Work Text:
Red was never Felipe Massa’s favorite color. For the young guy, green and black - and lately, obsessively the blue - had always been the colors that best fulfilled this role. Nevertheless, he could not help but identify himself with so characteristic tone, when all he had in his life was just red.
This was the color that the driver saw reflected in the mirror almost all his days in the mornings. Carmine was the color of passion, his and thousands of others’, this feeling that, many times, had been confused with pure hatred. His and thousands of others’.
For many years, to Felipe, red was the color of hope. And, for some time, this has been the color of debauchery.
Ruddy were the faces that the Brazilian always had around him, drowned in ecstasy or tinged with anger. It was also the shade of the walls that surrounded him, as the carbon from his car, an ice-cold that in a few seconds was able to become hot as coals.
The coal which is red.
Red was also what he had seen injected in his own eyes so many times that he could not even count anymore: either drunk and staggering from the champagne of victory, or sad, from the tears of defeat.
And when it was too much to bear, when that tone seemed to burn his retinas, Felipe looked for another red. Not foreign from the usual, but with the difference it involved a white and pale skin, so warm and calm, as filled with crimson small dots as everything else he saw around him. And what the driver found in his search, then, was a different red, more significant when next to the brown hair, to the bright smile and to that scandal of blue. And then, he came back to life again.
For Felipe, there wasn't in the world a red more beautiful than the one that involved the eyes of Rob Smedley.
Rob, in his turn, said at every opportunity he had that he liked the color. But not the same that those red walls that sometimes seemed to choke him, but a crimson-meat, almost always rosy, in a beautiful shade of soft skin. Rob's favorite color was a red surrounded by perfect lines: so firm as if drawn by an architect using ink, material that did not allow or admitted the inaccuracy of a smoky contour. Lines, which together formed a small and appetizing figure, almost as the color contained therein.
That red-flesh was also mutant: sometimes it showed itself to the eyes of the engineer pale in sorrow, but in others it proved brilliant, like a mischievous boyish smile.
There are several beautiful tones.
But of them all, the favorite of the English would always be the darkest, bastard and almost erotic, wet and indecent, which appeared every time after the swelling of the mouth, in the explosive violence of those kisses.
For Rob, there wasn't in the world a red more beautiful than the one that filled the lips of Felipe Massa.