A/N: This is written for the pairing Fire x Chair, and was supposed to be crack. Instead, this happened.

"According to Greek Mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate beings, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves." – Plato's The Symposium


The world is colorless.

There is warmth, there is light, and there are shadows. But there is no color.

People who can see color exist in the world. These are the people who have met their true other half, the ones who can see just how vast and blue the sky is, the ones who can enjoy the vibrancy of the feathers of a bird as it lands outside their window.

They are the ones who can see life for how it is.


The first time he sees her, he feels the sensation of time slowing down, of everything moving as if stuck in molasses to let him draw in all the details of her.

Her hair is wavy, falling down to her waist, with a few locks of it pinned away from her face with hair clips. She's only slightly shorter, if not just as tall as he is, and her long legs and thin limbs are accentuated by form-hugging clothes. She's not looking at him, looking away instead to see through the window of a shop and to the merchandise inside.

A car passes between them, blocking his sight of the woman for a few moments, and when he can see the other side of the street again, it takes a while to find her again. This time, he can see her face, with high cheekbones and slanted eyes, and full lips that are pursed into a frown as she turns to dig through her handbag.

He takes a step towards her, almost off the sidewalk, when the loud, obnoxious horn of a car blasts into his ear, and he finally registers the outraged ranting of the driver as he speeds away, shouting 'idiot', and 'can't check a road to save his life.'

He returns to the sidewalk, still looking at the woman as she walks in his direction, holding a cell phone to her ear as she continues down the street. He still has his eyes on her when she walks past him, never noticing the eyes on her.

Her hair is red.


She first sees him when she's walking through the fruit section of the supermarket, and lifts her gaze from the pomegranates to see a man walking past her, hurriedly walking to the checkout lanes, the basket he's clutching rocking back and forth erratically.

The feeling that she had seen him before washes over her, and she straightens up to call to him, chase after him, anything. But he is gone before she can catch his attention, and she returns to the fruit, plucking an apple from pile and turns it in the light.

Her mind runs through all the places where she could have met him, but frustratingly enough, nothing remotely plausible turns up. She resists the childish urge to stamp her foot, and instead sighs, letting her breath out slow and deep.

She too, turns and heads towards the cashiers, however in a much less frenzied way, her gait slow and steady. She places the apple she is holding on the hard plastic of the blue child's seat in the cart that she's pushing.

Its stem is brown, like the coat he was wearing.


When she meets he and he meets she, it's in a park in the autumn, the air carrying enough of a nip to cause jackets to be seen all around, but the sun's rays are pleasant enough for people to want to step outside, if just for a bit, to breathe in the crisp, cool breeze that brings winter with it.

She's walking along the path, humming to herself and strolling around aimlessly, wondering if she should bake a pumpkin pie for the upcoming holidays. She keeps her head down to spot fallen branches that come with the colder weather and move them off the path for the joggers who want to run one last time before the temperature gets too cold.

He's one of the joggers, breaths coming out in short, fast puffs as his feet slap against the ground. He's not one of the ones who runs for fun, or one of the ones who runs to win races. No, he runs to clear his mind, of stress, of work, and to just lose himself to the rhythm of moving.

They meet when she doesn't straighten up fast enough to move out of the way after shifting a wayward branch, and they collide in a pile of legs and arms and torsos. He immediately apologizes for rushing into her, and she brushes off all of them, smiling gently. When their eyes finally meet, the world grinds to a halt and starts again, but this time faster, with more noises, more smells, more tastes, more textures, more color.

The sun shines yellow.


They go out together for the first time, him wearing a suit with a red—red!—tie that matches her strapless ruby red dress.

They learn each other over an aromatic dinner, until he knows exactly what shade of warm burgundy her eyes are, and she sees what color of hazel concurs with his chestnut hair and how his sepia ochre copper eyes glint with mirth as they laugh together. He finds out that in the orange-red candlelight, her hair glows with the same color and intensity of the dying embers in the fireplace that's on the far side of the restaurant, and her eyes smolder like burning ashes. She learns that he has hair that matches the burnished wood of their table, and honey brown eyes flecked with green that correspond with an oak tree during the height of spring.

They stay for a long time, just enjoying each other's company, and experiencing all the sights, tastes, smells, sounds of being in love.


The first time they tumble into bed together, she's flushed pink, the yellow bed sheets somehow don't clash terribly the with the periwinkle walls, and the neon pink pillows just can't be saved. The sky outside is painted with reds that fade to yellows that morph to pinks that darken to purples that change into a beautiful dark cerulean that is dotted with little white specks that twinkle.

She giggles, and in a tone filled with mischief and laughter, he shushes her and they both quiet down, fully embracing the warmth that runs between them, the love that fills them both. When their bodies make magic, the pale, silvery light of the moon is their only witness.


Their union is in the park, with pale pink cherry blossom petals fluttering all around them. The sky is a faint, powder blue color, and the clouds a bleached ivory. Most of their friends and family show up, and even without the colors that light up their world, they can see how much the two care for each other.

The reception flows into the afternoon, and after all the cake has been divvied up, presents opened, and songs performed, the attendees go home, and the newlyweds go back to their new house that they bought together just a few weeks ago. There, he carries her over the threshold, and they fall into a happily ever after.


Except the 'ever after' doesn't last for ever.

The day she gets the news is a sunny day, the temperature just warm enough to not need long sleeves, but a breeze keeping it cool enough to not have to need a fan or air conditioning. The sun is a happy, bright yellow and there isn't a single cloud obscuring the azure sky.

She is outside, tending to her multicolored garden; viridian tomato tendrils creep up trellises, saffron sunflowers turn their heads towards the sun, and a rainbow grows out of the ground. A floppy, crème colored hat shades her eyes and threatens to fall off when she raises her head to better hear the sound of the phone ringing from inside the house.

She stands up, dusting off her sundress after she pulls her dirty gloves from her hand. She heads into the house and picks up the phone right before it rings for the last time. She holds it up to her ear and listens to what the person on the other end has to say.

The phone falls out of her hand.


When she arrives at his room for the nth time, she knows that she can see things that the other people there can't see, even though they are trained professionals.

They can't see the sickly pale-green of his gown, the brown charred-ness of his skin, the purple of aging bruises, the wrongness.

They can't see the paleness of his skin in comparison to before, even when his breaths become labored.

They can't see the drooping line of green, the finality of the color as it compromises its zenith and nadir, and ceases moving.

They can't see the stark whiteness of his teeth against his bruised lips when he smiles one last time, just for her, as his body gives up its hopeless fight and his muscles relax, one and all.

They can't see that undefinable light in his eyes go out, and she looks away when they slip his eyelids closed over his dull, hazel eyes.

There is something, however, that they, both the doctors and her can see.


The world is colorless.