“ it’s alright. they won’t be hurting you again… ” with lancelot?
I'm F late !!! Sorry, dear !
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Colorblind.
You don't see color; black is the only thing that paints your world. So, no, you don't see the color when it happens.
But you feel the cold, though. Dark blue.
Something viscous running down your neck, seeping under your collar, weighing down your sweater. The smell is acrid, chemical. Paint. You know this because it sticks, because it stings your skin a little, because it won't come off with a simple, clumsy wipe. Your cousins taught you that.
And... none of them are here.
There is silence, half a second suspended in time.
Then laughter. Yellow, orange, red. Aggressive colors.
They burst around you, too many to count. Some footsteps recede, others draw closer just to get a better look. What color have your classmates crowned you? You hear your name, distorted, sung. Someone says it was a joke. Someone else adds that you asked for it, because you're weird. Always weird.
In this Court, you're the jester. Not the Bearer.
You grit your teeth and remain still.
If you move, they'll laugh even harder. If you speak... well, you're not sure your voice won't tremble.
What would your grandfather say?
“Stop...” you say anyway, too quietly to be taken seriously. Weak, gray like the rain clouds.
No one listens to you.
The voices become blurred, distant. The world shrinks to the unpleasant sensation of paint slowly drying on your skin, to the damp fabric sticking to your back. You count your breaths. One. Two. Three. You are the key.
Breathe! Violet, jasmine.
Something touches your arm.
You jump.
“Hey.”
The voice is low. Calm. Too calm to be that of a middle school adult. Too composed to belong to someone from here.
You recognize Lancelot even before he says your name. Yet his name falls from your lips like a prayer finally answered.
“Lancelot.”
His hand is firm, warm, resting just above your elbow. Not to pull you away. Not to examine you. Just... there. Anchored.
“I'm here.”
“They threw paint on me,” you say stupidly, as if it needed to be pointed out.
“I know. I saw.”
Steel gray, there is fire in his voice.
There is the rustle of fabric, a movement of air as he takes off his coat and places it on your shoulders, covering the soaked fabric, the shame, the stares. He adjusts the collar with almost painful care.
“Don't move,” he whispers. “Stay right here.”
His hand leaves you.
You hear his footsteps receding. Slow. Deliberate. The laughter has died down. The silence has become tense. Then a familiar clatter. The sound of a bucket being moved.
“What are you—”
The sentence is left unfinished.
There is a sudden splash. Thick. Heavy. Surprised cries. No laughter this time.
Another sound. More paint.
Then a third.
A fourth.
You are sure you recognize a rainbow.
Someone swears. Someone else coughs.
Lancelot finally speaks, his voice as calm as ever.
"Funny, isn't it?"
Silence.
“Isn't it.”
You hear him put the bucket back exactly where it belongs. As if order still mattered.
He comes back to you.
His hand finds your arm again. Same pressure. Same warmth. Slides down to your hand.
“Let's go.”
— Lancelot... you whisper. “They'll be angry.”
He leans slightly toward you, close enough that his voice belongs only to you.
“Let them.”
He guides you to the exit. You walk forward, counting your steps, the changes in the floor, the rapid beating of your heart. The door closes behind you, muffling the voices, the protests, the rest of the world. Leaving only Lancelot.
Outside, the air is cooler.
Lancelot only stops when there is no one else around. He adjusts his coat over your shoulders again.
“It's alright,” he says softly. “They won't be hurting you again...”
You swallow hard.
“You can't promise that,” you whisper.
“Yes,” he replies simply. “I can.”