Allen was alone.
He stood in a field of great white trees. They spired up high into the sky, larger and brighter and somehow more terrifying than any organic shape Allen had known to exist in nature. That terror did nothing to quell his curiosity. He felt dominated by a desire to know and understand this new kingdom. The dream was dominated by that impulse, by the thought that there was something for him to discover.
He came to the base of one tree and knelt, as if to pray. His knees dug into the hard-packed earth. The roots, to him, looked like the gnarled ivory tusks. He reached out with his human hand to touch them. The moment his fingers met the tree's hard, milky body, he realized it wasn't a tree at all. None of them were.
They were bones.
Allen's stomach lurched. Still, he did not retract his hand. The bones of giants. The bones of gods. They stood upright in the earth, unfathomably clean. Had they been standing so long the flesh had rotted off, or had they been deliberately picked clean?
Allen dragged his hands over the surface, rougher now. He mapped his hands over calcium and collagen, learning its texture. Slowly but surely, the bone began to flake away. Choppy and crystalline, like old paint. Sharp and soft like wolf's fur, like feathers.
Like Innocence.
In the face of such horror, Allen found himself nearly moved to tears. He could feel them trembling through him, threatening to overflow. They burned behind his eyes, dizzy-hot, filling his head with an untenable static.
The beauty of it all!
The beauty!
Allen shuddered into wakefulness. It was a cold, clammy awakening; nothing like the slow, easy transitions into consciousness he'd come to expect. He was freezing, upright, feeling less like he'd woken up and more like he'd been violent wrenched from the illogic of that dreamworld. Like he'd been transported, with jarring seamlessness, from one body into another.
He was shaking. Shaking like a new leaf. That was the first thing he became aware of; the full-body tremor rattling his body through-and-through. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. He felt dizzy; displaced. Hot. Scalding hot. Fire-for-blood hot.
The beauty of it, Allen thought again. He tried to remember what, exactly, had been so beautiful. The last bits of his dream were fading in the distance. Hard to Hold onto. Allen heaved a gasp, feeling a flush of malaise travelling through his body.
The dream world hard to hold on to, but in the hazy gauze of such sick heat, he couldn't quite return to lucidity, either.
Something's wrong.
Allen realized then, belatedly, that he hadn't jolted upright in his sleep, like he'd thought. He was in the hallway outside his room. He was still on his knees, too. He glanced down at them. Planted against the stone floor, alone beneath the gold-faced moon, you might have thought he was praying.
Just as soon, he distracted by a wet, red glimmer.
There was blood on his hands. It felt hot. He felt hot. Incredibly hot and blindingly ill. The dizziness did not abate. Neither did that heat. They mounted. Subsumed. Conquered. Allen doubled over and threw up. He threw up until there was nothing left to expel, until he was retching air. Then, he tried to call out.
He needn't have bothered. As soon as he opened his mouth, Link was by his side.
"It's okay, you're alright now," he was saying. Allen tried to stand. No good. No good. He slumped back down, senses flood with the acrid scent of blood and vomit, fighting tooth and nail against the urge to retch. No good, dizzy, hot, bad, wrong. "Can you hear me?"
"Link," he rasped. His voice was as dry as the desert. "I don't know... where all this blood came from."
"Blood?"
"Help me clean this up," Allen said. He sounded weak. Voice faraway to even his own ears. It did nothing to communicate his fear. His panic. What have I done, Link?
Link blinked, bewildered. He lowered himself down on one knee, placing one hand over Allen's forehead. It was heavenly cool. Against his own will, Allen found himself leaning into that touch; chasing the cold relief of Link's knuckles against his skin.
"You're burning up!"
"Help me," Allen said again. He turned his head against Link's hand, and Link's open palm fell over his eyelids. It felt distractingly good. "What have..."
He tried to show Link his own hands. The savage red, scalding hot proof of his sins; lifted and removed from him. He opened his palms, but his arms would not respond to his commands. The strength was fading from his limbs at an astounding speed. His body was as heavy as lead.
Defeated, Allen closed his eyes. The darkness was thick and gauzy and soft and felt good. It wrapped around him like a blanket. Like an embrace.
Distantly, he registered the sensation of being lifted. Link's cold, strong hands were moving assertively over Allen's arms and waist.
"Beautiful," Allen murmured, burying his face into Link's back. It was beautiful. Link went still, just for a moment. Allen took in the scent of his skin, much sweeter than entrail or sickness... in the dark, with his hair down, Link almost reminded Allen a little of Kanda. "What have..."
Gentled by the slow rocking of his body against Link's body, Allen drifted back to sleep.
He did not dream.
Small mercies.
Why shouldn't I tell him you were here?
Mind your own fucking business, watchdog.
Walker's business is my business.
Give me a break. Like you know the first thing about him.
Allen's eyes fluttered open, tearing apart the delicate film of sleep. He was blinded, temporarily, by the morning light filtering through his lashes.
He was lying in bed, now. Thank God for that. Warm, white linens beneath him. Starched a little stiff, perhaps, but still inviting. He'd slept on worse. Pillow beneath his head. Rays of sunlight slinking through his blinds. Wind moving through the room.
First thought: Five more minutes, Link.
Second thought: This isn't my bed, is it?
Next: I feel like absolute shit.
Disoriented, Allen struggled to pitch himself upright. A task easier said than done. He managed to prop himself up on one elbow. With the other hand, he touched his forehead. There was a cool, damp cloth there.
"Oh. You're awake?"
Allen turned. Link was sitting at his bedside. There was a book in his hands, suggesting he'd been there a while. Allen opened his mouth to respond, but was distracted by the sound of retreating footsteps.
"You just missed Miss Lee, I'm afraid," Link went on. He closed his book and set it aside.
"I'm in the infirmary?" Allen said. Well. Maybe 'attempted to say' would be more accurate. His voice came out inexplicably raw, and he felt himself choking back a cough. Link produced, seemingly out of nowhere, a glass of water, and Allen accepted it gratefully. He sat up, tipped the glass back.
I collapsed, Allen thought. When the glass was empty, he pressed it against his hot cheek. Last night, in the hallway. Right.
Knees against the stonework, sick in his throat. A wet red shine. Blood? Feigning interest in the empty glass, Allen looked down at his hands. They were immaculately clean. There was no laceration or injury of any kind, either.
"You were sleepwalking," Link said. His voice was comfortingly level. Allen flexed his hands around the glass. "I heard you out in the hallway and followed you."
"Sleepwalking?" Allen echoed. He handed the glass back to Link.
That seemed like an inarguable conclusion, now that he was cobbling the events of last night together. Still, a surprising one. He'd never sleepwalked in his life. But he was hardly ever sick, either.
"A symptom of your fever, I'm told," Link leaned forwards. There was something off about him, Allen realized. An almost imperceptible something. It was his eyes. They were tired. "How are you feeling?"
Something surfaced. The warmth of Link's back. The tempo of his breaths. A familiar sensation, in more ways than one, and one that was rapidly becoming specific to Link. Suddenly, Allen felt a little embarrassed.
"Did you carry me here?"
Link frowned.
"I do believe I asked you a question, Walker."
Allen bit back his frustration, slumping back against the pillows.
"I feel hot," he said. "Hungry. Tired."
"Do you feel nauseous?" Link prompted.
"Do I..." Allen stopped short, remembering with a start that he'd vomited last sight. And Link had seen it. He smiled bright, if only to cover up his own growing shame. "No, ah. I'm fine. In fact, I'm sure this will all be over soon enough. I'm hardly ever sick. Really."
"Is that so?"
Some of the tension drained from Link's shoulders. He relaxed ever slightly in his seat. For a moment, his contrite expression melted away into something like relief.
Link was tired, Allen realized. There was a certain heaviness to his eyes that Allen hadn't noticed immediately. A weariness. Exhaustion, Allen knew, could pile the years on people. Link, apparently, was the exception. In his fatigue, he looked soft and malleable and young. Almost lazy, a word Allen wouldn't think of applying to Link in a thousand, million years.
Had he been awake this whole time, watching over Allen?
He wouldn't.
(He would.)
Allen's shame warped, bowed, and transformed into guilt.
"I'm sorry to trouble you," Allen said. His eyes flickered away, over to the open window. "I felt fine last night, if I'd known—"
Link's head shot up, and he waved Allen silent. His eyes were wide, browline hard and serious.
"Don't apologize," he said, tone clipped. Admonishing, even. "Just promise me you'll take better care of yourself from now on."
Allen let out a shaky laugh, not because that was funny, but because it was absurd. He couldn't afford to do any less. Link, of all people, should understand that.
"I'd miss your fussing far too much," he said. Link raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed.
"Oh, I'm certain I'll fuss regardless."
This made Allen laugh for real. He relaxed back down against the sheets, head coming to rest on the pillow. He closed his eyes. He tried to focus, for the second time that day, on the rhythm of Link's breaths. In and out. In and out.
"Because it's your job?" Allen asked.
Link didn't answer. At least not straight away. Allen counted three breaths while he waited, the way some people count sheep.
"Let me see what I can do about breakfast," Link eventually said. Allen listened to him rise to his feet, his chair groaning with the loss of him.
And he was gone.
Whispers and small laughter between leaves and hurrying feet. The voices of children. Nectared rivers. Clouds roiling above, on and on over the red water. Bowsprit and paint cracked with heat. Rotten and wrecked canvas boats, their remains jagged, marooned on the stones of darkness.
Allen stood at the shore and watched, frozen, as the children ran into the water. A girl's white ribbon came bobbing to the surface. A small wooden cross. Allen tried to call out, to reach for them, but he could not move. There was some kind of vine moving over his body, holding him back.
He could only stand and watch as, one by one, they disappeared into the surf.
A red rope bracelet traveled over a wave to Allen's feet. A discarded medical eyepatch. The dark swath of female hair. The vine snaked around him, possessive. Boneless, slick appendages, bending and twisting and slipping alongside his flanks. Over Allen's throat.
There could be no mistaking the feeling of it. He knew what this was, this coarse/soft thing, spiked and matted like animal fur.
Beyond Allen's control, his right hand twitched. Something beneath that red carapace seemed to hum. A demonstration of love; a welcoming of its kin. By contrast, Allen could feel his heart stir with a misplaced pang of terror. The Fourteenth.
Were Noah afraid of Innocence? Where Noah afraid of dying?
Allen wasn't afraid of dying. There were fates worse than death, he knew. After all, what was death but another long, hazy dream? And wouldn't it be better to run into the river and drown along with those child crusaders than to stand idle and mourn them?
"Are you doing this?" Allen asked. The river was now fiercely red, red as the inside of a pomegranate. He couldn't bear to look at it. So he didn't. He closed his eyes. "Are you showing me this?"
Innocence nudged him. It spoke to him. There was no describing the tone or timber of its words. This was a voice older than sound. A voice older than language. It was the voice of an angel; brassy and ancient and divinely subservient.
"Show me something else," Allen went on. "Something good."
The children went silent. The river went still.
Allen Walker was released.
When Allen opened his eyes again, he was standing in Kanda's room. Barefoot now, as well. His feet were cold against the hardwood floor. They were the only cool part of him; the explosive heat had returned.
He swooned, fighting to stay upright on his bare feet. Before he could slip, he was caught by a pair of strong arms and encased.
"I'm still dreaming," Allen said numbly. His lips were moving against Kanda's arms. He could've kissed them if he wanted to.
"Give me a fucking break," Kanda growled. "Did you walk all the way here from the infirmary?"
"This is good," Allen smiled, loving the way his skin moved against Kanda's. Here, pressed into Kanda's arms, he felt safe. Safe and certain. Certainty was a rare sensation nowadays. Allen was often envious of Kanda's unspeakable resolve. Maybe if he did kiss Kanda, he could steal a share of his strength. "This is better."
The red rope bracelet, cresting an awesome wave. A ridiculous dream! Try as he might, Kanda could never turn his back on the world.
"Christ, you really are dreaming, aren't you," Kanda blinked down at Allen, too surprised to be angry. "Where the hell is your watchdog?"
"Beautiful," Allen said. He tucked his face into Kanda's chest and took a deep breath. Such realism! His dreaming mind had managed to perfectly reproduce Kanda's scent: the smell of steel, soap, sweat, and himself. Kanda moved one hands down to Allen's waist, bracing it there to steady him while the other brushed against Allen's forehead.
"Your fever's back up. Fantastic."
"So beautiful," Allen said as Kanda's knuckles moved over his browline.
Kanda's eyes flickered away.
"I'd kick your ass if you weren't already unconscious."
"I feel hot, Kanda."
"That's because you've got a fever, jackass."
"Kanda," Allen said, just wanting to say his name. Feel it in his mouth. Kanda. Kanda. Let me borrow what you have, Kanda. Just for a little while. Overcome, Allen bowed his head against Kanda's shoulder, content. Kanda sighed, but did not break away. In fact, he shifted to acquiesce Allen, bracing the back of Allen's neck with one hand. Then, slowly, he stroked Allen's hair. Slow. Steady. He was reminded of Link, the even tempo of Link's breathing.
This really was an excellent dream. It was excellent, so Allen let the dream guide him. He let it guide him into bed, guide him under the sheets, and into silence.
He dreamed of falling asleep.
Strange thing.
"I'm terribly sorry. I should've kept a closer eye on him."
"Don't apologize for him. He's a person, not a badly-behaved puppy."
"I understand that, but he is my charge. I have a responsibility towards him."
"Yeah, towards yanking his leash, maybe. Just like Lvellie's yanking yours."
" ... We could at least pretend to be civil, you know. Like adults."
"I'll pass. I'm not interested in playing nice with Central's lapdog."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"No, you're not."
Allen woke up, for the third time in a row, to an unfamiliar bed.
This time, when he rolled over, he could see it wasn't only Link sitting at his side. Kanda was there, too. They were sitting at least three feet apart, Kanda looking sour, Link looking exasperated. They were unified in their irritation.
Allen struggled upright, and the both of them startled. Two pairs of big, soft eyes landed on Allen, just for a flash, before they could build their walls back up.
"Wandering off while your keeper is asleep," Kanda said, arms folded, "is a dirty move, beansprout."
"Dirty indeed," Link echoed. His arms were also crossed; they were, subconsciously, mirroring each other's body language. Unified indeed.
Allen turned his face against the mattress and laughed hard. He laughed and laughed, even though his throat was dry and his body was still burning all over. It felt good, and once he started, it was hard to stop.
They looked so serious. So serious and so stupidly worried.
"Finally," Allen choked out, voice partially muffled by Kanda's thin sheets. "Something you two can agree on."
His laughter devolved into a hacking cough. Kanda rolled his eyes, handing him a glass of water. Link moved to change swap the lukewarm cloth on Allen's forehead with a fresh, cold one.
It was embarrassing to think he'd wandered into Kanda's room, of all places, during the night. And the fact that Kanda had given up his bed for Allen— well. Allen wasn't sure what to think of that.
Being alone with the two of them was nice, in a weird way. Link and Kanda both had a funny way of making Allen feel looked after. Their combined effect was almost overwhelming.
But still. Nice.
Allen curled back into the mattress, into the linens and sheets and Kanda's scent; soon, the sheets would smell like Allen, too. And how nice would it be, Allen thought, if I could coax in Link's ink-and-paper scent, too?
An impossibility, of course. But still, thinking about it made him smile.
He closed his eyes. Blocked out Kanda's bitter asides, blocked out Link's nagging. He blocked out the phantasmal still images of blood, of bones, of white ash and gods and devils. Children running at full speed to their death.
Just for now, until his fever lifted, he would choose happy dreams.
Just for now.
Just this once.
That night, Allen dreamed of them. He should've guessed that he would. Kanda and Link, they were inevitable.
They were lying side by side in a field of paper flowers, Kanda to the left, Link to the right, and Allen nestled between them. He knew he was dreaming. There wasn't a doubt in his mind. Of all the fantasies his unconscious had constructed for him, this one was by far the least believable.
What made the illusion so apparent was not the strange luminescence of the grass beneath them, nor the fact that Allen appeared to be naked for no reason whatsoever. It was that, on some level, this was everything he wanted.
The idea that the universe might ever allow him such a thing was absurd. Fundamentally so.
Despite that, he found himself trembling with some great, nameless emotion. It was a marrow-deep joy. Some raw and brilliant emotion he hadn't felt since the time before Mana's death.
"I like this dream," Allen said, devoutly.
He was effectively penned in between their bodies; his head pressed to Kanda's chest, Link at his back. They were touching him. Touching him just as he wanted to be touched, discovering his body just as he longed for it to be discovered. Kanda hand's carded through Allen's hair. Link smoothed circles over his back, unspeakably gentle. Their hands were like a blissfully cool salve to his fever-hot body.
Weightless with happiness, he lifted his head to kiss Kanda. Kanda's hand faltered, stayed. There was shock in the light touch of this fingers; shock, Allen noted, but not revulsion. Only surprise. At first, he didn't even kiss Allen back at all. Then, after a beat of surprised silence, he did. All at once.
Kanda nudged Allen's mouth open with a broad stroke of his tongue, the points of his teeth grazing over Allen's lower lip. It was a beautiful kind of pain. The sort that Allen would gladly accept— though he would certainly come away from it bruised.
Link's hands, too, had gone still; but that wasn't to say he was frozen. Allen could feel the movement of his entire body. He shifted restlessly, watching Kanda and Allen kiss in patient, tremulous silence. Overcome, Allen broke away from Kanda, twisting around now to shift his attention to Link.
If Kanda's kiss was a storm, then Link's was his oasis. Gentle Lavish. Wholly indulgent. So soft and wet and warm that Allen could've melted.
Oh, Allen was selfish. Unforgivably so. He wanted them. He wanted the both of them, and there could be no half-measures, no settling.
Selfish, selfish, selfish.
"I like this dream," he repeated, mouthing his next words against the delicate bow of Link's lips. "I like it, but I don't know much longer I'll be able to stand... just dreaming."
If there was one thing life had taught Allen, it was that all shelters were temporary.
Trapped between the bodies of the boys he loved, Allen closed his eyes. Sweet dreams were rare and in-between. If this moment was to pass and never touch him again, he ought to do his best to remember it. He tried, somewhat frantically, to memorize the details of the moment.
The even rise and fall of Kanda's breaths. The steady thump of Link's heartbeat.
"Did that... did that really just happen?"
"Fucking hell. I think it did."
Kanda's teeth, Link's tongue. The storm, the oasis, the mouth of the river draining into the basin. Paper flowers, white as bone.
"Ah. I think he's passed out again."
"Here. I'll help you carry him."
They touched him.
Their voices were more distant than the stars. Their bodies were nearer than the eye.
"You didn't stop him."
"Neither did you."
The even tempo of Link's breaths. Kanda's strong hands and arms. They made Allen feel less afraid. Less afraid of becoming someone else, less afraid of failure, less afraid of losing love, less afraid of disappointing one tired old clown's ghost...
"Hm. I didn't even know you were allowed to smile, watchdog."
"Ah, well. Today has been a day of... alarming and unforeseen exceptions."
"No fucking kidding."
Kanda and Link's laughter blended together into one perfect, harmonious sound. It was the most wonderfully clear sound Allen had ever heard.
Like a woodthrush calling through the fog.
The beauty of it all.
The beauty, the beauty, the beauty.