Red was the color of her hair. He had always found it revoltingly loud, and probably always would…but it screamed out in crowds of the mundane magnificently. It might as well have been singing. Red was the color of the strawberries she nibbled for snacks when she thought no one was looking. A dab of crimson always ended up on her nose, and he'd find a way to get it off. He got rather creative when it came to her strawberry stains.
Orange juice splashes on their robes were commonplace. They had all of two things in common; their love for orange juice and their tendency to spill it carelessly on themselves. It was odd, considering his careful upbringing, but in the same way predictable. Irony is something he had a soft spot for, and she knew it. They faced Irony everyday, leering in all its glory as the suicidal droplets of juice etched matching splotches on their clothes.
Yellow was too bright for him, but just bright enough for her. He loathed it so much even his hair seemed to protest the declarative color, stubbornly bleaching itself the frosty silver that matched his eyes. She used to quirk a brow at his distaste, from the Hufflpuffs' uniforms to the Quidditch hoops, and silently wondered how he got to be like that. But it didn't matter. It never really did.
Green eyes used to haunt her with spectral promises of desperately desired attention. He knew this. Every day he'd watch her as she tried to see past the glasses, aching for an unguarded blast of emerald. Sometimes it made him wonder why she'd still come to him, when he was the opposite of what she loved. But maybe that was the point. Green would give him a headache whenever he saw it, squirming into his brain and dyeing it curiously. What would it be like to have eyes with so much color?
Blue nights of unleashed anxiety and pain rushed out their mouth and into the other. The sky, tarnished navy, poured into the rooms they found conveniently empty to cast lingering velvet shadows on their foolish young faces. Neither questioned it. Neither wanted to. And neither had to.
Indigo stabs of ink were forced on waiting parchment after every encounter. She wrote of worry, of hope, and of maybe, one day, learning to melt her painful lust for him and mold something that resembled love out of it for someone else. Anyone else. He raged of lies, of deceit, and of strawberry stains blemishing his meticulous guise, frigid in its maliciousness and fiery in its passion for perfection. The pages reeked of betrayal.
They knew they shouldn't recognize these things of the other. They knew that it was wrong, that should they be found out they'd be shunned, and they certainly were aware that they harbored nothing but loathing when it came down to it. But buried beneath the layers of multicolored denial, these things didn't matter. Thoughts such as these simply made it all the more delicious.