{ A/N: i just always thought that it was funny that piter and leto were both described as having "hawk features" in some respect, so i thought, hey, wouldn't it also be kind of funny (by which i mean "really awkward") if they even had the same eyes? and now it is kind of my headcanon, whoops. in other news, piter is creepy and will never, ever get a date. what else is new. }


He stares into his own eyes, some nights, wondering absently how long ago it was that he could see any white in them. Twenty years ago, was it? Thirty? He does not know.

He has caught people staring before, trying to discern some humanity in his eyes from afar. Eyes are the windows to the soul, they say. But who are they? He does not care - because they are surely wrong in this case. He watches his surroundings with inky blue eyes so dark that they appear black, and nothing escapes them.

He feels as if he is caught in a perpetual state of hyperawareness, noticing, memorizing, storing away each and every detail away in his mind. It is the curse of a Mentat, and it is why it is so particularly agonizing when he sees her.

He covets her. He lusts after her. He wants her, he needs her, he lā€”

No. No, he was not made for that, never destined for something so pitiful and banal as that. He is a Mentat; he has far more important duties to see to than staring after some Bene Gesserit whore (another man's concubine, she can never be his) like a lovesick schoolboy.

But he finds that he cannot seem to stop.

She has such beautiful eyes, such green, green eyes, like the flourishing grass and trees and flowers and life that blooms on her strange, strange world. Those eyes are so soft and expressive, with such a delicious hint of sadness to them that it makes him want to shiver.

And then there he is, with huge eyes like wounds, deep blue-black like the obfuscating, smoky nights of that damned planet he now calls home ā€” not the blue of the seas of Caladan, those roiling deep waters that he has tasted in his drug-fueled dreams.

She must be repulsed by them, he thinks, these twin ink stains. He wonders if perhaps she would have liked them long ago, when they were human eyes, not blue-in-blue-in-blue but a soft, steely gray.

Her duke's eyes are gray, after all.