Winson Cheng

The Colors We Made

Perhaps this is black, Pierre thought. That’s how his parents had tried to describe it—like the dark, like total silence. They always said it didn’t matter if he couldn’t see colors, that it was enough if he understood them. If he felt them. And sitting alone in the corner, hospital gown pooled on the linoleum floor, knees curled to his chin with his arms wrapped around his legs, he thought he finally understood. Black was this silent emptiness. Black was the chill stinging his skin. Black was the way he tasted his heart in his throat, the fear that he might be forgotten. 

Pierre couldn’t quite remember what happened himself. One moment, he was checking into the hospital for an annual appointment; the next, he’d found himself isolated from his parents. His guides to the world, his tethers to reality. Perhaps if he were any other ten-year-old, he’d be searching and crying for help by now, but not Pierre. He knew how it was supposed to go: he’d sit and keep silent, and eventually, someone would find him and lead him where he needed to be. Until then, all there was to do was wait.

Pierre sighed. How long would it be until he was found? Even in early spring, the morning breeze was cold enough to blow right through his gown, permeate his skin, and sink into his nerves. He shivered.

Then he heard something—the soft claps of feet running across the floor, barreling toward him. He turned toward the noise as the feet came to a halt, stopping just inches in front of him. Heavy, exciting panting filled his ears.

“You exploring the halls, too?” His French echoed against the walls.

Pierre cocked his head to the side in confusion.

The boy’s breathing slowed as he caught his breath. “Not much of a talker, are you? Wait, you can hear me, right?”

Pierre nodded.

“Hmm…why are you sitting here, then? Are you lost?” Pierre nodded, pointing to his eyes.

“Ohh…gotcha. Well, if you’re gonna wait anyways, wanna wait somewhere cool?”

Before Pierre could respond, he’d already been pulled to his feet and accelerated to a walking sprint by the boy, who led him by the wrist. His fingers felt thin and fragile, but his grip was a small, warm flame against Pierre’s skin, guiding him safely forward.

Pierre followed without question as the boy led him beyond the hospital walls out into the open air. Based on how the ground felt against his shoes, he could tell the boy was leading him just beyond the towering stone walls of Carcassonne, onto the sweeping hills just outside the city. At last, they reached a halt and the boy dragged Pierre down onto a bed of grass.

“This is where I spend most of my time,” the boy said proudly. “I just can’t stand that stuffy hospital. Isn’t this so much better?”

Pierre shrugged. He pointed to his eyes, as if to remind him.

“Oh, don’t be like that! Seeing isn’t the problem; you’re not feeling it. Here, lay down. Go on, that’s it. Now, try to really feel: the grass, the wind, the birds…”

Pierre lay still and tried to follow his advice. Slowly, small details came to the foreground: the way the slope pressed along his back, the way the soft grasses and wildflowers rustled in the wind, the way the birds gossiped in the trees overhead. He listened to the Aude as it flowed peacefully a few meters beyond the field, the waters barely rippling as they flowed under the city bridges.

“See? Pretty nice, right?”

“Yeah.”

The boy let out a small hmph in satisfaction. “So, what do you like to do for fun? Got any friends?”

Pierre shook his head.

“Well, that’s okay! I’ll be your friend!”

Pierre felt his face get warm. “What about you? What do you do for fun?”

The boy sat up. “I like to adventure! When I grow up, I’m gonna explore the universe. Ocean cities, gemstone fields, faraway worlds…I’m gonna see them all! Doesn’t that just sound awesome?”

There was a conviction in his voice that Pierre couldn’t help but admire, like a flower staring up at the beaming sun. He had never thought about what he wanted to be; he simply was what he was, and he would be what he was until he wasn’t. “My mom says it’s dangerous for me to travel alone, so I have to stay inside.”

The boy was quiet for a moment. “Well,” he said finally, “you won’t be alone if I’m with you, right? So, stick with me! We can be explorers together!”

Pierre cocked his head toward the boy, speechless. An explorer? With him?

The boy spent the rest of their time together raving about distant lands, powerful monsters, and terrains of fire and ice. Eventually, however, Pierre heard his parents calling him from the hilltop.

“Welp, looks like your parents are here. Let’s head back up, okay?”

As the boy stood up, Pierre grabbed his wrist. “What’s your name?”

The boy laughed. “Francis. Yours?”

As Pierre reunited with his parents, they fussed over him, checked for injuries, and told him about how worried they had been. Pierre wasn’t paying attention, however; rather, he was more intrigued by how his world seemed a bit more colorful now somehow.

***

“This is pretty cool, right? It has some sparkly gems along the side and is covered in all sorts of colors!”

Pierre simply nodded. It was the easiest thing to do, he decided long ago, whenever Francis took him shopping in the heart of Carcassonne. Since they had met, winter had melted to spring and burst into summer, by which point Pierre and Francis met to “embark on adventures” several times a week.

The streets of Carcassonne were always occupied with the lively clamor of tourists and locals. The clacking of soles against cobblestone, the talk and laughter between customers and shop owners, all of it overwhelmed Pierre like a suffocating sheet of white noise. He could only bear the crowds when Francis led him by the hand, like destiny pulling him ever forward.

Pierre liked the way they slipped through the masses: Francis bulldozing through the crowd, bumping arms and terrorizing ankles as Pierre slithered meekly behind him. Once, Francis got distracted and let go on accident, losing Pierre in the sea of chaos. He searched for three hours before he found Pierre hidden away in an alleyway: knees curled, arms wrapped, blank stare. They walked home silently that day.

“Oh, look at this!” Francis said. “It’s a small model of Carcassonne. It’s got the river and everything!”

Pierre nodded again. There was only one store Pierre truly enjoyed: a humble antique shop hidden from the masses of tourists which featured a small range of instruments. Pierre loved to stand in the center of the store and just listen: to the absence of busy foot traffic, to the bell chimes and the pianos, to the peaceful harmonies of classical music.

They entered the store and Francis picked up a small kalimba. “What about this?” Francis strummed a couple soft, silvery notes with his thumbs. 

Pierre didn’t nod this time; instead, he only stood and let the sounds vibrate through his ears.

Francis pushed the kalimba into Pierre’s hands. “Try it out!”

Pierre stood confused for a few moments. He traced the intricate patterns carved into the smooth wood grain. Carefully strumming his thumb across the cool, metal keys, the kalimba whispered soft arpeggios into the air. Pierre plucked out some more simple tunes and felt the warmth of Francis’ excitement beside him before setting the kalimba down.

“You like that a lot, huh? Want it?”

Pierre shook his head. “I wouldn't be able to play it well.

Francis was silent for a moment. Pierre knew this silence well—it was the silence Francis made when he had something to say but didn't know what or how.

“All right,” Francis sighed. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

Francis led Pierre out of the store, back into the bustling crowd. There was something tired about the way he moved. 

“Francis,” he started, “are you upset that—”

Suddenly, Pierre fell to the ground. He got up, confused, and reached for Francis’ hand. He was there—but he wasn’t moving. Chaos ensued around him. Pierre didn’t know what to do; he never knew what to do. He wished Francis could tell him, but he was out cold against the pavement. In the end, Pierre decided the best he could do, all he could do, was curl up and wait.

***

“Oh, he’s not in his room,” the nurse said. “He never is, honestly. You should be able to find him outside, on the hill.”

Night had fallen by the time Pierre visited the hospital. His mother guided him past the stone walls, to the quiet grasses where Francis lay waiting for him.

“Sup!” Francis sounded chirpy as ever. “Uh, sorry about that earlier, haha. That can happen from time to time.”

Pierre didn’t speak. Fear kept his feet planted still.

Francis broke the silence with a sigh, patting the space beside him. “Lay with me.”

Though reluctant at first, Pierre obeyed, taking the seat beside him.

“Y’know, the view from here isn’t all that bad. I love looking at all the stars in the sky.” 

Pierre was quiet for a moment before he spoke. “What do they look like?”

“Oh, duh, sorry. Uh, imagine a bunch of glitter in the sky. …No? Um, okay, imagine the sky is an ocean, and stars are like…Ugh, that won’t do.” Francis let out a large sigh and thought for a while. “Okay, the sky is like…the field. Except it’s huge! Bigger than everything! So big, you could run forever and not reach the end. And stars, they’re like…little musical notes in that field. There are tons of them! Zillions of tiny whispers!”

Pierre cocked his head in intrigue. “What are they whispering?”

“Who knows? They’re too far away to hear.” Conviction and triumph rose in his voice. “But I’m gonna explore the stars one day and find out, just you wait!”

Pierre tilted his head toward Francis in wonder. How can you do it? We’re the same, he thought. We attract the same eyes when we walk the streets. We don’t make friends with other kids. Our mothers have both wept over our bedsides. How, then, can you have so many dreams? How can you have so much love for life?

Pierre grabbed Francis’ hand, much to his surprise, and listened to the chirping of cicadas in the field under evergreen stars. How can a hand be so thin and so bony, yet so warm?

***

“Look, it’s snowing! Pierre, hurry up! Let’s go!”

Summer had come and gone, autumn had frozen into winter, and the sounds of holiday cheer reverberated from every house in Carcassonne. Pierre was enjoying the warm, homely scent of fresh madeleines emanating from the kitchen before Francis took his hand and dragged him to the frosted outdoors.

“Check this out, Pierre!” 

Pierre heard giggling, followed by the smushing of ice as Francis carved his outline into the snow. 

“C’mon, get down here!”

Cautiously, Pierre fell back onto snow, mimicking Francis. Even through his jacket, the earth was freezing to the bone, colder than cold. He recoiled and shivered, to which Francis laughed. Pierre threw a snowball in his general direction; the war had commenced. The boys competed and wrestled and laughed in the marigold fields of snow for so long that after Francis’ mom ushered them back in, both of them lazed by the fire for half an hour before their teeth stopped chattering.

Francis’ burning impatience warmed him up soon enough. “All right, present time! Can I open the gift you got me? Can I?” 

The tearing of wrapping paper roared through the house before Pierre could even answer. 

“Oh my God!”

Pierre smiled in satisfaction at Francis’ reaction. His mom thought it was a strange gift, but Pierre knew he’d like it: a visual encyclopedia on stars, planets, faraway galaxies, and everything in between. 

“My mom said the stars glow in the dark, too,” Pierre commented. “I wouldn’t exactly know, though, so don’t blame me if it doesn’t.”

“All right, all right. It’s a pretty cool gift, not gonna lie. But I think mine’s even better. Here, open it!”

Francis handed Pierre a simple box. Pierre opened it, reached inside, and immediately recognized how the gift felt in his fingers. He held it in awe and strummed the metal keys, appreciating their soft hum once more.

“Ta-da! I know you said you didn’t need it, but I thought you really liked it, so I snagged it for you. I know, it’s pretty cool. No need to thank me.”

Pierre had no words. He gripped the kalimba as if it would fly away. The wood felt right in his palms. He strummed another note; the sound was warm, warmer than it had been in the store. He smiled. “Thanks, Francis. I love it.”

The boys sang and ate and played until they could hardly keep their eyes open anymore, at which point they retired to the floor mattresses Francis’ mom had laid out in his room. In mere minutes, Francis was out cold, his soft snores occupying the nighttime quiet. Pierre, however, didn't sleep—instead, all night, he listened. To the breathing of the boy next to him, in, out, in, out. Its rise and fall, its departure and return. He was entranced by it, by its timbre, its tranquility. It seemed as if the world spun more gently to protect its peaceful rhythm. Of all the music in the world, he wondered, how was it that this boy produced the loveliest symphony of them all? Pierre was scared to fall asleep—scared that if he did, this warmth between them might vanish forever. So all night, he listened, savored every breath, every moment, and for just a millisecond, he thought to himself that he wouldn’t mind living in this memory, in this lavender, forever.

***

Scalding summer sun. Light breeze. The Aude flowed more lazily in the heat. Two cans of citrus soda next to their faces as they lay in the grass, barefoot. Pierre didn’t speak a word, and neither did Francis. Neither of them needed to, for the moment was already perfect. Pierre took a sip and the medley of oranges danced on his tongue. The day was electric green.

Finally, Francis sat up to stretch. “God, this heat is killing me. Race you to the Aude?” 

Pierre heard him sprint away and sat up in panic. “Uh, Francis?” He reached out his hand. “A little help?”

Francis’ voice was far away now. “You don’t need my help! There’s no one around! Come on, Pierre, stand! Run with me!”

Pierre sat in silence for a few seconds, pondering for hours in his head. In the three years he had known Francis, not once did he walk without him. How do I know where to go?

“Believe in yourself!” Francis’ holler snapped Pierre out of his trance. “Just one foot in front of the other! You can do it!”

Slowly, Pierre got to his feet; then, like a baby deer, he started to walk forward, one foot in front of the other like Francis said. His first steps were filled with hesitation and fear; fear that he’d trip, that he’d run into someone and anger them. With a deep breath, he took in his surroundings: he was standing in an open terrain. No one to bump into. No one to scoff at him. No one but Francis, waiting for him by the Aude. He was free.

Faster and faster, his legs began to move on their own and Pierre couldn't help but laugh in exhilaration. Never had the earth felt so cool against his feet, or the air so fresh, or the sun so warm, or the world so vast.

Francis’ laughter bounced off the hills. “Yes, that’s it! Come on! Plus rapide!” 

Francis’ voice echoed in Pierre’s head. Plus rapide. How can his voice make words sound so beautiful?

“Yes!” Pierre shouted back. “Plus rapide!”

So they ran and ran and ran through the open fields and the riverbed for hours under a fuchsia sky, as if they held the entire world in their palms, until the sun laid to rest behind the Pyrenees and their scarlet skin stung to the touch like lit firecrackers.

***

Four autumns had passed since the boys first met. The golden scent of fresh madeleines wafted throughout the house as they lay on Francis’ bed, hunched over nature magazines.

“Pierre, hear this! In Hawaii, there are active volcanoes. Active. Volcanoes. Fountains of fire and magma spring up from the earth!” Francis did his best eruption imitation before falling back onto his bed, much to Pierre’s amusement. “Jeez, there’s so much to explore just on Earth. It’s gonna take decades to explore the universe.”

Pierre cocked his head. “Decades? What, you’re gonna explore the universe as a geriatric old man?”

Francis elbowed Pierre playfully. “Yeah, and so what? I’m gonna explore this whole universe, from Earth to the stars, no matter how long it takes!” Francis grabbed Pierre’s hand. “Whaddaya say, my trusty partner? You’re coming with me, right?”

Pierre gripped Francis’ hand. “I’ll go if you go,” he said. I’ll go if you go, he thought.

Francis squeezed back. “That’s my best friend for you, always by my side! Phew, I think I’m getting a little lightheaded from all the yelling. Wait right here, I’m gonna grab some madeleines for us.”

Pierre sat up as Francis jumped off the bed. He heard footsteps, and then a thud. A hard, loud one. It had been a while since the last time Pierre heard it, but he knew it immediately. He ran to him.

“Francis! Are you okay?! Francis, come on, answer me!”

It didn’t take long for Francis’ parents to find them and join Pierre in his panic. They left for the hospital and Pierre’s mother came to pick him up.

Pierre fell asleep late that night, anxious, kalimba in hand.

***

Pierre had seen Francis collapse many times before, but when the nurses told him that Francis hadn’t left his bed, he knew this time was different. Pierre entered the room cautiously; the air was thick with bitterness.

“Hey. You all right?”

Francis said nothing for a while. Then, suddenly, “Two years.”

“Huh?”

“They said I have two years. If I’m lucky.”

Pierre froze.

“I can’t even live them in peace. They said they’ll have to perform some operations on me. I’m going to be cooped up here for the rest of my life.”

“ I’m…I’m sor—”

“It’s not fair!” The anger and desperation in Francis’ voice gripped Pierre’s heart. “I haven’t done anything yet, gone anywhere yet. What did I do to deserve this? Why do you get to explore the world? You can’t even see any of it!”

Pierre’s lungs turned to ice. Francis had never spoken that way to him before. To hear him like this was excruciating. Pierre wanted to tell Francis that he was right—that he deserved endless adventures, deserved the world. That Pierre would have changed places with him in a heartbeat if he could. Pierre tried to say something, anything, but he couldn’t speak past the ache in his chest.

“Sorry, I didn’t…I…” Francis’ voice trailed off to a whisper. “I don’t want to go yet.

Not like this.”

The silence rang loudly. Standing in the same room, the two boys felt a sky’s distance between them.

“Just leave me alone,” Francis said. “Please.”

The river lapped weakly against the walls of the Aude. The waves struggled in vain, for they knew that every inch of water, sooner or later, must return to the vast Mediterranean Sea.

***

The last day before Francis’ temporary discharge, Pierre sat on the hill beside Francis’ wheelchair, their parents chatting far behind them. The wind slithered through the grass and the birds whispered amongst themselves while the boys sat in silence. Both knew how the other felt.

“Anything you wanna do today?” Pierre asked. “We could go to the shopping center. Or maybe I could bring you closer to the river?”

“I’m good, thanks. Not much of a point, anyways.” The silence thickened. It had never left.

Pierre couldn’t take it anymore. This wasn’t the Francis he knew. Francis, the explorer.

Francis, warmer than the summer sun. This was suffocating. He needed to act now.

“All right, river it is.” Pierre grabbed the handles to Francis’ wheelchair, unbeknownst to either of their parents, and pushed forward.

“Pierre?! What the hell are you doing?”

“Going on another adventure!” Pierre’s eyes were closed. “We’re running down this hill, like it or not!”

Pierre sprinted, one foot in front of the other, pushing Francis along. Sound bombarded him on all fronts: the screeching of the wheels, the yells of parents who had just noticed their reckless descent, and Francis’ screams. 

Wait, these weren’t screams. He was laughing.

“Pierre, stop, stop! You’re gonna run right into the river!”

Snapping back to reality, Pierre tried to dig his shoes into the ground, but the wheelchair was driving now. Pierre tried to scream, but he couldn’t; at this rate, he was laughing, too.

SPLASH!

All three of them—Pierre, Francis, and the wheelchair—crashed into the Aude. The waters were cool, but the adrenaline surging through Pierre’s veins upon impact was a hot, vivid vermillion. 

Pierre resurfaced and spun around, listening frantically. “Francis?! Are you okay?”

He heard a splash rupture from beside him. Francis could barely breathe between bouts of laughter. “That. Was. Awesome!”

Pierre couldn’t help but smile as well, and together their infectious laughter rang throughout the countryside as the Aude washed their fears and troubles away into the open sea.

***

Francis invited Pierre over for one last sleepover before he returned to the hospital for “who knows how long.” They ate madeleines and watched TV and laughed. Pierre was happy; Francis was back to normal. There was something different, something almost apprehensive about Francis, but Pierre didn’t dig into it. Soon, both of them were yawning, and they knew it was time to clock out.

“Pierre?”

“Hm?”

Crinkling blister foil.

“I’m glad we went on so many adventures together.”

Gulp of water. Deep breath.

Pierre cocked his head to the side. “There are many more to come.” 

“Haha, yeah, you’re right. Goodnight, Pierre.” 

“Goodnight, Francis.”

The light clicked off. Pierre settled into the floor mattress with Francis by his side. As always, he listened to the calming rhythm of Francis’ breaths: in, out, in, out, as they grew softer, softer, softer.

When Pierre could hardly hear them anymore, he knew something was wrong. 

“Francis!” He grabbed his hand; his warmth was fading fast. “Francis, what’s happening? Oh God, I need to—”

“Pierre.”

As Pierre got up, Francis grasped his hand. “Pierre, please, don’t go. Stay and sleep. Everything’s okay. Just stay. Please.”

There was a slight pleading in Francis’ voice Pierre had never heard before. Pierre lay back down, trying to process what was happening. He couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t believe it. He tried to take deep breaths.

“Hey, Pierre?” Francis was whispering now.

“Hm?” Pierre’s voice shook.

“Where do you wanna adventure next? Tell me about it.”

Pierre calmed his breathing as much as he could, still clenching Francis’ hand. Slowly, he began to speak through gasps and silent tears: about how they would traverse countless worlds and discover roaring plumes of fire and underwater spires and sparkling diamond fields, about how they would cross windswept deserts and ravenous oceans to get there, about how through thick and thin they would always be there for each other. Francis gave small remarks and laughs as Pierre spoke, though with time, his breathing grew weaker and weaker as his hand turned to ice in Pierre’s grip.

Pierre talked for hours into the night. By the time dawn arrived, Pierre knew Francis had departed with the night sky. He was running with the stars now.

***

Pierre’s parents didn’t need to explain why everyone dressed in black, for he understood. When they arrived, his parents proceeded with the normal formalities: they greeted Francis’ parents, they offered their condolences, they wept. Pierre remained silent.

The ceremony commenced. Francis’ parents delivered a touching eulogy: how he shined with life and energy, how he bravely fought his illness like a champ, how his smile brought cheer to everyone who saw it. Then, one by one, families approached the casket to pay their respects.

On Pierre’s turn, he approached the closed casket and laid his hand against the icy veneer. Frustration welled up inside him. This was not Francis, he thought. There was no way Francis, who felt like the sun and smelled of wildflowers and summer, could ever be in something so cold, so drab, so lifeless. And yet, he said nothing. He squeezed his mother’s hand, retreated from the casket, and sat back down. His uneven breathing cut through the frigid air.

The funeral ended, and the river of time continued to flow effortlessly. The warm spring breeze foretold blistering summers, and autumn leaves fell to warn children of crisp, biting winters. Years passed, and every February, the people of Carcassonne would gather in the cemetery and leave flowers for the boy who left too soon. However, Pierre was never one of them. He didn’t understand why they visited an empty grave; Pierre knew the boy they mourned wasn’t there.

But every year around early spring, when the morning air still raised goosebumps on skin and the birds sang hymns to celebrate blooming flowers, the townspeople would find Pierre sitting on the hill outside the city walls, just beyond the children’s hospital, listening to the Aude as it swam its course. He would lay there silently for hours, filling the air only with the soft tunes of his kalimba. And sometimes, if he thought hard enough about marigold snow and vermillion rivers and lavender breaths, he thought he could almost hear the claps of running feet whispering to him from the stars.