Ebony and Irony

"Yellow shouldn't even be on the colour wheel," he complained as I rummaged in my wardrobe (because closets are overrated) tossing all my fancy shirts and multitudes of coloured skinny jeans at him. He was holding up a pair of my skinny jeans that just so happened to be stained with light yellow dye; I loved them to death, and he detested the crap out of them. "It's too obnoxious."

I scoffed, throwing my head out of said wardrobe, blowing my hair out of my face as I surfaced, and threw him a glare paired with a sarcastic and skeptic tone. "You always say how nice I look in those." My lip jutted out and I found my eyes widen in a classic puppy dog pout. He groaned, laying them back on the hard-wood flooring, before mumbling an apology and an "But your ass looks good in anything." Some days, I swear...

"Claudio, stop moping and help me pick out something to wear!" I half-shrieked, starting to get hysteric; I had a date tonight. Well, a small talk over coffee with a boy whom had interest in me and whom I had interest in. Is that really a date?

"It isn't a date, Lydia." I turned once more, and gave him a speculative look. He has his arms crossed, and he was studying the floor with a hard brow set firm above his chocolate eyes; he was pouting. My Claudio never pouts, never. Not when his dad first got diagnosed, not when I broke my arm, not even when his cat got run over. So why was he pouting over a meaningless coffee-talk with a boy whom I liked?

"Claudio Paul Sanchez, are you freaking jealous of Lyle Winters going on a coffee-talk date with me?" I tapped my foot and my smirk grew more and more pronounced as his brow furrowed deeper into his skull until I thought it was a permanent etching into his skin. I tutted him, and moved my few possible blouses off the bed, sitting by my boy.

"Stop pouting, you look like a goblin like that," I told him, reaching out gingerly and trying to tug his frown back up to how it should be, back to his ever-lovely smile. A corner of his mouth pulled up at the thought of being a mythical creature, and I grinned before he grinned as well, and I tackled him in a hug.

"It's just coffee," I reminded him softly as I laid on his chest and fiddled with his chin-stubble; he played with my hair softly and stayed quiet. He was still pouting, damn him. "Would you feel better about it is I went in my pajamas?" I continued, and he gave me a half smile before tucking his face into the top of my head, placing a gentle kiss on my hairline.

"I'd feel much, much better if you didn't go. He's a jerk, Lyd." I pulled away from him and made him look me in the eyes; his were sad. Now I felt horrible.

"It's just coffee," I repeated, tracing his cheekbones. I was now pouting as well. That made him smile, my pout.

"Just promise me you won't like completely fall for this schmuck and dart off to Vegas to marry him tonight, okay?"

I grinned at his silliness, and nodded, adding an "I promise" for good measure; I knew he only added the second half of that statement as a joke, but he meant every syllable of those first words.

"I promise," I repeated as I stood up, returning to my mess of a wardrobe, and he cleared his throat, holding up the perfect outfit for me. "Gah, what would I do without you?" I asked him, smiling ear to ear, before grabbing the clothing from his blistered hands and giving him a peck on the cheek.

I darted to the bathroom, and he mumbled "You'd marry some chump in Vegas."