Around her, he is white- bright naivete and eagerness, his feelings for her overwhelming, like a great shining light that could blind you if you looked too close. He was garish and far too forward, but above all else, startlingly pure in his expressions- an obsessive and youthful love.
At all other times, he is anything but white. Gray is his color- a cold, calculating shade. He never shows affection to another, nor does he ever feel the need to. He prizes efficiency and will easily shoot whoever gets in the way of getting his work over with, or even for simply being an annoyance.
He never shows this side to her- it's always directed to someone else, even if she bears witness to it, and he'll always snap right back to her with a smile, acting as if nothing ever happened.
She can't know if she loves it or hates it.
At first, there wasn't a doubt in her mind that she hated it all- every expression of his misplaced (in her mind, at least) affections made her head ache trying to justify it all. She couldn't understand him, not in the least- the way he smiled at her, treated her like a treasured thing, when they knew so little of each other- maddeningly, the rabbit claimed to love her from the start, despite it all.
She felt sick to her stomach as he started to grow on her. He was like a leech- surely, that was it. This wasn't love, she felt. This couldn't be. He couldn't love her.
The ways he would show it were subtle, and yet so profoundly telling- the more she learned of him, the more his actions toward her shocked her. He was so gentle, so expressive, and so willing to bend to her every whim- well, not precisely her every whim, per se, but most of them. There was no one he treated similar to the way he treated her. She was the only one.
It made her sick to think about that, and made her sicker still when she started to enjoy it.
He was what she needed him to be, and oftentimes more- whether that was a good or a bad thing, the Outsider didn't know.
All she knew was that he was desperate for her. Only her. Was this what she wanted? Her father had loved her mother in much the same way, she thought, so perhaps, in a twisted way, that kind of love was what she wanted- she felt wrong for it.
When he would gently stroke her cheek, speaking kind words with saccharine-sweet soft tones, she wanted to delude herself into thinking that his words were nothing but lies, but she couldn't convince herself to. How could she, when she came to knew him better?
He was white around her, and no one else. She knew this, and perhaps all too well. It made her feel conflicted, accepting this twisted love, knowing that this shouldn't- no, that this couldn't be. He could do so much better, she felt, and he should have. But he didn't.
When his lips pressed against hers, soft yet incessant, self-depriciative thought fled, and that gentle, familiar white filled her mind, even when he would greedily take in everything he could- he would touch her, speak to her, do anything to know she was his- like she was the only thing in the world he wanted.
His love for her was white, and purely so.
His color was bright, pure, and nostalgic in ways she couldn't explain,and the more she came to knew him, the more willing she was to lose herself in his blinding light.
And he was always more than willing to accept her.