It got to the point that if you asked Shion the color of Nezumi's eyes, he would not say grey like everyone else. He would not say silver, either. Nor slate, nor fog, nor coal, nor timberwolf or cloudy or shadow or dust or any color or image at all, because Shion knew no single word could explain the color of Nezumi's beautiful eyes.
Nezumi's eyes were not a "color", but a masterpiece all their own.
More than anything, they were the color of passion. The color of not the storms of the typhoon, but the displeasure of nature as it threw its tantrum of gusting winds and flooding rains. Not of the gutters as they overflowed, but of the power of doing so, and the adrenaline that must have been mixed in with the dirty water rushing away from an ugly city. Passion, screaming out in anger, into the anger. Passion, the momentary freedom of cutting loose from choking binds and finally feeling something other than monotony, which was certainly grey and not at all the color of Nezumi's eyes.
Excitement. Excitement in the face of danger, the face of a stranger, the face of the oh-so precious unknown and unexperienced but soon to be known and experienced. Soon to be remembered, but in a fog, because the color of excitement is often clouded by the mists of surrealism. Importance cherished, details forgotten. Excitement, with a tinge of fear because there was a boy who did not belong, something foreign, someone, somebody, yes, indeed it was a foreign body precisely, but the addicting kind that one not only cannot kick out but oh-so quickly begins to crave beyond belief. Excitement, addiction, and a break in the chain of all that has ever been known to little Shion, twelve years old, who happened to be lost in a pair of eyes and a whole new life.
The color of connection. Connection of skin to skin and nerves to brain and something else, something deeper. Shion couldn't explain it. He couldn't begin to describe it, yet there it was and it was reflected in the clouded shining beneath dark, dripping bangs. The color of back and forth. The color of this new feeling, this buzz in his veins, this way his head blurs yet his eyes stayed clear and his smile bright and brilliant as he sewed a wound and perhaps laid plans for stitching together the pieces of a heart.
Fear and questioning and the empty space where regret should have been, he knew it should have, and yet it wasn't. The color of memories when the night has passed. The color of having your life changed in an instant. Long nights spent remembering, reliving over and over. Repetition. Yearning. Doubt, denial, anxiety. A color nearly forgotten as years pass and so does hope to ever see such a brilliant color again.
It was the color of the excellence of a world that has come entirely crashing down around you. It was the color of rushing back into something Shion wished hd never ended. It was the color of happy chaos. He was back, Nezumi was back, and though that color flooded their every interaction, in a way, the color had returned to Shion's life. The hope, the rush, the feeling that each breath is important and things are finally picking up and ennui will not be an issue again for a long, long time.
And yet... And yet it was the color of inexplicable safety, and most likely misplaced calm. Trust, belonging. It looked like the warmth within Shion though the outside grew colder, and the gentle throb of Nezumi's growing heart beneath Shion's palm. The soft feeling of his lips and the gentle wave of his hair. The sweetness of his singing voice and the elegance of his quotes and the security if his guarantees and the firmness of his curses and threats. It was all Shion saw when he woke up to pitch black and the sound of gentle breaths. The color of home.
Trial, confusion. Testing. Pushing. Trying. That edgy color and its subtle inconsistency from itself, engulfing Shion he tried to leave, and again as trucks carried him off beside Nezumi. The turning of the faces under the spell of a tune. The glint of the coins flipped by the gods deciding their fate, the ding of the dies rolled by chance, sharp scratch of shields and barricades of trust as they scrape bitterly against the arrows and swords and knives of life and challenge and difficulty and fear and pain. Threatening and threatened. A contradicting color.
It was not the color of the incident inside moondrop anymore than it was the faint shadow of Shion's frown as he killed a man. It was not the color of maybe mistakes, maybe serious and plaguing regrets. It was not the color of dying, nor of being saved, nor of Safu or of Nezumi's frightened tears. That was all the reflection of No. 6 against their lives. it was not their loves themselves, and it was not this color.
But this color shone brightly from every direction as Nezumi set a silent promise upon Shion's lips, not dulling as he walked away. The color of promise, the color of caring, the color of loyalty. Returning of trust, reciprocated feelings, shared intimacy. Bonds, swears, links which transcend the ordinary as this color always has. The color of I will come back. The color of this is not over. The color of I love you.
Nezumi's eyes were the color left in Shion's heart, the sensation he felt on the back of his neck when wide eyes asked him what his other daddy looked like because he still hadn't come home. And they were not the color of the waiting, but of the imaginary scene ever running through Shion's mind of when long legs and dirty microfiber and those two, beautiful eyes themselves would finally walk in the door.