Small Comforts

They found his battered, bloodied body shortly before dawn on the fifth day.

Well, when Allen says 'they' he means the segmant of the search team that he was not part of. No, it was Lavi's faction that stumbled blindly through the forest until they tripped over the corpse.

Allen's recollection of the nights events are fuzzy at best but when he focuses he can recall feeling disorientated as he caught sight of the police, the ambulance and … oh god, he remembers thinking as his heart pounds wildly in his chest.

Oh god, oh god, oh god. Is that a Hearse?

And then he remembers the sound of leaves, sticks and bramble cracking beneath his feet and the sharp smell of pine as he violently pushes his way through the crowd of officials and gawkers. He feels hands grabbing at him, tangling in the florescent yellow of his search and rescue vest.

This is when things go from being fuzzy and indistinct to being so crystal clear that it makes Allen physically ill to think of it. But he's not in control anymore. It doesn't matter if he doesn't want to remember this, because his mind is on overdrive and damn it to hell if it'll stop now.

There's the echoing sound of his name being shouted out at him in what he thinks is a Japanese accent, but he's already there, pushing the curtain of foliage out of the way and breathing heavily as he shoves past the last of those blocking his way.

And then he sees it.

And wishes he hadn't.

Blood. There was so much blood. Rivers of it… Lakes of it… An off brown now from the day or so of aging it's been given and letting off a scent so foul that Allen's insides burn from it.

There's the hair, once long, crimson and meticulously kept so it trailed down his back in waves. 'Manly waves, Allen. Manly waves," The chiding voice reminds him in the back of his mind. However, there is nothing remotely manly nor wavy about this hair now. It's now filthy and so horribly matted that the vibrant colour has been dyed the disgusting shade of bloodstained dirt.

The clothes, too, are shredded beyond recognition. If Allen were to squint he supposes that he might be able to make out the crest of the jacket his Master wore so proudly. However, in this murky light with the damage that has been done to it, the clothing is little more than a scarlet stained imitation.

By now others have arrived and out desperately tugging him backwards.

"Don't look," the voices plead, "you don't need to see this. You shouldn't."

Privately Allen agrees with this assessment and he knows deep down that he looks away now the nightmares that are sure to follow him will be vague and indistinct, a recollection of the glimpses he should never have seen.

But he doesn't. He can't and, as if entranced, he slowly elevates his gaze, tilting his heads so he can look at the face of the man who has raised him these last few years.

There is no more jaunty glances perched haughtily on his nose.

There is no more mysterious mask, but only the shattered white remains of its plaster surrounding his fallen body.

But, worst of all there… there…

There is no face.

The gaunt surface of a grinning skull stares up at Allen, tattered flesh rimming its features like some kind of demented photo frame. The skull looks like it's having a right old time, enjoying the attention swarming around it.

Hohoho, it chuckles to him as a caterpillar wiggled its way free from its eyes socket and drops on to its bleached white cheek, would you look at me…

And then Allen is falling, falling sideways as he begins to dry heave, a thin strand of bile emerging from his mouth as his struggling stomach protests. He hasn't eaten since Cross went missing; there is nothing to throw up.

Strong hands have seized his shoulders, both preventing his fall and dragging him away from the sickening sight before him. "Allen," a voice he recognizes as Kanda's growls, "Come on, get a hold of yourself."

But he can't. He's not sure what's going on. He's not sure of his identity. How can he get a hold of himself if he doesn't even know who he is?

And this is the part where the nightmare ends and Allen wakes up in bed, screaming his throat raw for his Master who is no longer there to answer.

There is no cursing.

There is no shouting.

There is only silence.

And Allen misses the days when he'd wake up from a glass of water thrown haphazardly into his face so he was left to splutter awake with all the grace of a farm animal.

He misses the call of, "Stupid apprentice," as Cross made to leave the small – and often, trashed – apartment without him.

But most of all, he misses Marian Cross.

Because now that he's gone Allen finally begins to realize just how much the man meant to him.

It didn't matter that there was no affection in all the years they'd lived together. It didn't matter that he couldn't recall one single time Cross had given him a word of praise and the man could never recall Allen's birthday even if he were to try – not that he did – even though it fell on Christmas and for Christ sakes how hard is that to remember?

Really, it simply comes down to a terrible loneliness that the death of one of the exceedingly few people he was close to had left him with.

His friends tried to help, barely leaving him alone for the first few weeks following the discovery of the corpse, one of them with him at all time, sleeping on the sofa and cooking him meals. They only eased off when the month marker was reached and Allen was slowly – very slowly – pulling himself back together.

Kanda was a near permanent fixture around him – even now – and the elder man held no sympathy for the nightmares that haunted Allen's every sleeping hour and didn't hesitate to voice this. He wasn't being cruel, he was merely being rational. Allen couldn't expect to mope around forever like the world was ending and he couldn't expect to be cut slack for the rest of his life. Where was the British stiff upper lip?

Others may have been horrified by the harsh way of comforting Kanda had, but Allen found himself glad. He was glad that in the midst of this loss and confusion and pain, he could count on his boyfriend to be able to offer him the same icy demeanour he'd always had and this constant managed to keep Allen stable.

He wasn't healed. He never would be. He accepted this. But, someday he hopped that the nightmares might cease and, with the warm press of Kanda lying still beside him in the bed, he'd be able to reach the kind of moving-on he'd struggled to achieve with Mana.

The murderer might roam free, unidentified and positively giddy with the scent of spilt blood staining his hand but if the small British boy knows anything it's that nothing last forever. Whatever sick fuck killed Cross, one day it will be his turn to lie dead, dying and alone on the mucky ground.

Allen hopes he's there to see it.

One day, maybe, when the process of mending had begun, Allen will take the time to go the police station and request they reopen the case. One day, many years down the track, he knows that he'll have the pleasure of witness the locking up of man who took from him his mentor, his guardian and, dare he say it, father.

It's a bittersweet victory, but a victory no less.

For the time being, however, he's not quite ready for such thoughts and he feels content to curl up by Kanda's side and cry, knowing full well that the other will let him do so in silence.

For the time being he takes comfort in the familiar scent of earth and exotic spices and the rough hand rubbing soothing circles on his back. He takes comfort in memories of more docile times with his guardian and drift off into uneasy sleep with memories whispering in his ears.

"Idiot apprentice," Allen's sleep wearied mind connects the memory to the moment and he dazedly thinks that it is real, "I'm not going anywhere."

Death makes liars out of all of us.

"I picked you up for a reason; I'm not going to just chuck you out again. Don't tempt me though."

Allen thinks that maybe, if he hopes hard enough, he might get the chance to tell Cross exactly what he thought of him straight to his face.

He holds to this hope.

One day he'll be able to keep himself going with less, but for now he takes his hope from small comforts.

And, oh god, were they small.