For some centuries now, Shunsui has been trying to find out what Jyuushirou's original hair colour was. When they met at the Academy, Jyuushirou's hair was already white. White as snow, as cherry blossoms, as ice, as ivory, as clouds. White as an unstained heart.
It's not, he explains frequently, that it'd make any real difference, but it'd allow him to compose better poetry.
And besides, he wouldn't wear pink if there was a chance of it clashing.
Jyuushirou merely smiles in a mild and satisfied manner.
As white as bamboos against the river in winter, shaken by the wind.
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