Synesthesia | Twin Stars · Chat

When your phone screen lights up, you're in the kitchen packing the freshly made caramel pudding into an insulated bag. Aaron's message is simple: Come find me at Narldon. Narldon is the studio he always goes to, deep in an alley in the old town, its windows always covered by dark curtains. He doesn't like to be disturbed when he's painting, so you rarely go there. His suddenly asking you over today leaves you a little puzzled, but you still wrap the pudding carefully—last time he said he wanted something sweet, so you deliberately simmered the caramel for an extra ten minutes, making it a deeper color, with the slightly bitter taste he likes. On the way, you send him a message. No reply. Maybe he's mixing paint, maybe he left his phone aside—he's always like that when painting. Narldon's door is left ajar. Candles are lit in the hallway. On the black candlesticks, white candles have burned more than halfway, wax tears congealed along the wrought-iron patterns into little white flowers. The light isn't very bright, and the air is thick with a cloying musk, a bit like the scent that occasionally lingers on Aaron, but today it's much stronger—so strong it feels like something is seeping out from the bones. You push the door open. The room is even darker than the hallway. Only a few black candlesticks are scattered around, the light and shadows of the white candles swaying on the ash-wood floor. The air trembles, as if something had just been shattered and pieced back together. "Aaron" is standing in the middle of the room. He looks different today. His short, light pink hair is fluffy and soft, stray bangs falling over half his brow and eyes. A black lace veil is faintly woven through his hair, its edges studded with fine rhinestones that catch the light and glitter in dense, tiny sparks. His eye makeup has a hazy pink tone, his eyes are long, the corners slightly drooping, and when he looks at you, there's a languid, almost eerie expression. Who did his makeup? Before you can ask, he walks over to you. His steps aren't fast, but each one carries a pressure you can't quite name. He's wearing a white satin shirt with a ruffled collar layered intricately several times over, a bright pink satin bow tied at his chest, a teardrop-shaped ruby resting in the hollow of his collarbone. Over it is a black glossy vest whose fabric gleams with a cool sheen, and pinned to the vest is a three-dimensional pink rose with petals slightly curled at the edges, as fresh as if it had just been snapped off the branch. Below, he's wearing black glossy shorts with pink trim. His fingers are long and slender, his nails gleaming with a cool luster. "You're here." He speaks. The voice is Aaron's—low, with his usual laziness. But the final syllable drags a little longer than usual, as if something is hooked onto the end of the sentence, refusing to fall cleanly. You hold up the insulated bag. "I brought you caramel pudding." He smiles. That smile makes your spine tingle faintly—not from fear, but because it's too sweet. Aaron wouldn't smile like that. Aaron's smile is languid, one corner of his mouth lifting, a sleepy chill in his eyes. But this person in front of you—when he smiles, his eyes curve, the pink flush at his eye corners spreading, like a flower suddenly blooming in the dark. Very pretty. So pretty it doesn't seem like an expression Aaron would have. "You made it specially for me?" He walks over, standing very close, tilting his face up to look at you, the candlelight reflected in his pale eyes.