You Must Be the One

Pink -Feminity 1/2

Pink, it's my new obsession
Pink, it's not even a question
Pink on the lips of your lover
'Cause pink is the love you discover

-Pink, Areosmith

AU

"I'm gonna change."

"Why? You look hot. Don't."

"I look stupid."

"Because "real men" don't wear pink?"

Bradley knows she's only teasing; he doesn't subscribe to gender norms like that, but he chuckles.

"Because it's definitely not my color. I have a salmon shirt. That counts, right?"

Stefani shakes her head. "No, it doesn't. It's a pink party, Bradley. Salmon isn't pink. Neither is vermillion or chartreuse or burgundy or any of the 300 other colors you tried to suggest. Look, if you didn't want to come with me tonight, you could've just said so. I wouldn't have been offended. I know you hate these things...I only asked because I really didn't want to go alone and you're my best friend. But if you wanna stay put, I get it."

No one can lay a guilt trip better than her. Maybe it's because he knows her so well, maybe it's because she's well aware that he isn't going to say no to her, not ever.

"Don't start that. Of course I'll go. You asked and I said yes, end of story." 

He also doesn't say aloud that he's worried about her. Breaking off an engagement  is a big deal and even though she put up a strong front, he could plainly see how shattered she was by the whole thing. 

"Well, I appreciate it," her voice considerably softens. "And I appreciate you, B. I know I give you grief but the fact you put up with me...it means a lot."

"I love you, kid, you know that."

Their friendship, as unlikely as it was, meant the world to him. She always said they found one another at a time where they must've needed a friend the most and he can't help but believe that to be the truth.

"I love you, too. What do I always say? You're the only man in my life, besides my father, that I trust completely."

She pecks his cheek, the delicate scent of her perfume lingering. He knows it'll end up clinging to the collar of his shirt and later, when he least expects it, he'll smell it and be instantly reminded of her. It happens all the time when she stays over his place; the blonde strands on his pillow cases, how everything there will carry her scent long after she leaves.

She's in her robe now, her face make up free, and looking at her, he gets this little pang. It's become a more frequent occurrence these days and it scares the hell out of him in ways he couldn't explain if he tried.

"I'm gonna go get ready. I won't be long, promise. Make yourself at home."

Her apartment is so her. That's the only way he can describe it. The walls are adorned with pictures of the city she'd grown up in, framed posters of the actors and musicians she admired, bold, bright colors. There was always music playing somewhere and she was always singing, whether it was a showtune or a rock song and when her roommate, Bobby, was around, noise and laughter, too, a gentle ribbing of one another. He felt at ease there and that was saying something.

As he sits on the emerald green sofa, he can hear the not so faint sounds of "Let's Do It (Let's Fall in Love)." She's curling her hair, he knows. It's jazz when she's curling her hair, hard rock when she's straighting it, punk when she decides to wear a wig.

If he stops to think about it, the way he's picked up on the tiny idiosyncrasies, all of her habits over the years is almost scary. He probably knows more about her than any of the women he's ever dated, his ex-wife included.