A/N-My first Vampire Knight entry, though definitely not my first piece of fiction (or fan fiction). This is, however, my first semi-drabble, since I'm usually very long-winded.

Warning: Implied sexual situations

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters mentioned below; I merely manipulate them for my selfish pleasure

Carmine

Everything about him is beautiful in red.

Under the shade of immense trees, he likes to watch him eat apples from the corner of his eye. Reflected against the glossy surface, his face is painted in shades of scarlet. His graceful, long fingers twirl the fruit in his palm, nails dig briefly through the skin, into the flesh, and that mouth digs in with the professional aptitude of a born predator. Everything is beautiful, and he can barely restrain himself from taking a bite.

Alabaster skin catches the sunset as if it is an empty canvas. An immense spectrum of scarlet bleeds across his features, and for a moment he glows, a creature of life and fire. On top of the school buildings, one may mistake him for a piece of art. He watches, and wishes security could be less strict; touching is always prohibited.

Sometimes when he drinks his wine he does the most delicious things with his tongue. Tracing the rim, dipping into the maroon pool, the glass clinks briefly against his teeth. His brown eyes catch red in the light, naturally seductive, briefly unaware, looking elsewhere, distantly. His pink tongue (such a lovely blend of red and white) darts after a stray drop, travels the slopes of his full lips, and flicks against his fangs, stained red.

The red tie around his neck, pulled tight, held loose.

She brushes the red rose against his cheek (a gift from him, his symbol, soverylikehim), and the contrast is breathtaking. It moves down the slope of his face in soft strokes, under his chin, across his throat. Somehow he can hear the quiet sigh escaping his lips, can see the way his fingers grasp her hand. He presses a kiss upon her knuckles, looks at her with earnest love in those brown-red eyes, overhung with thick lashes.

Whoever said that envy is the green monster was wrong. Rampaging through his heart, the beast is nothing short of the deepest red he's ever known.

His cheeks burn red faintly as she turns away. His fists unclench (nail tips touched scarlet, lickable, seductive, soverygood) and he walks the other direction, back straight, tall, and regal. Almost as if he wasn't bleeding, except for his flickering eyes (looking everywhere, watching forever for scavengers after the temporarily weak), forbiddingly frightened and just a little shattered. He disappears and he doesn't follow, and when he returns he pretends he can't see those lovely eyes, red-rimmed, bloodshot.

Blood crawls down his wrists and makes red lakes on his wooden floor. Against the ground his face is the color of snow. With so much red outside of him, on the ground, around him and lorditsreallyeverywhere, he seems fragile, spun from glass. He thinks one more push and he'll shatter. He hates whoever it was that touched such fine art with such brutal hands, resentment tinged crimson. Then the knife clatters from those elegant, slick fingers, wicked blade and handle sticky with blood. The world collapses for a second, a brief apocalypse when the sun stops and everything goes cold. Red consumes his vision.

He wakes with a start, eyes wide and faintly glossy. They glow in the darkness, casting a quiet red light on his high cheekbones, his delicate countenance. A fleeting moment passes when that willowy body trembles, when those pianist fingers trace softly at the bandages around his wrists. And then he presses his face into his hands, and his rescuer feels the dull red cling of shame pass through that shaky frame. He lays his hand slowly onto his bare shoulder, and patiently waits for the soft, porcelain flesh to stop quivering.

He punches him across his velvet-soft face and the red bruise blossoms and withers in a single breath. The act leaves no satisfaction. He finds himself still craving for something, unsure of what but anxious for whatever it is he unknowingly wants. He turns to face him, face flushed red (embarrassed, angry, perhaps ashamed, hecan'ttell,notreally), and that's all it takes for things to come together. Then his hands are grasping desperately at wavy, dark brown locks, and his lips press hard against his. He bites down (not hard, exactly) and tastes the tang of scarlet blood.

In the red-hot throes of passion, he looks gorgeous against the cerise, silk sheets of his bed. Straining up and against him, the lithe body beneath him calls to be played. Leaving such an instrument without a musician seems, in that moment, synonymous to sin, and he runs eager hands up and down the pliant form. Pressing down on him, coaxing with musician's hands, he plucks out a sensual, carmine tune. The world itself seems to cry out for more, and when he is finished, an encore is soon to follow, the fall of red velvet curtains a distant future.

Zero brushes his lips briefly over the pureblood's red lips before pulling Kaname closer, tugging the cerise comforter and sheets over them. Asleep, Kaname's face seems exceedingly gentle, free of lacquered masks and touched with the smallest of smiles. He looks beautiful, surrounded by so much red.

A/N-Shortest thing I've ever written, and like a loser, I am proud. I tried for really abstract here, and for the most part like what happened, even though I felt slightly detached while writing it, haha. I just sort of went with what naturally happened, I guess.