A/N: For those of you reading Cat and Mouse, don't freak. I'll be updating in a day or so. I've just been wanting to do this for a while, so brief intermission!

This story will be seven chapters long, and not necessarily linear, but each chapter will be based on the colors of the rainbow, or, if you're seven like me, ROYGBIV. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. Each story will also be prefaced with a quote that I think exemplifies the "color", or rather what the color means. Uh, so that's all!

"Passion, it lies in all of us, sleeping... waiting... and though unwanted... unbidden... it will stir... open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us... guides us... passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of peace... but we would be hollow... Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we'd be truly dead."

Red is the color flashing behind her eyes as she watches the other woman on his arm. It's the color of his robes, and, she thinks, a quaint and ironic representation of her anger. It's the color of the wine in his glass and the spark behind his eyes as he looks uneasily at her from across the room. Red is the color his skin turns as the other woman squeezes his arm; it's the color his cheeks burn as he pats her hand and looks away, following her to the dance floor.

The centerpiece at the table she sits at is red roses; the old woman sitting next to her sips red punch with her fingers and lips painted red.

Things tonight are so cut and dry, but not black and white. No. Tonight, it's all red.

She downs her drink, enough of it not to notice that it too is red, and stands unsteadily. She approaches the dance floor knowing that her face is red and that she is conspicuously solo.

Seeing, feeling, tasting, breathing, being red, she asks to cut in, and he is clearly surprised. He smiles, and the curve of his lips is red like his cheeks as he takes her into his arms; the other woman fades into a slip of red, a drop of blood retreating, a train wreck she can't look away from. Red. It surrounds her, fills her with such crimson intensity that she feels ill with emotion as he spins her, twirls her, his robe like a rose on the floor. A rose like the centerpiece, she thinks, and she brushes off the symbolism angrily in favor of the silence he drowns her in. She wants to scream, yell, slap him, hurt him, because he always hurts her, his absurd naivety acting as a shield to her red-hot anger. He really, truly doesn't understand, so she can't shouldn't won't but is mad at their circumstances and the actions he makes beneath the shroud of blissfully unaware.

When he leaves her side with a kiss to the back of her hand, she sees red once more, and practically gives him whiplash with the rapidity of her withdrawal from his touch. Later, she watches him leave with the other woman. She follows them, acts as though she simply chose to leave at the same time, as though coincidence and not the color red has led her to interrupt their farewells. He kisses the woman who is decidedly not her on the cheek, and when he finally, fully turns to her, she wants to be sick. He says her name, and she hates the way his voice seems to own it. He tries at first to ease her, to alleviate the red that has swallowed her so wholly, and she spits something back at him, feels her face growing redder and redder with either anger or embarrassment; she isn't sure.

"You are a child," he proclaims angrily, and once more she's spinning in red. There are so many implications in that one word -- child. She stumbles as though she has tripped on it, and of course he catches her, supporting her steadily with his arm around her waist.

She remembers when she was a child and he only acted like one. She remembers tying a red ribbon in her hair. She remembers also that he keeps the same ribbon in a drawer in his desk, because later that same day he had unwrapped it from her ponytail. She feels a tear on her red, blistering skin and wipes it madly away, falling against his chest. They leave and the red follows like static, bitter and biting between them. When they kiss, red fills her world.

Red is thick, she thinks, knows. Thick like sap, but malleable and mobile as water, filling every crevice until there is nothing left. All-encompassing, inexorable. Red is the backlight of hate, anger, love. Red makes one spit fire and spout sonnets. Red is passion. Red is pain and grief and stinging betrayal and foolish love -- red is an expression of impossibility. Red is, she thinks, all of the reasons she avoids emotion, all of the reasons he locks himself away in his ivory tower, and all the reasons they clutch so desperately to one another despite impossibility --

red is entropy, and the anticipation thereof.