Red.
He blinked and tried to focus. One eye refused to comply, but if he closed the left one, he could see clearly enough out of the right.
Red eyes. Blonde hair. Why was this face beautiful? Because it was the first one he saw? Because it was the only one in his now empty memory?
He felt cold wetness on his face and wiped it away, surprised by the kitten-weak shakiness of his arm and hand as he did so. He looked at the red stains on his hand and wiped it unselfconsciously on his white shirt.
The blonde man helped him sit up on the cold metal table and cradled him gently while he shook, as spasms shuddered across his body and he wept helplessly and unknowingly. The silent one didn't offer meaningless words of comfort, only stroked the sobbing man's back with a cool hand.
Why was he crying? He didn't know – only that he felt an unidentifiable soul deep loss. He turned and buried his face in the other man's shoulder and mourned for something so lost he didn't even know what it was.
When his sobs stilled and he pulled away, the big man handed him a small object. He turned it over in his hands, carefully not touching the flawless glass, but not knowing what it was meant for.
It was the other man who took the object from him and clipped it to his nose, adjusting it to sit in front of the rebellious and heretofore almost useless left eye. It was the other man who carefully, gently, attached to his left ear the clip that held the chain that held the frame that held the lens – the lens that restored to him the advantages of binocular vision.
He looked around and saw for the first time the room where they were. He hadn't realized that they weren't alone. He drew away from the sight of the other men into the comfort of his caregiver's arms. They were so ugly compared to his angel. He couldn't stand to look at them, hated them almost for intruding on the quiet he had with the man who had been so gentle with him.
He refused to hear their words and turned his face away, seeking refuge, which he was given in a cool embrace. He ignored the few words that filtered through his denial of their existence, "…give him this, black will hide the tearstains better…" and "…marvelous that the boy wants Hans…" and "…too soon to bring him out to play…"
But he shuddered at one word he could not ignore no matter how he tried, "Butler."