Life's a bitch, and then you die.
I'd never really thought about it before, because I love living, but it was all as simple as this.
Because really.
I selflessly devote myself to God, fight hard for Him with every fiber of my being, and technically died once - in His name. And what do I get for my pious, self-sacrificial acts?
A uniform, a gargantuan scar across my chest, and a split shoe.
Did I mention the scar? Really my own fault, I suppose. Thinking that just because I dedicate my measly little life to enacting God's will, I'm somehow exempt from sin. Thinking that for some, unknown reason, the Big Guy at the top might cut me a little slack. Oh, how stupid, callous, and naïve of me.
If you're not tasting any sarcasm, you might wanna grab a new sense of humor next time you're at a grocery store.
But onto more important things.
Like the reason that God may think I'm not-so-innocent (at least not enough to save from self-inflicted gaping wounds). The reason that is standing right. Next. To me. With the world's biggest scowl stuffed, uneven and sleepy, onto his almost-but-not-quite-perfect face.
If they gave out awards for World's Biggest Stick Up Ass, Kanda Yu would win by a long shot.
And of course, he's in a simply lovely mood – by which I mean that anyone who knows him well enough would savor the awkward-but-satisfying silence caused by the lack of beauty sleep he must need to look like that. I physically slap myself for being such a fag, which earns me a pissed-off expression, but no verbal attacks. Good. Maybe he's finally off his year-round period.
We're standing guard outside a massive, clean-cut British establishment, as we have been for the past, I don't know… Twenty-three hours (and a half). No wonder Kanda is sick of spitting insults left and right – with no sleep for that long, I would be perfectly willing to let a Noah rape and murder me to escape the torture of keeping my eyes open any longer.
I count myself lucky that Kanda didn't notice when I dozed off a while back. Either that, or he did notice, and decided to be a nice guy and let me take a nap. Yeah, the latter is pretty unlikely. I'm not sure the word nice is even in his mental dictionary.
Then again, I doubt option A is probable either. Say what you like about Kanda Yu – and I certainly say a lot – but he's a good fighter. And pretty damned attentive. Option C) He also fell asleep and woke up a little before me. No, not incredibly likely either. He's stubborn as hell – a good trait to have in this line of business.
Not that I think he has any good traits.
Certainly not.
Alright, if you bought that sense of humor, you may have also picked up a shiny new bullshit detector. I have no clue how obvious it may be (my BS detector is as rusty as Komui's sanity), but I know I have a thing for Kanda.
Hence the whole "God hates me" spiel.
Honestly, I have no clue what I see in that prick. Okay, even I know that's bullshit. But as long as he's pretending not to notice my eyes digging through his clothing, I'll list some of the reasons.
No one can deny that he's drop-dead gorgeous. From straight-chopped ash hair to a pointed, feminine jaw and a thin but strong frame. But especially his fingertips.
Here comes the infatuation part.
His fingertips are so… I don't even know. There's something about the way he instinctively jerks towards his sword when he feels threatened. It would be endearing if it didn't cause fear for one's life. His fingertips are hot and dry, as I recall from the one time we sparred, the one time I beat him. I couldn't tell exactly what that little smirk toying with his lips was about, but I could tell he was proud.
In a completely platonic way. That's so depressing.
But he was proud nonetheless, and that dug into my chest and swelled in my shoulders, and I think that was when I knew how I felt about him (I absolutely refuse to say I love him. I may be a freak-of-nature-abomination-of-God-homosexual, but I won't sink down to being so sappy).
A supportive slap on my right shoulder blade was my reward for fighting so hard, sweating so much, dodging (and receiving) so many relentless blows. And damn. It was so totally completely absolutely fucking worth it.
Maybe it was a little sappy, but that one touch made up for a year of nonstop argument and insults.
Aside from being hot beyond belief, I sincerely believe that somewhere, if you look really, really (really) hard, that there's some good in his heart. If you look really hard.
But most of all, he's powerful.
Hell, I don't ever want to play a girl in a relationship, so don't think this is about domination and submission.
He's earned my respect over and over and over again.
Maybe he's not the craftiest with words, or the best with people, but he's something.
"Hey princess, stop daydreaming."
And then I remember why I used to hate him.
"What the hell do you want, Kanda?" I spit, turning to him, a little red in the face.
Something about his crude mannerisms made him the only person whose throat I didn't force chivalry down.
"Get with the picture, airhead. Our shift is over." Indeed, Noise and Lenalee are trudging towards us, small obligatory smiles touching their cheeks, and raising their gloved hands in salute. Lenalee looks beautiful, with her shoulder-length hair strung out by water. I realize for the first time that it's drizzling, and our breath is thick and white in the late September air. The leaves have yet to turn vibrant shades of fire, content for now with their edges rotting into peaceful brown. Kanda's glance catches me admiring the scenery, and chuckles.
"Enjoying the view, short stuff?" He stretches his arms up over his head, dragging with them some stray black locks, and grabs hold of a wiry wrist with one pale hand, attempting to pop his shoulders.
I decide not to interpret that as an insult, and breathe out, "Yes. I'd forgotten how lovely Glasgow is in autumn."
He snorts sardonically, but says nothing. It's true; I haven't been in Glasgow for years.
And yes, it is lovely. I think he agrees, because he gives up taunting me in favor of reaching up to a low-hanging branch and pushing water droplets off leaves with an ungloved thumb.
Lenalee approaches us first, with her chin buried deep in a woolen brown scarf, and her cheeks are flushed from new exposure to the chill, rainy day.
She giggles a little bit, beginning a self-criticism over how she's such a wimp for thinking it's cold when we've been out here for a day. I don't think she's a wimp, I think she's very strong. And I think she's right – it is cold. I tell her, not wanting her to beat herself up for nothing. She laughs.
Marie and Kanda are having some sort of almost-silent discussion about the benefits owning property. I have no clue how that topic came up, let alone how it pertains to any of us, seeing as we're housed by the Black Order.
Kanda and I leave for breakfast. Lenalee hugs me first, her beautiful voice encouraging me to not overeat.
She steps back from me, dark boots clicking against cobblestone, smile naturally up to her reddened cheeks.
Then she does that thing that only she is allowed to – or is capable of – doing. She hugs Kanda, and he lets her. Even tentatively pats her shoulder with his left hand. Suddenly all that warmth and love I felt for her sunk to my feet, pooling into my toes and heels, until I completely filled up with this cold, uncomfortable feeling. Maybe I 'm angry. I don't feel angry. I feel…
I'm not sure how I feel. For the first time in my life, it was not hate or fear or pity. But it pushes and throbs at my insides just as much. Lenalee – my best friend in the whole world, Lenalee, who I love as a sister and a mentor – steps back just as she did with me, and says something to Kanda. Marie laughs and nods.
I don't hear what she says. I don't care. My body is physically just as relaxed as it was a moment before, but I feel so tense and stiff.
How is it that she can hug him – touch him – and I can't?
It doesn't seem fair.
But I don't comment. I smile, and wave goodbye to them, while Kanda stalks off further down the street without a farewell. The leaves are dull and beautiful, and I let the cold feeling dribble out my fingers and toes, to be replaced with a slightly warmer calm. Kanda doesn't notice. Kanda never notices. He's not good with people, not good with feelings.
And all of that seems irrelevant when the rain stops. It got worse before it got better – heavy, thick, almost-hail rain slapped onto the leaves as we took shelter under the ridge of a grey cement building, too stubborn to go inside with water bulging at the tips of our hair and the rims of our coats. Then the drops thinned, and eventually stopped. It's so cold now that puddles congeal into completely transparent patches of ice.
This makes the walk back to our hotel a little difficult.
I could take this time to point out that in a few months, I will have been in the Black Order for two whole years. Not a lot compared to Kanda, who has been in since he was eight (or was it five? He doesn't share much about his past), but enough that our relationship has solidified from arch nemeses, to begrudging comrades, to something I like to consider friendship.
So when Kanda slips on some ice and falls flat on his ass, I laugh. Really hard. Too hard. But it's just so funny – so cute – to see Kanda the high-and-mighty fall and blush. He glares at first, red stretching all the way to his ears, before grinning. I stop laughing just as a strong hand grabs my ankle and yanks hard.
An instinctive, rather un-manly yelp escapes me as the ground falls out from under my feet, and I, too, land ever-so-gracefully on the cement.
I sputter for a second, mouth opening and closing like an over-sized albino fish, incapable of believing that it's possible for Kanda, the man with the world's biggest stick up his ass, to be so childish. So fun.
And it's hilarious.
Before I realize it, laughter is bubbling in my throat, and I throw my head back to let loose hysterical bouts of giggling. It's his turn to stare blankly, gaping like a giant Kanda-fish.
But then he smiles. It's weird and out-of-character, but it heats my chest and cheeks.
And slaps my shoulder with those hot, dry fingertips.
"You're really something, Walker."
It takes me a moment to comprehend that he's stood up, and offered me a hand. I hesitantly reach for it, sliding my fingers across his palm until we lock together perfectly.
If life's a bitch, so be it. I'll live.