It wasn't really gray, but black and white threads intertwined. Wrath fingered the tattered knot at one end of the blanket, and rolled the yarn between his fingers, following them back to the base, where they were tied and knitted into a greater design. He hadn't noticed the color before, but was mesmerised by it now; the dependency and symbiance of black against white, white against black. They leaned, fused against eachother in a dependent lock, strong when united, and simply flimsy threads when the other was yanked away. It was perfect balance, just the way Al was perfectly shaped against him, beneath the same blanket, Wrath's arms encircling him, Al's fingers wrapped around a warm mug of tea. They didn't need to speak, but Al looked back and smiled, and Wrath kissed his neck, knowing that he couldn't be whole any other way but like this.
After all, without Al, never would have thought to take up the passtime of sitting on the floor, just watching the stars out the window.