A/N: All response is welcome. This style isn't my usual.
Brittle
I can hear something breaking.
Allen would walk to the cafeteria, routinely wait in line with Lenalee, sit down next to Reever and greet the scientist, exchange teasing insults with Lavi, compliment Miranda's new attire so she would stutter happily, make Johnny laugh so he wouldn't cry.
No one else seems to.
Allen would eat enough for a homecoming army, tolerate the usual remarks to his appetite, notice Kanda enter the hall late, and, if noticed by the man and called a particular vegetable, retaliate with the traditional ire.
Is it in my head? Imagining?
His smile was a soulful, shining image dredged up from his deep conviction—it illuminated hope, made others return it, lifted the disillusioned and inspired the self-perceived weak.
No. It is there.
Allen's life was frayed at the sleeves and tight on the throat, but seamlessly consistent. "I'll be there in a minute!" he called to his friends. "I'll just go grab my coat."
In my head. Breaking.
He slipped up once, but thankfully it was passed off as exhaustion. ("Can you hear it, Marie?" he had murmured dreamily, desperately, mistakenly sincere.)
Only I can hear it.
He collapsed against the wall unexpectedly, alone, in a hallway, eyes glassy and mouth still stretched in a doll's ivory grin, head against the stone, listening to the brittle ice sound—an almost-music, not quite—splintering in his peripheral senses.
Only I can hear it.
Why?
Me.