Color
The world was a meaningless blur of greys. Flowers held no radiance, shirts and dresses were no vibrant hues. Everything that was supposed to be beautiful just blended into the background. Camouflage served it's purpose, because it blended in to everything. No, color was not something he was familiar with, and at the age of 27, he didn't think he'd ever be.
There were other people his age, his friends, that had either found their other half in highschool or college and had seen color for years. It was a horrid thing, that system. From what his brother had described to him, color was a beautiful thing that made the world seem to mean so much more. He'd sit on the couch with him, or at the bar, just losing himself in vivid stories of Matthew rambling on and on about different shades and hues. Matthew was lucky to have found his soul mate as their childhood neighbor: an obnoxious French boy that moved in next door when Matthew and Alfred were just ten years old.
Even after going through grade school, to college, and everywhere after that, the world still remained in gray. At first it didn't bother him much, he always figured he'd find stuff to take his mind away from his lack of color. He kept that happy, optimistic attitude through the years, but as he grew older, and the friends he had were now getting married and starting families of their own, it had started to weigh down on him a bit. His parents asked if he had found anyone yet, his friends hounded him about it, and even Matthew made the occasional jab. As a teen, he could take it, but now that he was growing older it did put an unneeded stress in his life.
He had volunteered to help aid the wounded soldiers during the second world war, figuring that he may as well offer his help since he hadn't much else to do. Violence wasn't really his thing, but helping others sure was. He was one of the only male 'nurses' helping, but his help was still praised by those he worked with. It wasn't common for men to help the wounded instead of fight, but hardly anyone said a word about it.
He had taken care of hundreds of wounded men in the past year or so that he had volunteered. He had watched some walk again, and even, occasionally, he'd have to watch one die. Alfred was friendly, of course, but he didn't push anything past formalities. These were men of war, men who would up and go right back at it if their wounds weren't too horrible. He wouldn't get attached to any of them, platonicly or otherwise.
However, when a nice, rather warm spring morning came around as well as a new group of wounded men, Alfred found that perhaps he had to break his unspoken rule. He had three beds in the corner of the facility that he was assigned to. Just recently, one of the soliders he had been taking care of had been released, leaving an open bed for one of the newcomers.
He was tall and handsome. Alfred couldn't really point what the colors were, but he was a slightly lighter shade of grey, so the only thing he could tell was that he was Caucasian. Still, dull colored or not, he was one of the most attractive men Alfred had ever seen. Vaguely, he wondered if the other saw in color, but he didn't find it appropriate to ask.
After the new man had been settled in his bed, both legs broken but still able to be healed. He didn't talk much, at least not when he first arrived there. Alfred was soon given his papers, and he stood beside his bed looking through the clipboard of papers. Ivan Braginski, 30 years old, born in Russia..Alfred's eyes fluttered over to him, and upon accidentally meeting his gaze, he looked down again with blushing cheeks.
"W-Well, Mr. Braginski, it doesn't look too bad..You should be better in no time." He said, giving the other a smile. The solider looked at him silently, before giving a little nod. Alfred smiled slightly at the response, before saying, "Alright, no let's sit you up..You're probably hungry." When the other gave him another nod, Alfred reached out and slipped his arm under his back to lift him.
Matthew's stories didn't even come close to what he saw now. Vivid, beautiful colors were all around him. The floor, the ceiling, outside the windows..Everything was so..so..beautiful. He couldn't put it into words, but everything seemed to have life now, even the inanimate objects. He hadn't thought they made everything in color, but now that he saw otherwise, he was absolutely baffled. Alfred stood frozen, his wide eyes darting to wherever they could, trying to take in everything that he could.
He was pulled from his moment of fascination when a warm hand was put on his cheek, and his face was turned to look down at the man in his arms. Pale skin, almost white hair, gleaming violet eyes..
"Mr. Jones," The man said, his tone thick with a Russian accent and a warm little smile coming to his lips.
"You have the most beautiful eyes."