Blue and black and purple and brown and green and yellow, and sometimes even red if they were fresh enough. He could turn all the colors of the damn rainbow under the right circumstances, and her guilt for loving it is only half-hearted. How can she feel truly guilty when the strange pleasure always outweighs it in the end?
The sight of him is beautiful. He is beautiful, always, breathtaking and impossible to look away from, but the sight of him as he is now is more beautiful than she could ever imagine to be real. He is ethereal.
It must the contrast, she muses. The bright, marble white canvas painted with those dark smudges with those bright, yellow edges that close in over time, staining him again and again into a work that rivals Kandinksy. When he stumbles in, a sleeve sometimes torn, drops of blood on his vest, and an exhausted grin on his face, she takes one look at the dark rim around an eye and she knows.
She knows that when he demands she help him undress and get clean
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