AN: And I start off with a super-slow 100 themes ( http : / 100laviyuu-themes(dot)deviantart(dot)com ) drabble challenge in the shape of a titled archive, because I hope it will give me back the will to type actually longer things. (Although I still need to learn drabble. Seriously. They can be like a couple of paragraphs and I used to drabble-call things over 3000 words so long as it's in the stream of consciousness style. Really!) I want to write again! Because I miss all my LaviYu (AHHH IT'S BEEN SO LONG) and I want to write it and update what I am already writing but I just can't seem to find the energy to sit down and type. I can always hope for a break-through, though! And here it is. I will try to write every little entry in one sitting rather than leaving it for later, as I think that's going to work better... I might not include all the things, but if I feel like doing an in-depth overwrite later, I can always try to do a separate fic and just keep this nice and short. Yeah. LET'S TRY THIS.

Happy 11-11-11! Oh and... IT'S THE RABBIT YEAR, TOO. Perfect year to start this. Hope you like!

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~ A ~ HUNDRED ~ MEANINGLESS ~ WORDS ~

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~ i n k ~

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Straight, narrow lines directed by the tip of a pen flow evenly over the fresh parchment. Lavi loves the smell of fresh parchment and ink; writing history down is part of his work, his work that he is more disillusioned about now but still so ambitious and proud of. Ink is what turns history into letters that can be read and passed down. Ink is also merely a tool in the hands of a Bookman, and what everyone put into those pages should ultimately become. No more, no less. Black lines, twisting and curving into words. Ink on paper.

Lavi's not quite fond of that perspective, but he thinks he can manage without completely shutting them off. Becoming a Bookman is his dream, after all. And he's sure having had friends is not that big a hindrance. But he's fond of the ink still, because it's simply amazing. It can tell stories for hundreds of years to hundreds of different people. And it can turn his thoughts into text. Ink is what captures the moment; the description, the stories, the time, all of it. And it obediently shapes into whatever he means it to under his featherpen, and the sound of scribbling along with the faint scent becomes strangely soothing. Because for a moment, it's possible to imagine the war is no more than yet another story... before it's time to go out again.

Sometimes its scent becomes too much on the late evenings when he stays in the library scribbling under an old lamp, sometimes causing certain someones to come looking.

It's just so much ink.

But no, that's not all of it. And Lavi has to smile when he raises his head and recognizes that scowl. It's Yu, Yu who could never be merely ink, as much as Lavi does love ink, as well. But he also loves the black ink lines that are forever trapped under a thin layer of skin on Yu's chest, because it just defines him so unmistakeably. It also tells his story, the tale of his past, to an extent, and his tragic fate, which maybe is still partly going on. Lavi loves tracing his fingers over those lines, but not just because it's ink; it's also because it's Yu.

In the end, both of them and their story will still be just some more ink.

But Kanda doesn't love ink at all. Not the one that has his fate forever transcribed onto his body, nor the one that Lavi dips his pen in to write down history, and everyone around with it. He thinks the redhead is too infatuated with it. People can't just be written down, if you ask him. Especially not if you do it during the late hours at night. Then Lavi comes back to sleep smelling of parchment and ink, and that scent reminds Kanda of octopus soup, sealife and all of the things outside the Order that he isn't going to see. It's all a part of history, and he has never read a single history book. There is just no point. As well as to all of that ink.

"You remember it all anyway," he points out grumpily as he casually sits on the parchment, sniffing Lavi's hair, and then slides off the desk where the redhead catches him into his arms, torn between laughing and scolding the other man. But instead of either, he just ends up holding Yu close, close enough to feel his warmth and scent, and nuzzling that lovely black hair. All that black once again reminds him of the ink; the ink which is now smeared all over the parchment, no longer readable, looking like no more than a slightly textured stain.

But now it looks so much more alive.

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~ e n d ~