Disclaimer: I do not own Mo, MacCoy. Harmonix does. This site spelled his name wrong, those boners.

WHAT IS THIS. I DONT EVEN.

Mo loved bright colors. He displayed it proudly too. Mixtures of teal, pink, and rich greens filled his closet. Hell, he probably had the entire rainbow in his drawers. Except, yellow. He hate yellow. He hated yellow.

Yellow was:
The color of piss.
The color of sweat-stained shirts.
The color of dirty teeth.

Then he met MacCoy. His favorite little top-rock dancer. He loved everything about him; he loved his cockiness, gleaming white smile, odd clothes, and his feathery golden hair. Especially his hair-it was his secret indulgence.

"I know I ain't one to be doggin' on dudes wearin' weird ass clothes but damn, Mo. Ya got any clothes that won't make my eyes bleed? Or get me shot? Or picked up by the cops?" the stylehead joked rifling through his boyfriend's drawers. Random articles of clothing littered the floor piling up at the foot of the bed, by the closet, by the bathroom, where he was sitting.

"Ya tryin' ta say my Mama dresses me funny? Ya know what we do ta white boys talkin' trash 'bout Mamas 'round here, right?" Mo replied playfully with a mischievous smirk plastered on his face. He plopped down on his bed not really expecting an answer, but expecting the other break boy to clean up his mess.

He loved these lazy days of lounging around, tossing friendly jabs at one another, and just plain 'chillin'.

"Hm. Oh man. That's a tricky one. Would it be, 'Beat da shit outta dat cracka ass' or press him against the locker and kiss him randomly?" MacCoy shot back mockingly with a lopsided grin.

"Both." Mo laughed reclining against his pillows, watchings the blond with a lazy stare, hands behind his head.
"Mm-hm. I bet".

More shuffling, then a sigh.

"You do know yer cleanin' this shit up, right?"

"I always do...Yellow? Really? I thought you hated yellow," MacCoy teased holding up the sun-colored hoodie.

"I do. That ain't no yellow. It's golden, there's a difference, " defended Mo.

"Ain't no difference. 'Golden' ain't even a color. S'just gold, man. Denial ain't just a river." MacCoy replied off-handedly, flinging the thin hoodie. It landed on Mo's open closet door mocking him with it's alleged 'yellow-ness.'

"Ya done, yet?" the words came out harsher than he meant.
"Mm. Yea. This is as good as it gets," MacCoy said picking up a pair of black jeans. Mo had some dark clothes, who knew?

"Cool. Press play."
"Why I gotta do it?" the blond whined.
"Cuz yer up."
"Fine, damn," MacCoy huffed.

Mo smiled.

God, he hated yellow.
But, he loved 'golden'.
Golden was:
The color of sunflowers.
The color of that hoodie. (Not yellow!)
The color of MacCoy's hair.