Silent World
Zelos didn't like the color white.
It was plain. It was bland. And it was the color of snow.
It's pure—unlike your foul mouth, Sheena had once said, catching silver on her fingertips, head tilted back so it would cling to her dark lashes—and Zelos had paused, watching the flakes fall overhead like tattered pillows, dusting powder on the trees and painting her exposed skin a lovely shade of peaches and cream.
It clumped in his thick locks—shaded his clothes—melted on the tip of his nose.
On her, it actually looked like snow—not snow pretending to be something it wasn't.