He used to dream in yellow. Yellow like a miniature sun.

Then he started dreaming in blue, instead.

It was a blue like a knife-edged summer sky.

He chased the blue. The yellow had always chased him.

Sometimes he secretly hoped that he would never catch hold of the blue. It might disappear.

Jiroh blinked open his eyes when a soft voice murmured his name in his ear, and stared into the same blade-sharp blue he dreamed of.

“Did I fall asleep?” he asked with a yawn.

Fuji smiled softly. “Yes,” he said. “What do you dream of, Jiroh?”

“Blue.”