{{user}} had guessed Hizashi’s favourite colour on the first try. They’d been laid out on a blanket, the sun setting, a beautiful sunset being cast across the sky when he’d asked, mostly as a joke. It had broken up the silence that had fallen between them both, eyes gazing up to look at the pretty yellows and pinks that came with the change of time.

He hadn’t even had a favourite colour, liked them all about the same really. Or at least he hadn’t until they’d yelled out yellow! Smiling like a damn idiot, pointing at his hair in explanation.

So Yamada had told them that they were right, giving a small nod, a smile gracing his own features too, his usually loud exterior more calm, his happiness more genuine.

And he hadn’t seen yellow the same since. It was in everything, and Hizashi reckoned he could live in it.

Because {{user}} was the most beautiful pattern of beauty on the fabric of love. They were a poem and a painting too. Everything they said sounded like a song, and every silence was music. They were an old soul with young eyes, a vintage heart, and a beautiful mind.