A/N: This is just a short drabble. It's currently 3:03 am on Saturday, December 12, and I can't sleep. Insomnia, thou fell beast! Ah, well, Insomnia breeds Pickles/Charles drabble. It can't be all that bad. I apologize to my readers who don't like the fandom (dearest twin, Celeste!), but I'm stuck on Metalocalypse. I promise I'll write something unrelated to Dethklok over the Christmas break! Oh, this is also in celebration of the fact that classes are over for the semester. Anyways, read, review, and enjoy!

~Larien~

Behind those bloodshot Irish eyes, he's sure he can see it. There's a raw, unchanneled genius hiding behind those green discs. He's caught glimpses of that genius before. It's rare, raw, and unbridled, much like the fiery soul that resides underneath the pale flesh. It's there in the manic cadences those calloused hands beat out when any other person would be too drunk or too high. He knows the sticks do not have to be in those hands for the beat to come forth. He's caught the genius at work on table-tops, couch arms, knees, and dozens of other surfaces. He's sure that those wild, frenzied thumps keeping the tempo for the world to march to double as his own heartbeat.

When those bloodshot Irish eyes meet his own sunken hazel eyes, he can see the passion. It burns deep down in the emerald depths, where only he can see it. It's there, hidden in stolen glances, often accompanied by that crooked little half-grin. It's white-hot and smoldering, unchecked and craving. He's met this passion many times before. It comes, along with its owner, in the middle of the night and in secret, for fear the others might see. In the clandestine darkness of his room, that passion is unleashed and allowed to ravage his body. Its coarse nature allows it to explore the landscape of his body one moment and torture him the next.

It was those bloodshot Irish eyes that kept him going all those months. Thoughts of emerald pools brightened with happiness, darkened with grief, and clouded over in lust held his sanity intact. They were his lifeline and his desire. In the darkest of nights, he was sure that he could see a faint emerald glow in the distance, beckoning to him, willing him to return home. He saw them in the face of every stranger he met. They served as the constant reminder of why he existed. They gave him hope when the cruelty of men became unbearable. All he had to do was let his eyelids drop down and his hazel eyes would meet those bright jewels in an instant, no matter the distance.

Those bloodshot Irish eyes had captured his heart.