Shades of pink color his vision.

snow, skin, shirt.

One of these things just doesn't belong --

snow.

Yes, snow, this he knows. Pink? A moment, then, oh my god. Someone is screaming (he can barely hear it) screaming. It must be Toby. And this, this must be his blood. Everywhere. Red because of oxygen, blue in his veins. Pink in the snow.

He's sprung a leak. Tight throat, lungs that can't expand. Constricting. Deep breath, he thinks, and begins to gag.

Toby is screaming. He's leaking pink.

Hates pink. He's relieved when black slides in, carefully. Soothing.

(later)

Blue stitches on a hand. On a head. His. He's been precisely sewn back together. "We were racing," he hears. Silver bikes, white snow. (pink?) His skin is red where he fell apart, blue where he's back together. Runs his finger along the blue threads, amazed at the delicate spacing, the intricate design.

(remembering)

Swallowed by blue, he was, once. Occupational hazards, his father says, but he isn't, wasn't a fisherman. Later he realizes he didn't mean Hawkeye.

Suffocated by blue, he was, almost. Over the edge of something, and then. Fish, there were fish. He did this often. But then. Something? All he can see is blue.

(now)

"His fishing pole broke," he hears. Toby. It was the creek, it was the fish. He liked the flash of scales, the movement of the line. Stringing them up, such a prize, such a catch. You'd have to be proud. But that was blue, only blue. And this was Toby, not -- this was pink. Red and blood, fish and bikes. This time they never made it to the creek.

This was after.

"How do you feel?"

Pink. No, you can't feel pink. It must be something else. He wants someone to laugh. Pink isn't funny, it's all he can see.

"Okay," he says. His father smiles. Doesn't laugh. Concussion, accident, have to be more careful. He nods. Nodding. He can't think of anything to say.

It's a noble profession, his father said, and named him after a fictional Indian. There is never much of a question. He doesn't like things that fall apart. He knows what he'll become, knows he'll be good at it. He doesn't know where Korea is.

"Drink this," amber, brown, comforting, but his nose wrinkles at the strong scent of alcohol. "It's just brandy," he says, "it will make everything focus." It burns, his throat, his stomach, all the way down. He understands the digestive system, now, coughing. His father laughs, closer, loudly. Blinks, and pink is fading. He's long forgotten blue.

The glass is heavy. Thick. Reassures him. He clutches it with both hands. Toby says goodbye. "Don't worry, you're still gorgeous." Hawk smiles and is afraid to look in the mirror. Forgets to say thank you.

Hand on his shoulder. "Go ahead," he says, older, wiser, "finish it up. You'll be back to new in no time at all."

He hates pink.

So he does.