[There are no better friends than those forged through honest and often heated argument - Bertrand Russell]
They could tell you a lot about each other, and have plenty more to spare.
He could express to you his incredulity of how anyone with that stature could make so much noise.
She could tell you how much of an utter jackass he can be.
They can both pull every insult under the sun about each other and still find more.
You can learn a lot from it, too. In one session of word abuse you can be sure to appreciate all the words synonymous with the single word 'idiot'.
He can tell you that at some point or another his spleen will explode with the next kidney jab, so he'd better attempt to watch what he says next.
She can tell you how exasperated she can be at how a single person can be this foolhardy.
Duties would go along at a much smoother rate if they didn't constantly try to drive the other's blood pressure to the boiling point.
He can tell you how much she nags about what he should have done, how he could have corrected that, how he could've prevented all those injuries that she now has to patch up because of his stupidity. He's not a fan of others having to correct him, especially if they are things that he knows he could have prevented.
She can tell you how green he can still be, running into a fight with his heart on his sleeve. It makes it all the easier for him to get run through. She doesn't like how he goes about his battles...
Even so...
They can tell you about times of truces.
He can tell you how she enjoys sitting perched on his windowsill, up on a tree limb, or crouched on the roof gazing up at the sky or else at the people passing by below her. It was a bit of a concern to him at first but he soon began to accept the oddity of her actions. Standing on top of a world that moved and changed in its straightforward progression was an eyeful to her, she who came from a world where everything stands still. She can be above the world with the help of high places when she can never be by herself.
He can tell you how she enjoys her tea with honey, a taste she adopted in the silent halls of her brother's home, sipping daintily and breathing in the aroma like the well-trained noble she has been brought up to be, before turning to her drawings with childlike zeal, like the Rukongai brat she is.
He can tell you about the battles she fights, about her blade cutting white currents through the air, followed by a single satin streamer of white, dancing as she paints the skies with ice, beautiful and dangerous. How she holds herself high in battle, an icy force to be reckoned with, eyes set to kill with a noble grace. To him, she is more of a woman of high birth in the thick of bloodshed than she is following by her brother's limitations. She is, without a doubt in his mind, a woman of war.
She can tell you about the rare times when he opens himself up for few to see, his surly glower morphing into a mischievous grin suitable on none but a child, but looking right at home on his face like it's always belonged there. His smiles make her smile, for their rarity mostly, perhaps a bit for the warmth he lets escape from his well-built walls she knows have the transparency of a spider's web to a chosen few.
She can tell you that he enjoys his Shakespeare with a side of milk chocolate. It's a thought that seemed near unimaginable when she first caught him in the act of devouring the Bard's words, piece by piece, like the bar of sweets he had resting beside his bed. He had a soft spot for the written words, line after line of tragedies and comedies. Perhaps he found some parallel between his life and those playrights, for he too found that greatness had been thrust upon him.
She can tell you about the battles he fights, his blade slicing red tinged black crescent banners through the air that have become his unmistakable calling card through the chaos of battle while he himself is a blurred shadow. He is more of the intangible phantom than any of them, the long dead guardians of souls, ducking under the sword swings of enemies with ease, almost without the fear of death. The irony of it practically sings with the defiance of his existence, the living among the dead. He runs into battle with his heart on his tattered black sleeve and the standard of his pale inner demon, grinning Death's grin on his face. Despite his misgivings at the start of this all, as he signed his life away with her sword in his heart, that there is without a doubt in his or her mind that he was born for this world.
They can tell you a lot about each other, and have plenty more to spare.