Note: since this was a dgmkinkmeme request, expect sexual overtones. There is a second part, which will probably be heavily cut / censored for the purposes of this site. Sorry about that, though I'll be sure to try to provide a link to the original piece. ._.
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They tell him it's tetanus.
"Wait on it to break the fever. We'll have a man ready to take you home. " His healer is fair-skinned and fair-haired and kindly. And strong, holding Kanda's hand steady, before he's dismissed. "You're young. We chop the arm off, you'll live. Sounds cruel, boy, but there's work t'be had for young ones, and you can use your left. There's plenty o' – boy, can you hear - "
They catch his blade before they break his fall.
Afterwards, when he's conscious again - when he doesn't pay the healers – when "tetanus" is only an ugly word, and worse fee, and Kanda's endured through plague and maggots and a hinterland of ruinous things that truly, deeply kill – afterwards, he's laughing.
Fucking tetanus won't be the end. Born to stand. He knows the ropes: it's white dreams and white thoughts and white fever, and then the road again. He has no passport, his lips keep breaking.
But he's laughing.
-
He's sick, and he's tired, and he's more sick than tired by even dawn, because every bone has a socket, and he intuits how sharp the one blow should be, the one that'd tear him at the seams.
Keep walking.
What they don't tell you in Exorcist School (because there's desperate lust, and confusion, and then you have ideas, and Central's too cheap for schooling, least of all schools of thought) is that Innocence is a fucking leech.
What that General of yours, the one you never care for, the one that takes a piss on grandeur and a shit on your dreams – what that General of yours doesn't tell you is that Innocence, all Innocence is parasite. That it's got a vested interest in keeping you well off and alive, for all they bitch and moan and maybe whimper that Lenalee Lee and Allen Walker sported some great exception. The exception was in subtlety, not intent. The exception, and Kanda knows this with every burn on his back and every twitch of his sword hand, is that Innocence should care more about whatever's fucking it up, than you. Innocence is a crazy, sadistic piece of shit, and if it can synchronize with you, however poorly – if it can cling and mess you up in just the right way until you can carry it around, all willing and tender – it'll do it.
Kanda fought an akuma for his demon's spoils: a piece of Innocence that clutched to his nearest wound, tried to synchronize, failed (hullo, Mugen, darling, baby), but got healed in through the brave efforts of a body that never knew when to cede, and less about judgment. Now Kanda's walking around, rather haughtily, if he must say so, with a futile scrap of Innocence dug deep in his back, feeding off his energy, rejected by his system, healing all the same. It's tug-of-war in Kanda's flesh, don't mind the fever, lads. The Innocence doesn't.
This is the fine print. This is the story, and Kanda's burning.
He doesn't need the gracious siege of rural healing fare. He needs a great knife, and a rough hand, and a man too starved to fancy scruples.
Kanda needs a fucking surgeon. He needs a fucking surgeon who'll butcher and blunt and sculpt his bloody shoulder blade out, and the sly piece of once-Innocence with it. He's crossing French lands, he can manage the tongue. He'll find one yet, has to.
(Does not.)
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He doesn't know when it began, when it scourged, or who assigned him the task of Lavi's capture. Did anyone? Word of Lavi's disappearance –of his sighting by the Rhine, taking notes as two allied teams fell – of the bloody Crown of Thorns idling on his dark head. Words dance a very cautious pace in Kanda's head, and the ghastly fear, the dread of spies.
Once rumour became fact, it went down in a blur, orders over orders over orders, and inquiries, Bookman pressed for interrogation, pressing on his archive sheets himself. Someone holding his hand.
"I don't quite know what to write, Miss Lee. "
"Traitor, " said Kanda, to Lenalee's gasp and the Bookman's silent horror, then to his nod, because it was the truth. The whole truth, and nothing but it.
Kanda's truth, hunting Lavi down the peninsula.
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It's strange, tracking Lavi around Europe, this Lavi, who is a Bookman's tool, who's been with them months and years and then some; Lavi, who's a Noah now, by some whim of fate that favours Exorcists only very little, of late. Lavi, who fancies Castille these days, wrecking chaos and amber and all the pretty things that one can possibly rip when shoving Kanda against the humble wall of a burning building.
The fever hasn't broken, the strange Innocence is glaring from his back, red and ripe, and between the many shades of pain, Lavi's confessions drive him hysterical. He can't breathe with a Noah's iron fingers clutching his throat, can't think when he's clawing at the arm, which is ashen, all ash, so unseemly for Lavi, and yes, Kanda's laughing -
"Which one are you? Noah of what? "
Lavi's omniscience, like his omnipotence distracts him from benevolence. He sighs, endlessly chipper in a bath of blood, sinking closer to bide wet licks of a hollow tongue under Kanda's jaw. "Oh, just marry me, Yuu. You're being very unreasonable. You could be a woman, or at least someone more proper, and I'd love you fine and lawfully, matey. "
"How long have you known about the No- " Kanda chokes on his words, the hold tightens, " – about the Noah in you – "
"Have you any idea what it's like to live with you? " Lavi's chin falls on his shoulder, considering. "You're horrible. I'd hoped you'd be more reasonable at least now, but you're horrible. "
Relentless, really. Kanda's fucking relentless. "How long were you spying? "
Their bodies fit together, the Noah finding the purchase of rhythm in the quick pulse of his hand, now clutching, now making for a fist, quavering easily against Kanda's neck, thumb pushing at his collarbone. The skin breaking – in. "Yuu, I've been spying on you all my fucking life. "
The wall crumbles, and Lavi lets go, his prey coughing at his feet like a puddle of ugly, wretched things, black butterflies sinking in too much God damned hubris. Kanda retches, spits his words when he can look up at his Lord and Master.
"Give me something, you piece of shit. " He has to take something to the Order.
Lavi tilts his head, considering, and one word signs his departure, "Sicily. "
-
Kanda tells Komui, Sicily, and they see the assault in three days with forewarning. Tyki Mikk is alone, and bored, and terrible, and the Order's Italian host fails inexplicably.
Kanda's late, not dreadfully late, but late enough that corpses are riotous against the side of every building of the main port, akuma slashing, and dashing, and living.
He comes by ship, the earth is new, and he lives the fairytale of a beggar with a purpose in sight, and the candid lost dream of a long night's full rest in hiding.
He can't stand well, the parasitic Innocence invoking a new fit of nausea, can't see well to crush, kill, maim and destroy, and if he is cornered in the dark slip of a very piteous street, then it's nothing but a very poor wager lost expectedly.
And he is cornered, Mugen heavy in his hand, weaker and weaker with every day that the thing in his back lingers steady. Two Innocence pieces can't find the same Master, too cheeky, too greedy, too cumbersome. One must cede, and the parasite is in Kanda, and the equipment is outside, and well, it stands to reason that the Earl should have allies everywhere, in a ridiculous fate and Kanda's body included.
He's rescued by the familiar slick sheen of very red hair and that Godawful voice, and when Lavi puts his pen down, closing the chronicle, every standing akuma dances attendance.
Kanda's pursuers lick at Bookman's hand, and the Exorcist doesn't know the trick, the spell, or the oblivion, but he has seen Skin Bolic and the monster named Mikk, and the Earl himself. A Noah does not do this, a Noah does not reign. This is new. This power. But what - ?
They listen to Lavi, whose serpentine tongue is sibilant to coax monsters; then, pacing forward, to coax Kanda's mouth into submission, eagerly, bloodily, with the hint of dark need. There's breathing to be had, so the parting is quick, and the former Bookman winks at a dishevelled lover, who's given slow leave to report defeat back to headquarters.
Kanda staggers in his walk, Lavi's hand whipping to claim his wrist. Immutably, he massages a bruise laid within the past hour, dragging the white fingers to his Noah's dark face, and enclosing the tips in the aching caress of that tongue. "Yuu, don't hurt what's mine again."
And he backhands Kanda for letting his wound happen.
-
In Greece, it's the bitter coin. He can smell the white drum of opiates before arrival, hates the villagers before the first greeting.
These are the men who sleep like white doves, flocking around bloodied feathers. These are the men who have eaten their young, who've sprawled on their graves, who've bred stardust and fear. These are the men who bring him rosary to kiss, and chicken to bless, and their girls to bed, the young girls and the children, and the fairer boys too.
Kanda's forgotten what it's like to walk islands during a festival, but he is reminded. Painfully. Reminded.
He spits on the rosary, kisses the girl, because she is warm, and pleasant, and pleased, and yearning, and his tongue's iron; and he tells them to cook the fucking chicken. With noodles.
They pass him a message. It's parchment, it's writing, it's Sanskrit, which Kanda can barely read, and unwillingly.
It's Lavi.
He wishes Kanda a good evening, and a better festival, and urges him to taste the wine. It's for a goddess, he says. Can't be mean to a lady, can you, Yuu?
Then he tells him, in three pages, about his latest kill. About the Exorcists' latest spontaneous inclination for uncontrived action - for defeat.
Y'all lost the siege in Burgundy, love, but cheer up, their wine sucks. Kanda burns the letter.
The womenfolk tell him after that there's money for him, too, a real purse, with real money, and tickets for the dawn voyage. Their red-haired prince said he should come, they tell him, and Kanda, well, he wants to scream, but - Cheer up, Yuu, the wine's good in all sorts of places.
Kanda takes his rest shivering, wrapped in his fever, drunk, very drunk, and pondering self-dismissal. He is not a traveller, he is indeed sick, there's no surgeon to find, malaise progresses. But he wants Lavi's death, Kanda wants the kill. Wants it when there's no purpose, when there's no use, and no strings, and there's nothing to be done, oh, wants it badly.
He boards the fucking ship.
-
They cross swords by the Alps, when ice is outside of life and death, and Lavi's hammer, which never did him much good beyond a child mind's ambition – his fucking Innocence finally rejects him, gives way. Crumbles.
Lavi looks on, eye white, stricken.
Kanda's knee bends over tattered snow, where blood's married the tip of his sword, stands at the ready. Can't strike. The hammer Innocence dissolves with a dark hiss, and in the silence – in the root of the metaphor of water that bends, but never breaks – Kanda pities the Bookman.
He stands, wavering in his fever, ready to pay his respects and leave, slow, quiet. Lavi slams him in the snow, turns and twists, until he's straddling Kanda's legs, all the skill he's ever learned fastening darling Yuu's wrists under his hands.
"Just give in. One of you can give in, Yuu, what the hell will it cost you? You don't need yourself more than I need you, " Lavi doesn't mind begging, then smacks their mouths together, teeth grating teeth, bloodying up their lips, tongues duelling.
Kanda bites his way out of the kiss, turning his head, flushed in delirium. "I reject you. "
Their glances meet over the discarded hammer. He can't look Lavi in the eye right now. Can't help hearing him, "Fuck you, Yuu, you're not original today. "
The Innocence flinches and flickers for the hour, Lavi's head a heavy ache on Kanda's chest all the while, gauging for a heartbeat. Lying there, lying to each other.
Something breaks there. It's a draw.
-
It's a date on Slavic grounds, Kanda's waist caught in the hold of Lavi's arm, as he topples almost over the edge of a sacrifice well. Centuries before him, women 's nails scratched the walls, as they hung to appease the water gods. He's read this much. His hair hangs heavily, the Noah's fingers unbinding the tail over his right shoulder, when he leans to crisscross licks and kisses over Kanda's throat and ear. "Hey, love. "
"Water. " Their glances meet over the fresh gift of remains at the bottom of the well, and Kanda knows instantly that he's late, far too late, that the battle is over, and it was bloodshed already. That they're too few, and he has never been weak, but even weakness forgets him, runs his bones can't handle the voyage, the endless days on sea, on train, or in battle, the weeks and weeks and weeks of teasing, the days on end with that thing in his back. Can't handle losing every fight, everywhere.
The greeting of Lavi's massacres, steps ahead. "Say hi, Yuu. "
"Water. "
"Lovely day we're having. Was just a day for writing."
Kanda's lips are burning. "The water's dirty. "
"Cause it don't rain much. So, about the weather – "
" – the fuck do you wa- "
Violence, all violence. Such a violent streak. Lavi must want to punch him, he supposes. He sounds it, "The fuck what, Yuu? Say the fuck hi. "
Kanda looks on, dead, lost, bleary. Blue. You've killed every living thing here, haven't you, bastard. "...head hurts."
"That all?"
His hair is brushed tenderly; Kanda nods.
"Got no questions? " The Bookman chuckles, and the air is childhood dreams again. "Where you been, Lavi, my boy? Idiot? Darling? Well, Yuu, funny you should ask. Been round half the world and if you gotta know, the chocolate in Belgium ain't even that good, course, went down them roads to put out – "
The Order's newest, weakest branch. Kanda squirms in his hold, puppet alive, "I'm going to be sick. "
He is sick, heaving, Lavi holding his hair and slapping his cheeks, until sight returns to him. "Settle, love. Settle."
Kanda says nothing, when his long coat is divested like the raiment of kings, his shirt like a whore's bodice. He's all taken by fever, the cold air a spell. Breathes better in guttural sighs, which may be sobs, perhaps, if only the drowned man could hear. "I don't want to hear it."
"S'all right – " Lavi pulls him closer, invoking a sigh with the slip of smeared hands on his ribs, and Kanda can tell why he's not being turned around, when the Noah's affliction and addiction is with his eyes, and his lips, and all those things becoming his face. Can smell the blood all over his suitor.
"About Belgium, I don't want to fucking hear it – "
"S'all right. "
"Don't want to – "
The world spins in Kanda's head, in his shoulder, where the Innocence' s screaming. Lavi presses cold fingers on his back, nails lingering in a shallow stab. "Doctor soon, my one, my love. Doctor, Doctor, may I help you. "
"Just kill me, you fucking traitor – "
"Play with me: Doctooooooooor! May I help you? "
Silence. Lavi's hand coils suddenly down Kanda's hips, where clever fingers daze the belt aside, the buttons, whispering over his attentive cock in twitches of movement. There is no laughter, "May I help you, Yuu? "
Then it's the dragged ache in Kanda's stomach, the push, and the pull, and the shiver. Yuu's reflection is a tourist guide in brothels, when Lavi's fist plays, the blackmailed arch of Kanda's hips meeting something hard, and maybe strong against the back of his thigh.
Yes, pleasure, Kanda knows pleasure, knows need, knows the slender arms jousting with his need in particular, knows to push back thankfully into Lavi's clothed length, drawing out the hand that tight-tightens on him.
Knows the heavy, dark shape of Arendt in the well, his body still Exorcist even after his passing, just tatters and bones and a kindly face. Knows Lavi killed the man, put him there for Kanda to see, to fuck with him, maybe fuck him all the same against the background of comrades fallen. Of hate. Kanda knows all of this.
Knows everything, with a cracked moan, "Kill me. I'll hunt you down, and tear you to shreds and pieces, if you don't. Don't be a fucking coward."
"But Yuu, dear, I really am trying to help you. " And every slip of his name resonates with a taut jerk of Kanda's erection, Lavi forgetting his lips on the wound in Kanda's back. "Gotta hurt, don't it? Teaches you to see physicians that know nothing about Innocence." A pause. "I could... "
And that pause deafens: it's there, the promise is there. He's Noah, it'd be just that easy to crush Innocence, and for once, for fucking once, for the better. Should be easy. Should be.
"Sorry. " Lavi works his fingers, quicker, stronger, with high-stepped jolts, grasping and shifting, until Kanda comes hotly with a sick little gasp, the proof of it spread over the Noah's yielding hand.
He says nothing, clutching to the well's edge, not when Lavi drags him closer, thrusting hastily, knowingly against his leg, too dry to simulate perfectly, too pure to hurt. The Noah muffles the scream of his completion with a hard bite on Kanda's shoulder, and they are forbearing, forthcoming, and cold – all of them, the excuses: they are men, it is winter, they're campaigning. Kanda's no green boy, these things happen. One must assume them, as an Exorcist, as a man of the world, as a man of his word, as a man who'll keep living. They are men – and Lavi's touch as he twists him, dresses them both, assures Kanda that this body is his, that it is man entirely. They are men, and this is a gentlemen's agreement, though they are enemy gentlemen. And in another world, he is sure, it would happen more graciously, and evenly. He must tell himself so.
Kanda turns willingly to his reflection in the well, maybe to jump with Arendt and bloody end it. The Bookman's arm is there again, at the ready, holding, clinging, pleading. "Sorry, love. "
Lavi's palm trails over the parasite, lets it be, apologizes with bitten lips at the rim, where Kanda's flesh is knitting over foreign Innocence. "Sorry. "
Kanda Yuu does not sob, "It's a world of excuses. " But he wants to.
He has four days to be in France.
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