An Exchanging

I liked his eyes and,

I wanted them.

Everyone thought his eyes were beautiful.

They claimed that violet - his pale and light lavender violet - was such a rare color for eyes. That the softness of the hue was a deep and unsettling contrast to such a cold interior. They would gaze upon his face - some unwillingly, those willing perhaps regretting the decision afterwards - and immediately, their expression would change. For the brief second that gazes were exchanged, he could imagine the thought flickering in their mind,

How could this monster...have such beautiful eyes?

How could a monster have such a light and carefree color of violet embedded within irises so emotionless, empty, and...

Dead.

Perhaps, Ivan Braginski had reasoned, they believe that death is beautiful.

And then he would fall to his bed, thinking - as he always did on days when the sun had no strength to shove through the barricade of clouds - and when he cast a violet-eyed stare out the frosty windowpane of his home, he would smile.

Because people were so silly sometimes.

Because there was nothing special about the color purple that expanded across and around and through his irises.

Because, well, he thought that blue was much more beautiful.

Yes - blue.

A sparkling sapphire blue that could only speak of innocence - so naive and so young - an innocence that would morph into an annoying but excusable complex. And then - there would appear, only on rare and frugal occasions, a strange shift of bright blue to dark rage. The shift from peace and amity to hatred and violence.

And perhaps that was why he loved the sapphire eyes so much more than his own violet ones.

There was nothing more beautiful than the violent change in them.

At night, if he could close his eyes through the iciness of the atmosphere and to the blurring shapes that crisscrossed his room, he would dream of the blue eyes. They would be set on such a young, and such a vexing face, and around that face would be yellow - almost delicate gold - blonde hair. And that head, with that pair of eyes, would be laying next to him and falling onto the bed would be those small drops of tears, the sounds of the familiar whimper and moan breaking the silence.

And is it okay, Ivan would ask in the darkness, with only his questioning gaze leering into the other's, if I -

Eat them?

Then - of course, there would be consent. And even if this person had said no - because this person was the only person who had ever opposed him - then he would have just laughed and plunged right in. No one could - would, or wanted to - stop him when he found his attention zeroing in on that person.

Blue eyes tasted so delicious - so beautiful, so very much full of sunlight. And the wet dark substance falling behind them was a welcoming added bonus. And the screams that would accompany this act, the punches that would blindly and lightly touch to kill him, was a welcoming added bonus. And the retaliation, with the other eye narrowing in hatred and then a sudden uncontrollable insanity and then violence, of a missing organ - or rather, a beating organ - was a welcoming added bonus.

If Ivan liked them,

Then what was wrong with taking them?

Why,

The Russian smiled, his beautifully rare eyes widening with glee and desire,

I bet I could use the blood as dipping sauce!

A/N: What, indeed, could be wrong with stealing eyes?

(*groans* so OOC.) This was inspired by a random Ivan x Alfred picture I saw on photobucket and fell in love with. And thanks to Kaskaskia, I can now fully give the author her credit:

http :/russiamerica. deviantart .com /gallery/? set=24357083&offset=48#/d204p00

Look at it! You know you want to~! And this story is a two-part Oneshot, btw.

Reviews are very welcomed :'D