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“So, that one’s sort of… like, orange?” Charlie asks.
He’s sitting crosslegged on the living room floor across from Ranboo, who is sitting in their little special folded-up way to accommodate their legs-for-years, as Wilbur calls them. As if he isn’t almost just as tall, but he’s kinda odd, anyways.
“Uh,” Ranboo says, scrunching up their face in apparent thought. “It’s like… Autumn-y, I guess? Maybe orange, but not like a…”
“A-aaaaaa?” Charlie props his head up on his palm, eyeing Ranboo curiously.
“Shut up, I am thinking, Charles. I know that’s a new concept, but— okay, it’s not like… it’s crisp but not… too Autumn-y. Kind of like one of those orange popsicle things?”
Charlie can tell by now when the lack of language is frustrating Ranboo, the way they trail off and scrunch up their face, the way they can’t stand when colors and smells escape them as easily as typical language does nowadays.
“Hey,” Charlie murmurs, stretching out a socked foot to push against Ranboo’s thigh and get their attention. “Those are pretty good popsicles, right?”
Ranboo smiles, apparent enough even with the mask he so rarely takes off nowaways.
For the past three-six-seven-ten-however-many months since what is unlovingly referred to as that fucking mall and that fucking guy (but never any mention of the box that almost destroyed their face entirely), Ranboo has been referring to things as… colors, as a way to express things.
Which is fine, in Charlie’s book, it just means a lot of question asking, a lot of Ranboo insisting the coffee they’re staring down into is red, Charlie, and kind of metallic, not coffee-burnt, like— and that ends that conversation.
They’re careful not to touch on each other’s triggers, they don’t go to malls, all the wires in the apartment are superglued-and-then-duct-taped to the walls and floor and out of sight. However many months of individual and group therapy, psychiatrists, one sleep study to offset Charlie’s night terrors, and a speech therapist to help Ranboo’s issues from their injuries, they’re pretty good at it by now.
They rarely leave the place, rarely leave each other (and isn’t codependency fun?), their mirrors are covered up so Ranboo doesn’t have to see their own scarred face — missing left eye, hands that don’t quite work anymore, scars all over from crisscrossed wire in their system. The mirrors being covered up was their choice, not Charlie’s.
Charlie supposes that for the most part they get on just fine, at least until something new comes up.
When Ranboo started insisting things were green or blue or smelled like marshmallow fluff (“I— that is a steak, Ran.”), Charlie took it upon himself to call their neurologist and ask what the absolute fuck is happening to his best friend now. As if they haven’t both been through more than enough, Christ.
Charlie had barely listened through the call, admittedly, once they said traumatic brain injury, but he’d managed to catch synesthesia and they’re just adapting to a new language, one they can understand better.
That was weeks ago, and honestly? Charlie is getting fucking bomb at guessing what colors and smells go where and to what, even though he also understands it’s almost completely random association. Charlie’s just that fucking good, and yes, he will brag, thank you.
He and Ranboo sit together a couple times a week just so Charlie can ask what things are what, and so Ranboo can practice getting out both their synesthesia and work on getting their speech back up to par.
“What does… Not gonna lie, I kinda forgot what the orange was supposed to be,” Charlie looks around at the apartment. They should probably decorate more, he thinks, the mostly-plain white walls are going to drive them both Jack Nicholson In The Shining Insane. Ranboo used to like that movie. They don’t watch many horror films anymore. “So here’s a new one, we’ve never done this one. What is… what’s blue-black? Like a bruise?”
Ranboo’s face twists.
“Hetch.”
Charlie startles, feeling his heart jump into his fucking throat, out of his mouth and go thumping across the stained, carpeted floor.
“Fuck. I’m sorry.” Ranboo doesn’t move as Charlie goes to put a comforting hand on their shoulder, skin clammy through their t-shirt. Charlie’s pretty sure if Ranboo had both eyes still they’d be doing a real fucking impressive death glare towards him, but as it stands even with one eye they’re still pretty goddamned scary. “I didn’t mean to—“
“Everything has a color, right?” Ranboo’s voice sounds strained, and Charlie listens, winces as they struggle to clear their throat. “So does he. And… that. Blue-black-bruised-red. And… green.”
Charlie definitely doesn’t have to ask what the green is about, and here comes the fucking guilt as if he did anything wrong.
“Smells like popcorn.”
Charlie huffs indignantly, holding back a laugh because what the fuck? “It— your memories of… there smell like popcorn.”
“Yeah.” Ranboo sniffles. “Um, popcorn store. I think there was one?”
Charlie draws away from Ranboo, sitting back on his heels and gnawing at his lip. He should really buy some Chapstick, but he’s gonna lose it after two uses, anyways, and one day he’ll die a fourth time so who cares?
“But they’re not all memory triggered, right? Sometimes it’s just a… random thing.”
“Yeah,” Ranboo points, and Charlie follows the length of their arm, and then wrist, and then hand until he sees they’re pointing at their godawful cat clock, the black and white kind whose eyes move and creep Charlie the absolute fuck out when it’s two in the morning and he just wants water. He pointedly ignores how hard Ranboo’s entire arm is shaking with the strain of even doing this. “He’s saltwater when he chimes.”
They point to their television, mounted on the wall behind Charlie. It takes a second to get there, but Charlie is nothing if not patient when it comes to Ranboo. “The little Roku on noise is orange-green-yellow. That’s good.”
“Uh huh,” Charlie says, continuing to follow where Ranboo’s twisting around and pointing to— oh. To him. Alright. “Me?”
“Purple— um, like violet. And pink, sorta. Like salmon?”
“Oh my God,” Charlie says, keeping his voice completely solemn, “I am the world’s greatest fish.”
“Shut up!” Ranboo screeches, falling back a little with the force of their giggling (strained from their throat being crushed in that box, of course, but still the most beautiful thing Charlie’s ever heard), and then Charlie is joining in until they’re a collapsed pile of limbs and laughter.
“Okay, violet-pink what?” Charlie asks once they’re settled on the floor together, the giggles dissipating. “What else is that?”
“Nothing else,” Ranboo says, sticking Charlie in his place with a very serious look. “Just you. Um, like, your voice and stuff.”
“Okay,” Charlie shrugs. It’s weird that there’s no other association but Ranboo hasn’t been doing this association thing for so long, all things considered, and there’s so much they haven’t experienced and pinned a color, scent, sound to. “And it means…?”
Ranboo sniffles again, sounding a little weepy, but takes their mask off to smile at Charlie properly.
“Safe.”
Charlie stops for a minute, trying to work out in his head that Ranboo means him, and sure, they’ve been best friends for so long (the more part yet to be worked out, there are so many other things to worry about, but they both know it’s there). They’re plenty codependent. Not even Niki or Wilbur get the three in the morning phone calls Charlie does when Ranboo’s having a panic attack — but, well, he doesn’t get them either because he’s already right there next to them.
Still. Safe.
“Charlie? You’re spacing— oof.” Charlie promptly cuts off Ranboo by enveloping them in the biggest hug they’ve probably ever been given, and oh, that just makes Charlie kind of sad, so he holds them even tighter.
Charlie doesn’t have synesthesia and cannot associate things the way Ranboo can, but he does his best, imagining what it must be like and compartmentalizing in his brain: they smell clean, like soap and something floral; flowers; flowers are pink; pink is safe; Ranboo is safe. Their remaining eye is blue; blue like the ocean on a stormy day; saltwater; salt; white— this is harder than it looks. Maybe he can leave this to Ranboo instead.
“You’re safe too, y’know?” Charlie mumbles into the crook of their neck, and Ranboo takes a few seconds but they get their arms around Charlie all the same, fingers involuntarily twitching across his back.
“Pink. Pink, pink, pink.”
“This is pink? Safe?”
“Yeah. Um, also, you’re blushing, that’s pink. Literally.”
Charlie will yell at them later for that one, but for now he makes a noncommittal mm-hm noise and reaches behind Ranboo to the couch to grab the Roku remote.
They’ll fall asleep like that, half-cuddled with a half-watched romantic comedy on the television, the LED lights across the top of the walls glowing a very soft pink.