I really, really love Kurt's eyes. I've always had a thing for "empty" eyes, those that are one solid color. It's weird, it's intriguing, and, if you ask me, it's attractive. That being said — cat-eyed Kurt absolutely deserves to be more popular.
Kurt Wagner's eyes used to unsettle you. The first time your gaze met his — a direct clash as your hand was enveloped by the warmth of his palm in a handshake — a slight shiver traveled down the back of your neck. Such a handsome young face, all sharp edges and clear lines accentuated by brushstrokes of black shadows; a harmony of striking features chiseled to fit the sheer chivalry and charisma of the man in front of you. Kitty didn't lie the day before: you could already spy the daring of a self-proclaimed swashbuckler as it shaped his lips into a dashing smile.
But his eyes made you pause somewhat, slow down in all these mental observations of yours. They were big, sly, and cat-like. Two slits of thinned pupils swam in the pools of liquid gold, moving in methodical sweeps as they took you in head to toe. Pointing like twin blades. Evaluating what was before them. You couldn't really say what conclusion Kurt reached as he squinted amiably goodbye, flourished his tail, and went back to tinkering with the insides of what you assumed was the famous Black Bird — and it made you feel almost creeped out.
Gradually, the impression melted away like fresh snow, exposing the depths of your initial attraction. And after some time, you found yourself thinking they were actually quite endearing, his eyes. With Nightcrawler's trademark cat-like grace and attitude to match, they now seemed charming in their own unique way — much like the man they belonged to.
Although recently, you began to notice something strange about his eyes. It was nothing serious, thank goodness: they remained as cunning and keen as ever, but now as soon as they landed on you, the usual slits would expand into two black holes, leaving the gold naught but a thin border. It happened so quickly the first time that it made you stutter mid-word, and Kurt had to blink rapidly to get it back to "normal."
After that, you verified with a couple more close encounters, it always worked like a charm — your figure came into his line of sight, and his pupils dilated like two camera lenses focused solely on you. What should you have made of it? You couldn't tell, and in truth, you didn't want to assume. Naturally, you knew about the phenomenon of the "love hormones" forcing a person's pupils to widen upon seeing the object of their passion, but Kurt's anatomy... it wasn't entirely common, and you knew that too.
After all, you were there on missions with him when his eyes turned black with battle-born glee as he bristled and bared his teeth, light-hearted theatrics suddenly turned carnivorous. In the velvet gloom of local bars, Kurt's eyes seemed bottomless: every colorful speck of light got swallowed in the voids of them as he nursed his beer and exchanged remarks with Rogue or Logan, mellow, playful, and just the right amount of tipsy.
It all made sense, it all followed a certain logic, a certain pattern even. With Rogue, brotherly affection bloomed in his gaze like a flower — slow and relaxed, swelling ever darker with each passing second; while with others, his pupils widened rather to the size of a petal, still elongated but softened, rounded on the sides.
With you, it was an explosion. An instant crossing of the line between regular and particular, and evidently an impulse that made Kurt himself clear his throat upon realization. But why? Why you and why such a sudden change?
It was Gambit, your local proud cat dad, who finally resolved your inner dispute with yourself one day. He noticed your lonesome figure after the usual debriefing of another successful mission and floated close in his usual lazy, I-was-just-walking-by manner, the deck rustling knowingly in his nimble fingers. You let him catch up with you.
"I must say, you tourtereaux don't even try to keep it low-key, eh?"
You shot him a quick curious glance, not entirely grasping what he meant by that. True, your fancy for the dashing swashbuckler was no secret to those with eyes to see, Remy included. With his keen sense for matters of the heart, it would have been futile to even try denying it. So you didn't. And it only took you a week or two to turn impenetrable to all the veiled barbs he sent your way any chance he got. But they had always been aimed solely at you — so where did the tourtereaux come from?
Your face must have betrayed your genuine confusion too clearly, because Gambit laughed in disbelief — that kind of surprised laugh, as if you didn't know something everyone had already caught on to. Something you should have caught on to first.
"Don't tell me you don't notice the fur ball going all puss on a hunt on you? Don't even have to look up from my cards to see it from across the room!"
You felt your heart leap and tremble in your chest, like a cartoony alarm clock when it rings with a shrill cry.
"A hunt? Remy, don't be ridiculous. It's Kurt you're talking about, not one of your domestic beasties."
Your companion grinned, a twitch of smug lips.
"Oh, but trust old Gambit, mon amie," he leaned in conspiratorially, a patronizing hand on your shoulder. "All men are beasts by nature. It just takes the right woman to bring one around."
Breath caught in your throat at that, and when you stopped dead in your tracks to look the gambler in the eyes, they gleamed with satisfaction the color of burgundy. Wordlessly your whole stance demanded: explain. And explain he did.
"You see, Mr. Hallelujah here wants to play a game with you. A game of cat and mouse, if you catch my drift."
Oh, you caught his drift alright — along with your slack jaw.
Gambit chuckled, ceased fiddling with his cards, slipped the deck into the inner pocket of his coat, and finally decided to finish you off.
"Be careful, ma copine. He must see you as a prize worth catching and keeping all for himself, that greedy devil."
And then he turned and walked away, a carefree lightness in his gait and a cheerful whistle on his lips — leaving you to scrape the scattered pieces of your thoughts off the the hollow corridor's walls.
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