, but when he does, he’s passive aggressive. He doesn’t know how to deal with these emotions, and he lashes out at you. For Aurore borealis, something he’s always wanted to witness in person, you two even planned a date to see it for yourselves.
Blue for when he’s been too rough and he knows it, and he feels like the biggest asshole. For the bruises littering your neck and your hips, for the instances of tenderness that he shows you and only you. Fingertips brushing your spine, other hand wound in your hair, massaging your scalp, swollen lips leaving gentle kisses on your shoulder and collarbones. Blue for the night sky, because there is too much unexplored depth in you that he has yet to discover, and he wants to unravel you, get to the bottom of you, from the edge of the universe to the bottom of the ocean, he’s an explorer at heart and you are his favourite expedition. Blue for all the tears he’s ever shed, for you, for his family, his friends, his failures, his joys, all the times he’s cried behind a closed door because of the stress, the loneliness that sometimes consumes him. All the times he’s wanted to run away, but he kept finding himself running back to you greeting him with open arms and holding him so close, so tightly, for once he didnt feel like he would disappear, slip away into nothing.
He sees Violet for you, for the unknown, the mysterious, the intrigue that you encapsulate. For all the nights staying up late talking about everything that exists in shades of grey; ghosts, love, artificial intelligence, the meaning of life. Violet for your softness, your warmth that you exhude and that he wants to surround himself with, that he could just drown happily in, for your shared curiosity about everything. The bite he never expected you to have, the duality you have of caring for him with every fibre of your being, but not putting up with any of his bullshit and being unafraid of telling him when he’s out of line.
Colour doesn’t exist if your mind isn’t there to create it, if your eyes aren’t there to sense it and capture the light it reflects, and your mind isn’t there to interpret it. If no one is there to perceive him smile, to see him laugh and cry and breakdown when he’s angry, did it really happen? He wouldn’t be white light without you and all that you see in him. He wouldn’t be a masterpiece if it weren’t for you painting him as such, if it weren’t for you recognizing his worth, his beauty. He would be just another nameless face in a sea of people. He’s all the shades, all the tones, and hues, and nameless colours.
You see white light when you look at him, fragmenting into all the visible colours on the spectrum. He is everywhere. He fills the empty spaces, casts shadows where there are none.
He smiles at you, nudging your leg with his foot, “good book?”
And everything is slightly less dark, less dull when he is near.
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