I'd always been told your eyes were "seafoam;" sometimes green and sometimes blue, but what kind of color is seafoam, anyway? And I'd learned before not to accept the value of my "elders" in their dime a dozen speech, so I went to investigate for myself.
Boss XANXUS had been throwing temper tantrums, and you had been desperately trying to avoid the 9th's attention he sought, and some mission in Russia had failed, and somehow we had ended up on a plane to Japan to blame Boss Tsuna.
And no matter the color the sea or its goddamn foam, it wasn't the same as looking you in the eye; knowing you knew my eyes were a hideously dull grey and that I wasn't always indignant and that you remembered what my face looked like in teary, puffy desperation because you taught me how to cry but still being left with my pride. Nothing was the color of that.
The ocean had sprayed thick, dry salt all over my flawless feet, but I still hadn't seen the color of your eyes, so I had let myself be waist embraced by a rolling crest until I had been pulled under. But the freezing molecules had always relented and crashed into white as the hit sandy shores, and I was no mixed breed finding life in the concept of life and home in the truth that a home could exist. So I had let myself be pulled out past the tranquil depths of the bordering shore.
It had been when I lost control that-
everything felt thick; throat constricting in its apocalyptic fight to keep air in and water out, burning like no fire ever had and consuming oxygen just as fast, trying to push my way to the surface, not to scream as your arms became the only hug I would ever know, and shattering into thin as I lose breath to burn and cry until your shoulder is soaked.
then there was nothing to feel; total suspension in a glass paperweight, glitter bubbles reaching the surface but never becoming free filtering past my flushed cheeks. Turquoise hung heavy around me like proper turquoise should, pushing me further into the lapis lazuli of the sky the night I first learned hands could fit together, gold fleck mirroring the depths my body sought to become a part of.
and then I remember to look; through the sticky off-plum blood that had no business being on my hands, through the shredded Rumpelstilzchen gold of my hair, through the clouded silver sparkling near the filtered sun into the only smile ever meant for me and begin to swim.
It had been when I lost control that everything felt thick and shattered into thin until there was nothing left to feel that I remembered to look, and grasped for the nearest rock, clambering and fighting and crashing like seafoam for existence – it had been then that I saw the color of you that I saw every time I looked into your eyes.
The seafoam had always been the color of your struggle, your futility, and the beauty of your success in perseverance. I decided then that your eyes were the color of seafoam.
I'm remembering this as you berate me for my insanity, my lack of respect for my body, and my distaste for life. I don't mind because we couldn't have afforded another failure in Russia and you caring about me means your eyes are still the color of seafoam.
I vaguely consider the potential benefit of telling you that I love you so much I can't define the feeling of it without your entity in the definition before deciding against it.
"If everyone thinks your eyes are the color of seafoam, I'm going to have to gauge them out."
For as much as I want nothing more than to drown, I've yet to learn how to swim.