"If we were a rainbow, you would be the hot colors."
Papers shuffle like the rustling of dry leave under autumns' late-coming frost. A messy mop of white hair pokes out from a magazine, its wearer looking less than pleased with the declaration.
"I think it's the complete opposite," Emil refutes with a stern frown. Years of negative expressions left his otherwise flawless porcelain skin with lines along his cheeks in hard diagonal creases. "If you look at me and the way I look, I'd be the one with the cool colors." He pauses to check himself, his pale lavender eyes wandering aimlessly around the room. As the more sensitive one in their relationship, he often wonders about the things that come out of his very mouth. "By 'hot colors,' you mean red, orange, and yellow, right?"
"Right," Leon smiles.
Emil's thin, equally pale eyebrows fold together in a crease. "But that doesn't make sense. I look like the cooler one." Again he pauses as if embarrassed like a line read wrong in a play rehearsal.
Leon catches him before he says any more. "I know you enough that what you're saying isn't true. You're looking at things from the surface."
"The surface?" Emil echoes. His inability to catch on is amusing. Leon chuckles for a moment before noticing how flustered he becomes. It always annoys Emil when he cannot understand Leon.
"It's funny," Leon sighs, resting his chin on the palm of his hand, his wrist bent back as his elbow supports his entire upper body. "It's got more to do with your personality. It's showing through right now."
Emil does not understand. Not right away, at least. The more frustrated and flustered he becomes, the redder his cheeks grow. It is a shame there is not a mirror to be found in the room.
"You still don't get it?" Leon laughs.
"No," Emil finally admits.
Leon smiles by default. His expression gives off the impression that Emil has lost; it is a consolation prize for participating in his little game.
"That's okay." Leon is sure to be careful with his tone. The emphasis is not as hard as a father comforting his son; it is closer to the tone a friend would use when watching someone take second place—so close yet so far.