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It is familiar. Striking, warm, sorrowing, deadly. All-encompassing, perfect. Red.
It is remembrance of the first markings he ever knows, of maternal touch and temper. Even with the heat of the bright Palaven sun bearing down on his shoulders, he recognizes nothing but her warmth as she caresses his cheek, presses close, forehead-to-forehead. Whispered words of comfort and wisdom replace every thought in his young skull, and he drinks in the moment as if it were the only moment he would ever have.
Tiny talons clasp at clothing, begging to be held, held forever, and the strong arms blissfully comply. The scent of her fill his lungs as she keeps him close, and he doesn't believe anything can ever feel better than this. Touch her cheek, trace the lines.
Still
It is the surprise of flashing, glaring lights - angry, angry, angry. Warning, and hands fumble for clothing and weapons. Sounds cascade upon him, and panic joins in with the chorus. He tries not to cry out, wanting nothing more than to run and hide. No. Be brave. Prove to himself that he can be brave, for once.
An officer yells orders in a harsh voice to get moving, men. Men? He is still just a boy, not yet a young man, with little discipline and a lot of courage. He can still barely shoot a gun, though an older soldier had once complimented him on his aim. Good eye, he had said. Maybe there's a future for you there. You have a future. Don't waste it.
No, sir.
Stand, salute. Make him proud. Make himself proud.
Be still
It is the warmth of thick liquid splattered on clothing. There is a sharp, metallic smell saturating the air, one that will linger in his mind for weeks afterwards. A body lie on the ground - human, if that makes it better? - eyes open, mouth agape in a silent scream that he's afraid might never end. His nervous talons had twitched against the trigger, and then a man was forever immobile, forever gone. Dark crimson runs like a river around the corpse, and he imagines drowning in it, drowning in someone else's death.
The first always holds the most weight.
and breathe in
It is the symbolism of a delicate rose held between rough, calloused fingers - talons twitching and threatening to wound the petals with the way his arm trembles. He's left in the wake of empty words, praises, and platitudes for the fallen - the attempt at comfort completely lost on this mourning soul. His hand moves down, placing the rose on the vacant casket, and he knows nothing will ever feel worse than this. He sheds no tears as they take it away - only hoping that, wherever she was, she was watching him, waiting for him.
It would be two years until he truly lives again.
Breathe her in
It is the fatal rage of unfulfilled consequence. He had never known the phrase "seeing red" could hold so much truth, so much burden. But as he aims through the scope, staring down the traitor, that lethal shade fills his vision so completely, and he knows nothing but the desire to kill. He wants to see this bastard dead on the ground, rivers running red around the body, drowning him in his own death.
But then she is there, blocking his line of sight, and a heated curse leaves his mouth. Move, Shepard, is all he can think to say - but she does not. Instead, he hears her speak warning words in that calm tone he had come to love and abhor over the years. Shepard, he cautions her, move.
He expects the husk of a turian to fall on his knees and grovel for his life, expects cries and pleading and begging to be spared - but to his eternal surprise, words of apology leave the traitor's mouth in a rush. In the end, he lets him go. Not for him, but for her.
You never know
It is the veil of her brilliantly colored hair, brushing against his face as she hovers above him. Her hand grips his tightly as he moves with her, within her, and those sweet, pink lips fall open, relinquishing breathless sounds to the darkness – ahh, ah – and he knows that she is completely at his mercy.
She is perfection because of the imperfections that marr her; the scar slicing through her lips (as well as many more marks that disfigured her skin), her inability to dance, the freckles that ghost along her cheekbones, the way she can never stay mad at him, the fact that she foolishly fell for someone so undeserving of her love.
But she is here, with him, with her mouth making those noises – ohh, oh – and her touch promising that she will hold him, hold him forever, and never let go.
when
It is the absolute flawlessness of the love she makes him feel. As his arms envelop her afterwards, and she sleeps soundly, he knows this love is completely irrevocable and unchangeable. He holds her in this moment, as if it is the only moment he would ever have.
The first love always holds the most weight, as does the last.
she'll be gone