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the dream goes like this:
everything is blue.
not blue in itself - even when he's only half there, drifting between the march-scented expanse of the cool fabric of his pillow against his cheek and the dizzying warmth of sleep, mark can tell that the landscape isn't really blue; it's more as if he's looking at it through a tinted window pane.
a black-and-white photo dropped into a bath of fountain pen ink and water.
it's like this: that camera ryan bought for their trip to new york, the disposable one with strips of coloured plastic you could slip in front of the flash.
(ryan tore the green one off almost right away. none of them were sure if it'd been an accident but they were all laughing about it under the annoyed glares of strangers on the subway, curt held the piece of flimsy plastic up to his eye to squint through it - "you alright, mark, you're looking kinda ill" -, and mark mimed throwing up into the hood of phil's sweater.)
in the dream, someone appears to have slipped the blue strip in front of the flash.
clarissa's eyes are the palest hint of sapphire, her hair falls around her face in wind-swept tangles and brushes her chin in waves of azure. her skin seems smoother than normal, as if sanded down, cobalt except for her lips that are a dark splash of rich navy.
they're at turnpike point.
it's the night of the bonfire - the others aren't there, neither his friends nor hers, but mark still knows, he's certain in that dream.
the fire's crackling in the background, high flames feasting greedily on roadside sticks and crickety old chairs someone's grandma has thrown out. it's an electric shade of blue, one that gives off the illusion of cold, but it's warm and smells normal, like summer nights and a million teenage parties.
it's exactly that night.
mark remembers the moment he saw her - he'd been talking to phil and about to leave.
he hadn't had dinner yet because he'd been too lazy to go to the store, and thought that now it might be late enough to guarantee that his dad would be passed out on the couch, giving him some peace to at least make toast or something.
he turned mid-sentence, a joke still on his lips because phil was bugging him about his dad, and there she was, on the other side of the bonfire, looking at him through the flames.
there was the hint of a smile on her lips, making her look younger and oddly shy despite staring at him quite openly.
mark froze, and smiled, and she smiled back before looking at the ground and then up again at mark who was the one caught staring this time, his face flushing hot.
none of that happens in the dream.
even though it's that same night (july 21st, which he hasn't forgotten once - clarissa's worse with their anniversaries, and more upset about it than he is), they don't exchange names and numbers over the blaring music, she doesn't let him kiss her on the cheek and he never walks her home, stomach too full of butterflies to ache for dinner.
they just stand there, the only ones around, the fire flickering in the background like static on the radio.
and then, unspeakingly, they walk towards each other.
he knows, then, that even though it's that night of the bonfire, it's present-day clarissa in front of him, all dark-blue elbows and soft eyes.
because they know each other - there's something in the way they move towards one another that betrays comfort, the magnetic pull of someone you've known deeply for a long time.
mark looks down at himself - shabby sneakers in baby blue, the indigo of his jeans - and then back at clarissa, and suddenly, they're hugging, a real embrace, warmth and desperation in the way he holds onto her shoulder blades, the way she buries her face in the crook of his neck.
mark knows that there's a spark between them, the only orange thing in this blue scene, and they can't let it die - their bodies have to protect it, keep it pressed between them, where their hearts beat in a steady rhythm.
he never sees the spark, but it's a fact - the way dreams work, it's natural for him to know this.
he feels clarissa's hair on his face, it reminds him of evenings when he was younger and would fall asleep with his cheek pressed into his dog's warm tummy, he feels the hood of her jacket under his fingers.
they don't speak.
they don't speak but it's so tender that mark feels almost breathless, at ease at the same time.
he can smell the fire. he closes his eyes and holds on to her, their bodies flush up against each other, the spark orange and safe between them.
all colours are back when he wakes up - the uneven white of his walls, a slightly different shade where mark has had to patch them up.
the jumble of flat colours on his posters (baseball players and his favourite movies), his water bottle and a lighter on his bedside table, the duffel bag with a change of clothes in it at the foot of his bed.
mark rolls over with a groan.
he remembers those mornings in high school - the bone-deep fatigue that gripped him, resignation and that familiar anger singeing his throat.
it was always so tempting to just fall back asleep, he was shit at all his classes anyway - mark had missed a lot of school in the year right after his mom's death, his dad too drunk or numb or angry to drive him, but he knew he couldn't blame it on that, he just hated school anyway.
he needed to graduate though, no matter how much of a close call it'd be - he needed a job, he needed to flee that house.
he used to hate his dad a lot more back then.
he used to love him more, too, mark supposes - at least he was still angry about the drinking and all of the fucking shit his dad pulled, which must have been some twisted proof of love and care.
stop.
this is a happy morning.
that dream was good - not happy, not necessarily, but something deeply important, which sounds like some hippie bullshit. it's true though.
it's funny: when mark thinks back to it now, he doesn't remember trying to keep the warmth of that one spark of orange, not the tight embrace that filled him with an odd sense of calm and hope, but clarissa's blue face.
the way she looked at him - so sure of something.
the slightest curve of her lip, just like on that night when they first met, the softest hint of a smile.
the warmth that flooded his face when she caught him staring at her, his embarrassement mingling with sheepish joy because she'd stared first.
sometimes it feels like he's underwater until he spends time with her, and suddenly the noises aren't muffled and he's breathing fresh air.
(mark used to half-heartedly barricade the bathroom door before taking a shower when he was younger - there was a stool he'd drag in front of the door. the stool was way too light to actually stop someone from coming in, but that was why he chose it. ironically, he didn't want to stop anything, because that would be too much of a thing, of a conscious rebellion, the feeling of doing something was much more important than that something actually making a difference.)
he takes his time getting ready that morning.
he thinks about telling clarissa about the dream, but it needs to stay all his for the moment. when he meets her later, her hair is blonde and her eyes are a soft shade of brown.
she's wearing blue nail polish though, chipped in places - she never bothers to reapply it until it's come off by itself, which mark knows drives her mother crazy.
he kisses her knuckles, inhaling the scent of the perfume that she's rubbed into her wrists.
clarissa chuckles - "you're very romantic today, everything okay?" - and he nods.
everything is.