It only happened when he talked.  The colors changed depending on his diction, and his inflection made the shades bolder or softer.  His words were like paint splatters on a blank canvas, and I was an ardent fan of his work.  Nothing in this world was as vibrant as he was
He told jokes in yellows and orange, his questions ranged from lime to forest green, and his honesty was the purest and most perfect white.  When he was nervous, the colors ran together until they resembled a melted, undesirable box of crayons like Rose Art or Crazy Crayon instead of the Crayola they could have been.  Only when he was absolutely sure of himself did his words form a faultless, lucid rainbow.
One time when we were walking home from school he told me, in four different shades of grey, that he was color blind.  I looked him questioningly.  I had never seen him articulate grey before.  I asked him if he was being serious, and he told me in mixed shades of perfect white and bleak grey that, in fact, he couldn’t see anything out of the monochrome color spectrum. 
We were silent for a moment after that, and I could feel a blue murk engulf us. 
“What is it like?” I had asked. 
“Depressing as hell,” he said dejectedly, adding a little yellow chuckle shortly after.
“Is that why your clothes never match?” I remembered saying. 
He didn’t answer that question though.  He just looked at me with that smile that made my entire body turn internally to crimson.  He stopped walking and looked to his right, and my eyes followed his gaze to a tree.  Its leaves were beautifully red and orange, but I tried to see past it, to see it in greys.  I couldn’t.
“Colors aren’t that special,” I said to him when we started walking again. 
“Why do you say that?” he asked.  Even when I didn’t look at him, his voice clouded my vision with green.
“They’re just, well, really telling,” I said, and I wondered if he saw my voice in grey.
“Telling?  That doesn’t make any sense,” He smiled and I could practically taste the orange.
“I know,” was the only way I could respond. 
As we continued on our way, I paid special attention to trying to see from his point of view.  Grey grass, grey houses, grey sky, grey, grey, and grey.  I couldn’t see anything but vivid hues of full-color objects, so bright it gave me a headache.  I wanted to understand him.
“I don’t know really anything about colors, but I know I feel blue with you,” he said finally.
“Blue?  Like sad?” I asked.
“No, blue like happy.  I mean, the sky is blue, the ocean is blue, I’ve been told some jelly beans are blue, and so, I mean that’s how I feel around you.  Blue,” He was nervous, and his words formed a shaky and watery rainbow.
“I don’t know if i’ve ever told you, but that’s my favorite color,” I said.  He grinned.
“So it’s a good one?” He asked.
“It’s beautiful.”