There are things that Lavi notices and things that he knows. What he notices is the bright grin on Allen's face, the cadence when he whispered, "Lavi, can't you hear my voice?" He notices the way that Allen looks tired now, the way he seems to have been forced to grow up lately in a way that none of their other battles had done. And he notices the curve of Allen's shoulders and the tension he carries there, like the weight of the world hangs over him (which, in some ways, it does).
What Lavi knows, the knowledge that shakes him to his core, is that he is no longer sure where the line is between alias and reality. He doesn't know how much of his laughter is real and how much is an act, how much of his flirtation is real – he doesn't even know how much of his grief at Allen's supposed death by Tyki's hands was part of his act and how much of it was true.
From the beginning, from the very moment that Bookman took him away from that place and took him under his wing, Lavi has been trained to control himself. He knows every facet of his mind, every nook and cranny of his memory; he must, or he becomes useless as a Bookman's heir. But when he finds himself awake at night, contemplating the intricacies of Allen Walker's body, he knows that something has gone drastically wrong.
"This is stupid," he mumbles, and it is stupid, it's stupid and irresponsible and, in a way, a betrayal of everything that Bookman had expected of him. He knew, when Bookman took him, what would be expected of him. What right has he now to decide that's no longer what he wants?
Really, it's the voice that gets him. All things alone could be ignored, but the voice .. Allen has a voice made for saying dirty things, for being made to moan in the darkness like a debauched whore. Lavi imagines his voice, imagines himself doing such things as to make Allen make those noises that he so desperately wants to hear.
And Allen – brilliant, beautiful Allen with his hair like snow and his smile like a white-hot flame, like burning, just laughs and tells him that everything will be okay, just wait, Lavi, just have faith and everything will be okay. And Lavi believes him; it's hard not to, with the force of that smile turned on him.
Lavi loves him, and is an idiot for it.
There is shame he feels when he lies in bed at night and slips his hand into his pants with Allen's smile floating behind his eyes and Allen's voice ringing in his ears. But Allen, for all that he is flawed and deeply broken in ways that Lavi can only imagine, he is purity embodied, and though the alias 'Lavi' requires a Devil-may-care attitude, even Lavi is not so foolish as to attempt to touch him.
Perhaps the worst is that Lavi knows – should he ask, Allen would give. There is nothing Allen wouldn't give to help a friend, even his body if he thought it might do some good. But Lavi is a coward and a superstitious one at that, at least when it comes to Allen, and so he fists his hand around his cock and imagines Allen's body, his mouth, his voice, and tries to tell himself it's not Allen's name he's moaning when he comes.
"Lavi?" Allen asks, a moment later, his head appearing in a crack of light through the door. "Did you call my name?"
Lavi grits his teeth and schools his face into a careless grin – not that Allen can see him. "Nope," he says, and laughs. "Imagining things, moyashi?"
Allen gives a perplexed shrug, then nods confirmation. "I must be," he replies, and pulls away, The door closes, and Lavi wants to vomit. It's lucky, he thinks, that Allen is so easily fooled – what would he say, if Allen asked? That he touches himself and thinks of him, that he wants Allen's hands on his body instead of his own? That he loves him? What can he say?
So he says nothing, but rolls over and wipes his hands on the sheets and tries his damnedest not to hate himself too bitterly.