Blue is the sunlight filtering through trees in the morning. She’s a field of flowers; bluebells and daisies and snow drops and honeysuckle. She’s the drive to breakfast on a Sunday morning at 7am, yawning against your knuckle, turning your face into the sun. She’s pancakes with berries and yoghurt, honey and coffee and sticky vinyl tables. She’s oversized knitwear, hiding you face behind scarves, your hands balled up in sleeves. She’s kicking up leaves in mud-splattered boots and wind flushed cheeks and unapologetic laughter. She’s the hushed silence at the end of the night.
Gansey is the sound of a library at two am. He’s murmurs over coffee, the sound of a page turning. He’s the first stretch after you wake up, lazy smiles over pillows, that little laugh you do to break the silence. He’s the way you push your glasses up your nose, the embodiment of a whirring thought. He’s the burn in your lungs after running up a hill, gulping air like liquid life into your lungs. He’s grass and morning dew, light and fresh and just the right side of cold. He’s the trip in your gut when you miss a step, the pad of a thumb over a cheek. He’s looking at the stars on a clear winter night.
Noah is the first conversation in the morning. He’s the smell of cooking waffles, cream and sugar and syrup. He’s drawings in a foggy mirror, the steam pouring from a shower. He’s the biting chill of frost, the thrill of slipping on ice. He’s winter gloves and duffle jackets and laughing at each other being silly. He’s snowflakes stuck in your hair, your breath on a cold day. He’s art, paint smudged on your cheek, deliberate movements. He’s milkshakes when it’s too cold, brain freeze, pastel coloured diners. He’s pale pinks and washed out greys and cold blues. He’s the catch in your chest when you see something beautiful.
Adam is dusty summers, tumbleweeds and shielding your eyes from the sun. He’s your favourite pair of shoes, reliable and soft. He’s the night someone puts their arms around you while staring at the stars, the sound of silence. He’s the way your lip twitches when you hear a joke you shouldn’t laugh at. He’s the smell of the ground after rain, water rolling down your spine. He’s the flickering lightbulb hanging loose from your ceiling, a single streetlamp on a forgotten road. He’s running when you have no idea where you’re going, the small exhale of breath when you come to a stop. He’s the gentle hush when you wake up beside someone you love. He’s the hands that hold you when you think you’re falling apart.
Ronan is smoke and tyres and burning rubber. He’s the anticipation of a street light turning green. He’s soft whispers across your skin, teeth dragging over your lip. He’s a shout and a whimper, the two of them combined. He’s satisfied smiles and longing eyes. He’s digging up soil with your bare hands, dirt trapped under your finger nails. He’s confident winks and subtle touches, a steady hand at the base of your spine. He’s balled fists and shattered windows and blood splattered floors. He’s the sensation of being home in a place you’ve never been. He’s coffee and split lips and gold chains with crosses hanging just out of sight. He’s the chink of light through the window of a dark room. He’s the embodiment of Autumn; just the right side of falling apart.