colour blind // wolfstar

chapter 1: different

remus's pov:

I stand in front of the wall of windows at the airport, watching the planes take off as I mop the floor. 

" Hey, check out that cleaner guy!"

" Ooh, he's quite handsome!"

I blush to myself, ducking my head at their words.

" What's so cool about him?"

" Look at his socks! I laughed so hard when I looked at it. What do you think?" Embarrassment creeps up my neck and I look down at my feet.

My name is Remus John Lupin.

I'm colour blind.

There was a time when I could see colours, but that was when I was very, very small. I only remember the simplest of colours, like red and green and blue, but even those have faded with memory, and I'm still not sure if the versions of those colours in my head are the true version, or altered by my own perception.

Although the black-and-white world had made life a little inconvenient, like the sock situation I'm in, I try to tell myself I don't care. People wear odd socks all the time. Who cares if I do? All I have to do it make it look like I did it on purpose. What they don't know can't hurt them.

I return to my mopping, looking back out at the huge metal beasts that take to the sky with loud, thundering roars every few minutes. 

I'm about to dip my mop back into its bucket when someone slams into me, catching me by surprise and almost knocking me off my feet. 

" Hey!"

"... I thought so."

A man a head shorter than me rushes past without so much as an apology, phone pressed to his ear. He's running, breathing hard like he has been for a while now. He glances over his shoulder as if looking for someone, or running away from someone.

" I'm not doing any interviews!"

He's pretty well dressed, fashionable and modern. But what catches my attention is his jacket.

It's blue.

Blue. Blue like my mother told me the sky is. Blue like the sea, my father once said. Blue, blue, blue. Calm and rich. Blue.

Blue.

So that's what it looks like.

And not just that. He seems brighter somehow, compared to everyone else. And not just because of his jacket. His colours seem richer, the white of his pants whiter somehow, the black of his shirt darker and deeper than I've ever seen.

And wherever his foot lands as he runs away, weaving between the crowds, the floor lights up grey. And wherever any part of him touches, like the sleeve of his blue jacket brushing against a passing woman's peacoat, colour explodes outward. 

Then, as quickly as it came, it disappears eaten up by the grey and black and white all over again.

Without knowing what's happening, my feet are carrying me forward and I'm abandoning my mop, pushing my way through the crowds of people with their fancy luggage and sunglasses, my eyes fixed on the bright spot of colour in front of me.

*          *          *

sirius's pov:

I scramble for the toilet, my feet pounding on the marble floors of the airport, glancing over my shoulder every once in a while to check if the reporters are still following me. James, my best friend, is on the line, talking to me like there isn't an entire army of cameras after me.