"Never did understand why they say that redheads can't wear pink," Mark admits, cocking his head to the side, as though trying to picture her in any shade of pink, laced or frilled to the nines. It's not half as hard as he expects it to be, which draws his lips into an amused grin. The easiest part of the whole picture to see in his mind is the unamused expression of her face, somewhere between a scowl and a tiredly tolerant glare. "If we're talking about distance on the spectrum of the rainbow, it's not like red and pink differ any more than blue and aqua, lime and yellow. But I guess that's why Wardo made a crack about me once, about how I was kind of the last person to speak on fashion."

His voice falls quiet for half a second, but he presses on, because if there's anything that he'd hate more than being at odds with Eduardo, it's being at odds and having the world know.

It's just none of their business.

"Anyway, don't you take ballet? Isn't that a part of the prerequisite? Learn ballet, tolerate the starched frilly tutu."