There was always something calming about the color pink. His friends used to give him hell for it, asking him how he could ever hope to be manly when that was his favorite color. It should be something tough, like blue or green. The thought would always make him scoff. How can a color be tough or weak? Why should something be considered weak just because its seen as feminine?
Pink hadn't always had that effect on him, not until he was older. Then it was like he saw it everywhere and found it mesmerizing. It was like he saw it everywhere: the cherry blossom trees when they were in bloom, the first traces of the sunset across the sky. He would notice the slight tint of it on girls' faces as they spoke to him, and he found himself thinking of it as endearing. But only when it was accompanied by pink hair. The soft timber of her voice would put him in a trance, and he knew she could tell. It was like clockwork: the moment she noticed the effect she was having on him, she would get that tint to her cheeks. Then she would start to stutter, clearly flustered, causing the tint to grow more and more as she tried to change the subject.
Surely he didn't feel the same, that would be idiotic.
It wasn't until one day in class when someone asked him, "Why do you like the color pink so much," that she found herself listening in, trying to calm her heart as she hoped for an answer that would confirm she wasn't an idiot. That she didn't imagine the way he was nice to no one but her, that he would only allow her to get close. That he saw her as something more than a friend.
He looked at them as if they were stupid. "They remind me of something important to me."
Something. Something, not someone. She bit her lip against the tears that threatened to spill, about to run away when he felt an arm around her shoulders, leading her out of the classroom. She knew it was him, but refused to look at him. If she did she knew the tears would spill and she would be nothing but a crying mess.
They stopped and he made her face him, tilting her chin up so she would have to meet his eyes.
"You're upset by my answer, aren't you?" At the slight nod of her head he sighed, pulling her into an embrace. "You're so dense sometimes, you know that?"
"How? You said something, not someone," she mumbled weakly.
"Yeah, something on my favorite person. My favorite persons hair, the way it touches their shoulders. My favorite persons cheeks, which get a beautiful tint to them that I and I alone cause. And my favorite persons lips, that seem like they need to be kissed."
She giggled, wiping away the last tears on her face.
"Well, kiss them then."
