# Tint Your Soul Citrine

Title: Tint Your Soul Citrine
Status: Complete
Characters: Anon, Fang,
Rating:
Classification: One Shot
Author: P.M.
​
>Home sweet home
>Or it will be, eventually
>What lies before Anon bears a striking resemblance to the old run-down apartment he used to occupy
>At first glance, the place is a shave away from being declared condemned. It certainly was before its previous owners were evicted, having gutted the house as they left
>At least they left the insulation
>The bare wooden studs of the unfinished basement display new pipes and wiring, intertwining themselves with what could be salvaged from the old construction
>The bank handling the foreclosure offered to put a hold on the house until the basement was finished, but the added cost was too high for the new homeowners
>He already had to get the Aaran's to cosign on the mortgage. The rhinorexes handling the transaction were struggling to hold back their laughter as Anon's credit score rolled in
>Years of bad decisions rearing their ugly heads at last. Those JPEGs were not worth it in the slightest
>The housing market wouldn't tolerate a delayed decision. It was either now, or in 10 years. Now was the prudent choice, if a little stressful
>Between discharging his debt and his long-term investments, an austere living was in the forecast. Nothing he hadn't done before
>Nonetheless, Anon felt like he was signing his own execution papers when he penned his signature for the mortgage
>The large talon-gouged grooves the pen received when Ripley signed the agreement chilled Anon's blood, an image of those talons buried in his flesh burning into his mind
>The way the patriarch looked at him, the sharp edges of the ruined pen digging into Anon's fingers as he wrote, only amplified that feeling
>If both Fang and Samantha weren't sitting between them, Anon is certain he'd have a permanent imprint of ptero claws in his shoulder
>A phantom pain strikes him at the thought of it. Ripley is well within driving distance to this place. He can even walk here on his days off
>Likely half the reason he agreed to cosign in the first place
>At least the home inspector assured everyone that the house is structurally sound, complete with an absence of asbestos and lead paint
>Anon can't deal with both Ripley and the house trying to kill him at the same time
​
>The scratching of a pen startles Anon out of his thoughts
>Fang stands beside him, marking off the list in her hand as she inspects what Anon picked up
>Paintbrushes, paint rollers, caulking tubes and the guns they slot into, sandpaper, drywall patch...
>The list goes on and on. All Anon really cares about is her smile and nod of approval as she strikes paint off from the list
>He really needed that, especially after going back on his commitment to never touch a paintbrush again. He can still taste the bitter solvents from that naval paint
>There's plenty of work to do before they use the paint. Gives him time to get his demons under control
>When she sent him off with the paint swatches, there was no mention of what sheens the paint should be
>He didn't even know paint had sheens. He only applied the naval paint he was given, not caring about anything written on the label
>Maybe that's why he had to keep redoing those sections all the time
>The receptionist was very patient, listening to everything Anon had to say while giving out well informed suggestions
>Semigloss for here, satin for there, eggshell everywhere else
>Must have to provide that advice a lot, considering how many do-it-yourself commercials plaster themselves on television these days
>Anon did receive a warning that the chosen colours would need more coats to properly cover the old paint, but how hard could that be?
>All those tutorials on YouSnoot made it look easy enough, combined with what he remembers
>The colours inside those cans weren't Anon's first choice, but he warmed up to them when Fang justified her reasoning
>Who would want to come back from a bad day at work only to be greeted by a house as grey as they feel?
>The wet autumn weather decided for them that the inside of the house would be the first thing to tackle
>The sun scrapes at the horizon when Anon arrives home from work anyway, and paint doesn't apply well in the wet and cold environment
>Hiring professionals for the job is off the table. After the down payment, the only reasonable option left for the renovation is doing it themselves
>After a few raises in his salary and a promotion or two, Anon figures he'll have some financial breathing room
>Until then, the only thing on his mind is getting the inside of the home looking somewhat presentable for the holidays
>As it stands now, anyone coming over is going to assume that he's dealing out carfe on the side. Reed may be able to appreciate it, but no-one else will
>The irony of having a housewarming party outside the house it's meant to celebrate doesn't float well with Anon either
​
"Come on dweeb. The house won't paint itself."
>A friendly smile mirrored by Fang's eyes greets Anon, having grabbed the tools she needs for the day
>A plastic tarp lays in the garage, containing a variety of bought and borrowed equipment. Anon still can't believe Ripley loaned out that much
>Or that he had that much in the first place. He does remember Fang mentioning something years ago about a pirate princess needing a boat however
>Anon sounds out a short laugh, grabbing the tub of premixed drywall patch. He follows Fang out from the garage and up the stairs to the first room on the agenda
>A protective covering on the floor made of tan cloth comes into view as Anon rounds the corner
>Some of Ripley's equipment is already in place. Two stepladders and some work lights stand in the center of the room waiting to be used
>Anon takes one of the work lights, plugging it in and aiming its bright beam parallel to the wall
>Shadows of nearly imperceivable defects leap out, scared out of hiding by burning luminescence
>Fang takes the other light, following his lead as she aims it down another wall section for her own work
>Soft music from a stereo and smalltalk fills the air between the two as flexible knives apply spackling onto the various imperfections dotting the walls
>Anon is almost scared out of his wits when Fang leans precariously over her ladder, stretching out to get at one finicky defect
>Her own wings balance her, acting as a counterweight to her movements. It calms him, to see them so full, to be reminded of how far she's come
>A pebble of drywall patch falls off her knife during the maneuver, the tanned cloth below fulfilling its purpose as it intercepts it
>He'd have to take the cloth outside and shake it out later. No point in having a floor covering if you drag the dirt and grime on it elsewhere
>Sunlight from the windows shifts as they move room to room, patching up the walls as they go, staining their old worn-out clothing that they sacrificed for the task
>The clothing that had marked their lowest times was perfect for the occasion, giving them a noble purpose before finally laying them to rest in a landfill
>The tinge of melancholy that needled its way into Anon's heart when he saw Fang in that baggy top lessened when his eyes caught her face
>Her shoulder length hair cascading down, the absence of grey eyeshadow, her vibrant citrine irises, and a smile that means the world to him
>She's been really fussy over his opinion of her hair lately, whether he wants to see it long again or if he likes it the way it is
>She may not like his indecisiveness on the matter, but she cannot disagree with his reasons. She is Fang, and Anon will love her just the same
>An amused hum leaves Anon. One of the few times in his life where his baldness is a boon: he has no hair for flecks of paint to get stuck in
>But Fang? Fang is another story
>Between her wings, elbow feathers, and hair, there's plenty of frustration to be had in removing dried paint spatter
>...He should get her some extra shampoo the next time he's out shopping
​
>Anon's spine protests as he rises, signaling the end of today's work
>Fang had tagged out a few minutes earlier, almost stumbling over the cloth sheeting as she ambled towards the kitchen to reheat some food for the two of them
>A few rooms had been worked through, the spots of drying compound making the wall look like the pelt of an ill leopard
>He'll have to go back in to sand it later, after the rest of the rooms have been patched up
>Anon scrapes the leftover spackle back into its container, ready for use tomorrow
>The sounds and smells of the microwave reheating leftovers drew Anon out of the room towards the kitchen
>Samantha had reveled the opportunity to cook for more than just herself and her husband again
>With both her children absent from her home, her cookbooks and practiced techniques of feeding 4 hungry ptero mouths for almost two decades had been difficult to change
>Her old routine of dropping by their old apartment from time to time, delivering home cooked meals and bags of extra food, carried forward to their new home
>Anon may not match a ptero's appetite, but that's alright. More for his better half
>He spots Fang as he enters the kitchen, giving her a slight surprise as he leans over and lightly kisses her snout on his way to the sink
>Not to be outdone, she waits until Anon lathers his hands with soap before she makes her move
>She swoops in, wrapping her arms around his torso as her wings follow suit and encase him in a feather cocoon
>The aching soreness in Anon's spine disappears with the pressure of the ptero squeezing him from behind
>Through what little light remains, Anon can make out her arms, her hands. The redone tattoo blossoming out on her right hand, and a blank canvas on her left
>One day soon, he's going to colour that canvas with a ring
>A soft hum emanates from Fang as she leans further into him, clutching tighter
>Did he say that out loud? He knows he hasn't been able to keep that under wraps, but she's never commented on it
>Maybe she's just being polite, or maybe she's waiting to see it before she truly believes it
>He really needs to go all out on the proposal to surprise her at this point. Just one major hurdle left to solve before he can plan that out
>"C'mon Fang. I can't wash my hands if I can't see them."
>Fang relents slightly, drawing her wings back just enough for Anon's view of the sink to return
>The microwave sounds out as the last of the soap spirals down the drain, beckoning her to its contents
>She holds on a little longer, giving one last squeeze before moving for the microwave
>Dinosaur nuggets slathered in barbecue sauce is just what the two of them need right now
​
>Before Anon knew it, he had gotten himself into a routine
>Wake up, work, return home, work some more, eat, clean up, sleep. He hadn't expected it to be so tiring
>The youthful energy that let him sacrifice sleep at a whim is gone, lost to time
>The room he's currently in is slated to be turned into his man-cave, at least until the basement is finished
>That is assuming, however, that he can fit the couch through the narrow hallway leading into it
>If he marks up the wall while moving it, so help him Raptor Jesus, someone or something is going to pay
>Probably him. Hopefully, they'll have some paint left over for the odd scuff or repair
>This room in particular has had a rough time. Anon is certain that there are more patches on the walls than there is actual wall
>Dull grey dust billows around the room, their feet kicking up at the piles of sanded drywall compound
>A fine film of it is coating absolutely everything. The floor, the windowsill, the boxes filled with items yet to be unpacked, and even the light fixture above them
>Anon can only be thankful that the respirators Fang had him pick up stop all that crap from entering their lungs
>Smoking for years had already done a number on them. They don't need anything else risking a premature departure
>She does look rather silly, with how the mask stretches across her snout. The hardware store has an entire aisle dedicated to the masks, various styles and fits sorted by species
>A hearty laugh had escaped him when they found out that large was the only size that would properly fit her
>His skin and clothes are going to need some quality time in the shower and washing machine. The dust had anchored itself quite effectively on both him and Fang
>He can feel the moisture in his skin getting leeched out by the powder as it adheres to him
>Anon stretches upwards, popping his spine back into a position more fitting of a modern human. Only Principal Spears could pull off the caveman hunch with any grace
>A quick glance over towards Fang reveals she's almost finished too. A single patch remains with Fang expertly flattening it smooth to the wall
>He's going to need to buy another stack of sandpaper soon. The drywall patch works both ways, filling in the valleys of the sandpaper, quickly rendering it useless
>Fang looks to have suffered the same fate as Anon, having adopted a similar layer of dust. Anon would never have guessed her clothes were black by how grey they appear now
>That extra shampoo he picked up has finally been paying its dividends, mixing in with the comforting scent of Fang as he drifted off to sleep the past week
>Tonight appears to be reaching the same conclusion, as she finishes sanding and turns around to Anon
​
>She really is monochromatic now. A spark of humour hits Anon: she would make for quite the feather duster, wouldn't she?
>He'll just wait until... until
>His eyes glaze over at the sight, his body frozen in place
>The grey coating of drywall dust blends onto her skin, hiding away her age, her scars, her dark tattoos
>The image pierces into Anon's heart, his soul, as he looks at someone who is alien to him, yet completely unforgettable
>A ptero that looks like she never had her heart broken by him, entirely unblemished by the ravages of time
>Only her shorter hair and lack of makeup form cracks in the illusion
>The content smile adorning Fang's face molds itself into confusion and then worried concern as she looks over the petrified human
>"Anon? Are you alright?"
>His words are caught in his throat, unwilling to let themselves be heard
>Clods of dust shed off Fang as she makes her way over towards Anon, exposing the troubled history engraved on her skin once more
>The mirage shattered, motion returns to Anon's body, as he blinks away his emotions, his memories
>He tries to sound out that he's fine, but it comes out weak, watery. Fang doesn't believe him in the slightest
>Half of him pleads to the heavens for Fang to just accept it and let the day continue, as if nothing had happened
>The other half is utterly grateful that she understands him so well, that she wouldn't accept such an anemic lie
>Fang gently takes his hand in hers as she suggests they take the rest of the day off to give them some time to themselves. They've done enough for today. There's always tomorrow
>The dust can be vacuumed later, after a hot shower removes the grime from their bodies
>The remaining daylight hours are spent huddled together on a couch, hot drinks and small snacks within arm's reach
>A warm blanket binds the two together as the soft glow and quiet sounds from a TV propped up on boxes immerses them in a nature documentary
>Who knew there are birds that dive into the ocean as if spearfishing for prey? They look like they're flying underwater
>Anon wonders if Fang can do something similar. Maybe he should find an indoor pool for the both of them one day
>A light snore vibrates from beside him, announcing Fang's departure from the waking world
​
>It's still too early for Anon to sleep. The restless thoughts that he was distracted from have returned, swirling around in his head
>The TV screen winks off at the remote's command, plunging the room into darkness and his thoughts into limelight
>She looked just like she did in high school, before everything went so horribly wrong. How different would their lives be if he didn't fuck up?
>All the possibilities and speculations eat away at him
>What if he was stronger, smarter, more compassionate? What if he was the man that Principal Spears and Moe had seen all that time ago?
>What if it didn't work out with Fang anyway? With her talent, she might have decided that Anon really was one of those weeds, holding her back, stunting her dreams
>What if the life he has now is the best outcome? That all the hardships they endured actually meant something?
>Are they even going to finish painting on time? It's been weeks now and no paint has made it onto the walls
>What if he is still dreaming, ready to wake up on that rusted hellhole of a vessel, paint brush in hand?
>Careful to not wake Fang, Anon clutches her tighter still, as if he's inside a dream that's about to end
>A dream he is desperately trying to pull her from, into a world that is real
>The dreaming ptero answers back, the soft feeling of Fang's embrace tightening against him, anchoring his mind back to reality
>All his fearful thoughts drain out of him, the serenity of silence finally gracing his mind
>Anon looks down at her, the streetlamps outside beaming their amber light onto the two of them, his breathing stilled as he listens
>Is she awake?
>Only her soft snores greet his ears, her chest rising and falling against his
>The answer to his question will have to wait until morning. Life experience has taught him the risks of disturbing sleeping pteros
>For now, sleep is the best option to him, especially with the love of his life entwined with him
>Tomorrow... tomorrow they'll start painting