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Rogue hated his eyes.
Except, no. That wasn’t quite true. What he hated was his one eye. The one eye he couldn’t truly call his. The one eye that was never mistaken for his real color, like so many other, normal people could boast. The one eye that drew countless compliments from far and wide while his true hue remained disregarded and scorned. The one eye that’s made his life miserable while he’s been forced to hide it away behind the fall of pitch-black hair it couples so atrociously with.
Maybe that was why he’s always hated going outside on a clear day, where the bright, beautiful expanse of blue above only reminds him of the burden he carries with him every single day, and growing heavier with each passing moment. Maybe that was why a rainy day or a particularly gloomy night have always given him peace of mind, where he can hide his mismatched features from others in the shadows.
It’s not as if he’s never thought about the person to whom his right eye belongs to. In fact, Rogue has probably thought about it more often than most. Wondering what sort of features accompanied such a stunning cerulean eye.
They had to be pretty, Rogue decided early on. Sometime around fourth grade, right before he started covering that eye, and had had enough of people making pleasant remarks about it. Then towards the end of middle school he got it into his head that they were probably blond. What other hair color could complement such a dazzling blue orb? Certainly not anything dark.
Their smile was probably just as striking. Rogue started assuming that in high school. And then in college he realized his preference towards men, and added on a nice build and strong jaw to his fantasy soul mate.
But as much thought as he’s put into what his fated partner might look like, Rogue has never had any desire to meet them. In fact, if he had to choose between anticipating or dreading the occasion, he’d have to go with the latter. Not out of any contempt towards the other party, of course. But Rogue simply couldn’t imagine after so many years of waiting for that destined someone that anyone would be happy stumbling upon a depressing, unsociable young man like himself.
There were horror stories like that. Of soul mates finding each other and regaining their lost eye color, only to find it wasn’t all they had hoped for, and it ended in disaster. Rogue didn’t know anyone like that personally, or impersonally, for that matter. It was much more common—and proven—that many people simply went their entire lives without finding The One. And that was okay for most. People moved on, settled down with someone they really loved, even if they both went on as a heterochromia couple, and led happy, lasting relationships that way.
Rogue just hoped he ended up being one of those people.
“Dah—!”
Rogue glances up from the ground just in time to see deep green before something solid and wet smacks him square in the face.
He stumbles back more out of surprise than the pain, while his hand comes up reflexively to his face. That’s when the wind decides to pick up again, and he realizes a second too late he let his grip on his umbrella go too slack, and it’s gone. Rogue is sucking in a breath and turning, but someone’s rushing up to him and that forces Rogue to turn back around despite the rain that makes it hard to see when water keeps falling into his eyes.
“Shit—I’m so sorry!” The young man is bending down quick to grab the dark green umbrella still stuck at Rogue’s feet, so at first he only processes a tuff of golden hair before the other person straightens back up and they’re truly face-to-face, “Are you okay? Did I—”
It feels like they both freeze at the exact same instant. Rogue can’t even muster up the will to move his hand away, and consequently let his hair fall back down to cover half of his face. Meanwhile, it feels as though the blond was in the middle of lifting up his own umbrella to shield them both from the steady downpour, but lost track of the action partway through, leaving them both slowly getting drenched as they stand there motionless and unblinking.
He was even more beautiful than Rogue had imagined him to be.
Then a raindrop falls directly into Rogue’s left eye, and it hurts so he has to blink. Has to shut both his eyes and move his hand to rub away most of the sting. It’s during that that he hears a “Oh—sorry. I should…”
Rogue can’t feel the rain upon him anymore, and when he opens his eyes and lifts his head back up he’s very close to a pair of attractive blue orbs he’s only ever seen half of in the mirror for the past twenty-two years of his life.
“Ah—” Rogue makes a noise that catches in his throat like he suddenly can’t breathe, and before he can consider the pointlessness of such an action, his hand moves to touch at his right eye as if he could somehow feel the change in color.
He can’t, of course, and the only thing the motion serves is to make Rogue realize how hot his face is getting, made only more intense from the chill the rest of his body is experiencing due to his damp clothes. But the blond is flushing too, and Rogue can’t even begin to understand why. And then the other man smiles, and Rogue has no idea what he did to deserve such a gift, but is very sure he doesn’t.
“Hi,” the other says lamely, and he looks sort of restless. Like he wants to say more or do more but is doing everything he can to hold himself back, “I’m…I’m Sting.”
A name. Rogue feels something flutter in his chest. They’re still too close to each other, but they have to be in order to stay under the same umbrella and not get any wetter. Rogue should say something. He should really answer him. But the words won’t come out of his mouth stable and clearly.
“M-my n—ame,” oh god, he hasn’t spoken to anyone all day; his throat feels dry and cracked with underuse, “R…rogue. My name is Rogue.”
“Rogue,” Sting says with that same blissful smile that hasn’t wavered for even a second, as if testing it out on his tongue, “Uh…were you going somewhere? Or did— Do you want to…get some coffee or something…?”
Rogue had been on his way to the library to return a couple of books he has tucked away in the messenger bag over his shoulder, but he opens his mouth the instant after Sting has closed his and the answer is quick and easy, “Yes! I-I mean…” he feels his cheeks grow warmer as he lowers his volume and tries again, tilting his head down slightly to hide under the fall of his hair habitually, “Y…yes. That…sounds nice.”
“Great!” Rogue hears the enthusiasm in Sting rather than seeing it, and that’s somehow worse and makes his blush burn deeper.
But then before he knows it they’re taking strides forward. Sting is moving to walk close at Rogue’s side, close enough that their shoulders are touching—all so they can stay under the same umbrella, even if they’re already soaked. The single point of contact seems like a press of fire between them, and as much as it makes Rogue’s heart pound like it will burst right out of his chest at any moment, he wouldn’t move away for the world.