A/N: So… my first D gray-man fic. Hope you'll enjoy.
Disclaimer: I do not own D gray-man.
Cold.
Numb.
White surrounded him.
The steady trickle of tears had long since stopped yet the pain hadn't. It kept seeping through him with the slow deadliness of a hunting predator.
God, it hurt.
At first the pain helped him keep himself distracted from the memories, but as the stars slowly made their way over the night sky the searing heat had diminished and been replaced with a dull throb, allowing exhaustion to slowly lull him to sleep. A single snowflake landed on the damaged tissue that covered the left side of his face, sending a small but sharp pinprick of pain into his skull.
More snow drifted down, landing on his hair and his clothes, on his legs stretched out in front of him. A few landed on his face and as the weather worsened the icy needles steadily started to drag old instincts to the surface.
For the first time in hours he moved, a simple shift of his head. The small movement send tendrils of hot pain through his head but that was okay. It helped him wake up. It helped him become a bit more aware. Aware of the fact that he was dying.
Again he shifted, his joints feeling like the rusty hinges of a door that hadn't been opened in years. Stiff and sluggish. He groaned painfully as his frozen muscles screamed at him for making them move. He let out a dry sob, having no tears left to cry nor the energy to shed them.
Don't stop. Keep walking.
Walking… yeah, he had to get up and walk… A voice in the back of his head kept nagging about something. Something weird with his body.
He furrowed his brows and white hot pain jolted him further towards awareness. That was good. That was important. He repeated the action a few times, ignoring the warm droplets rolling down his skin through the cracks of dried blood. More stinging caused by the warmth against his freezing skin.
Finally his vision cleared a bit, enough for him to look down at his hands. His hands covered with the gloves Mana bought for him.
Mana…
But no, Mana wasn't important right now. Mana couldn't help him anyway. Anymore. Never…
Never…
With a hoarse cry he jerked his head to the side and welcomed the pain that came in two harsh waves from his face and his body as he fell to the side into the snow. With blurry eyes he looked down at himself and slowly realization started to seep in. Following close behind came a rising feeling of dread.
He wasn't shivering.
A memory flashed before his eyes. A child in an alley, lying completely still, eyes staring. Another child had tried to make the kid stand up, tried to drag her to away to somewhere warm. She hadn't reacted despite the boy's pleading and had slowly fallen asleep, never to wake up again.
Hypothermia. A silent shadow that plagued the streets at night during the winter. The pale demon all homeless people knew and feared, subtly announcing its presence as your breath became visible. An unseen ghost that was as deadly as a festering stab wound in your gut…
In the end it was panic that drove him to get up and try to find shelter. Deep mindless panic, a primal survival instinct, enough to get him moving but on its own too weak to drive the sluggish stiffness from his heavy limbs. It would do.
He stumbled and fell, fought to get up again, and in a daze forced his unsteady feet to carry him further to the city. Away from the graveyard and away from the things he didn't want to remember.
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Later on he couldn't remember how he had managed to reach the city, nor how he had ended up in that alley. What he did remember, however, was the old vagabond with his worn out blankets and his pitifully small fire.
Most people would say the man was as poor as could be, but for someone living on the streets he might as well be as rich as a king. He had something very few of the homeless could get their hands on during the winter: heat. When snow and ice piled up in the streets, it became as valuable as food, and often proved itself to be even harder to find. In the frozen world, the rules where simple. Stay warm and you live. Don't and you die. If you've got to choose between a meal and a warm spot go for the warm spot. Hunger is easier to survive than cold.
Simple rules. Simple and deadly. Those who defied them gambled their lives. Those who defied them died more often than not. He knew them and learned from experience - both his own and from others - to do everything to obey them.
Another rule was not to pick fights if you're not sure you'll win, unless you've got no other choice.
He was cold and freezing and knowing his luck hypothermia had already nestled itself in his bones. He had no other choice.
The old man noticed his presence and probably realized his predicament, because he got up and carefully laid the blankets aside before stepping away from the fire. In his hand he held a rusty old pipe.
For a moment they just gazed at each other, both trying to gauge the other. Then the old vagabond spoke, his voice creaky and raspy and laced with deep wet coughs. "Don' force me kiddo. I 'now what yer here for and yer ain' gettin' it. Go die somewhere else."
The one referred to as 'kiddo' simply stared back with one dull grey eye, the other one covered with too much dried blood to open.
In the end it was him that made the first move. A mindless shuffling towards the tantalizing glow of the fire, completely disregarding the looming shadow in front of him.
The old man frowned and then shrugged. These kind of things always happened during the winter. He raised his pipe and hit the kid in the shoulder, causing the boy's feet to slip and landed him in the snow. The blow hadn't been very hard, just a warning. The next blow, however, would be serious. The boy knew this and had to find a way to fight back or leave.
He knew he couldn't leave.
Numbly, he ran his frozen fingers through the snow in search for a weapon. In the end he thought he found something but even if he hadn't it wouldn't have mattered for long. He got only one chance. He blinked slowly up at the old man. The vagabond had come closer and leaned over him, he noticed detached.
"Oh, I see. Cold got a hold of yer, didn' it?"
A sigh.
"I'm sorry kiddo, yer choose the wron' place to go to. I ain' gonna help ye but I'll spare ye some sufferin', 'kay?"
Coughing.
"Go'bye, kiddo."
The glint of steel in the darkness kicked old reflexes awake and suddenly his hand wasn't that cold anymore. Something warm soaked his glove, tainting it a dark colour. Above him the old man coughed again and he felt warm rain upon his face. Then the man was no longer blocking the light of the fire. A small part of him that was still capable of feeling was grateful as he made his way to the warmth as fast as he could.
The blankets were old and smelled, but they were also big and still contained the heat of the old man's body. Carefully he wrapped them around himself and sat down near the fire, the closest he could get without accidentally burning something.
He fell asleep just as he started to shiver.
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The next few days he spend in a daze, barely aware of what he was doing as his body went through the motions that once had been his daily routine. The former habits came to him as old friends, resuming their activities as if they had never left.
'Explore the area.'
'Rekindle the fire.'
'Search through all the stuff in the alley.'
'Melt some snow and wash your wounds. Wrap them with the cleanest clothes you can find.'
'Search the old man's clothes. Take the jacket and spare garments to cover up yours which are too fancy.'
'Take everything useful.'
'Hide what you don't want to be found, like the body.'
'Leave.'
He did exactly as they told him.
A part of him that wasn't crippled by grief or pain remembered that the streets offered very few save camping places and thus he took to the roofs, dragging his precious cargo of blankets, small tools and spare clothes with him. The climbing was exhausting and would have probably meant his death if it wasn't for his experience as both a street rat and a circus artist. Still, the roofs covered with snow and ice were proving to be quite a challenge. He welcomed it, glad he had something to distract himself with.
Sunrise.
It became easier to gauge which roof was safe to walk on.
The city awakened and people flooded the streets. He had to be careful so he wouldn't be noticed.
Finally: a good spot, relatively secluded and a lot of hiding places. 'Hide your stuff but stay close enough to keep an eye on it.'
'Observe the people, the shops. Try to find the best chances to earn money, to pickpocket, to snag something edible. Try to get to know the rules of the city, of the people living here. Watch out for gangs. Try to figure out their territories, which streets belong to who, and which gang is the most dangerous. Most important: which areas are no man's land. Those are the most dangerous of all. There, no one can consider himself safe.'
So many things he needed to know. Ignorance was a luxury he couldn't afford.
Noon.
'Scavenge for food.'
'Earn money.'
Evening.
'When the sun begins to set get your stuff and go somewhere safe. Avoid everyone who is out as soon as darkness creeps through the streets. They cannot be trusted.'
'Try to sleep, but always keep an eye out for danger. Be alert and ready to bolt at any time. You don't want them to get you.'
'Leave and find a new place first thing in the morning.'
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Every day the same schedule. Something to hold on to. Boring. Predictable. Both were good. He didn't need to think that way. Not about the part of him that was still weeping in a corner of his head. Not about the part that hadn't stopped screaming at himself. Not about the quiet part who's presence lay like a heavy cloak over his mind. Not about anything. Just food, shelter and those thugs around the corner.
He didn't know how long he lived like that. A week? Maybe two? It didn't matter. The constant vigilance, combined with the cold, was exhausting. Exhaustion meant sleep. Sleep without dreams. It meant a slow mind and little room for feelings. Exhaustion was bliss.
The left side of his face still hurt. Better to keep it covered. Pain was no problem.
A tiny part of his schedule changed as he found himself a permanent hiding place. That was okay, he could get jobs to make up for it.
The place itself was a good spot where two taller buildings leaned against a smaller one, creating a relatively secluded and protected area where the three met. The overhanging roofs of the bigger buildings would protect him from rain and snow, and the walls would keep the wind at bay. It couldn't be seen from the streets and there were no windows looking out on it. He was sure he would be save there, cause no one with a brain in his head would risk his neck climbing the treacherous slopes unless they had some experience in that area. He himself didn't care about the danger.
But in the end it wasn't the protection the place offered that convinced his dazed mind to stay. It was the warmth. The smaller building housed a blacksmith and a glassblower, and the heat of their ovens seeped through the roof where he had decided to make his home, warming the area and making it free of ice and snow.
Now the biggest problem would be to keep his hideout secret. People tended to get angry when they discovered a homeless orphan on their roof, often mistaking them for burglars. His best bet was to use the gutters since they were free of snow thanks to the ovens, enabling him to go back and forth without leaving footprints. On the downside they would get very slippery overnight as the water running through them froze. It was a dangerous game he would be playing, but as long as he was careful he should be able to manage.
The next day he made sure to fill the spare time with something else.
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The days turned to weeks and the weeks became months and the only reason he detected the passing of time was the snow that changed from dry, gently whirling flakes into ice cold, wet particles that piled up in heaps of dirty, half-molten slush.
As he learned to know the city itself and his daily routine no longer demanded his full attention, he slowly learned to let go of his irrational fear of simple thoughts. Slowly but surely, he could allow himself to think about yesterday. And last week. And that kind woman from the bakery that sometimes would deliberately look away when he stole a piece of bread.
Slowly he could let his lifeless doll-like state slip a bit.
Slowly he could allow himself to feel the tiniest hint of emotions again. Displeasure as he went to sleep with hunger gnawing at his stomach. Satisfaction when he managed to successfully relieve a drunk of his purse. But never more than that.
Not once did he look at the memories from before he found his home on the roofs, nor did he dare to speak politely or take of the ragged clothes that had belonged to the old man, lest he saw the chequered pattern of the clothes underneath. Anything that might remind him of his old life was quickly avoided or shoved into the deepest, darkest abyss of his mind.
In the end his recovery didn't last, for it was then, when he finally found the courage to explore the less threatening parts of his mind, that his fragile world shattered.
Just as the sun announced its presence with a pale glow in the east did he run into someone. The next moment he heard a few loud bangs and felt something hot grazing his cheek. A heartbeat later all that remained were a pile of smouldering metal and a few bullet holes the size of fists in the wall behind him.
Those, and an enormous, eerily familiar, white claw where his left arm used to be. The same claw that had killed Mana.
At that moment he screamed and screamed and screamed, not even stopping as the claw disappeared and his left arm returned. He kept screaming even when doors banged open and people yelled at him to be quiet.
He screamed until the world went black.
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He woke up with a head full of suffocating wool and an equally fuzzy mind, lying in a foreign room without the slightest idea where he was or how he came to be there. Last thing he remembered was blacking out in some dead-end street filled with garbage, after…
… After…
He didn't know how long he'd been staring at the ceiling when someone finally noticed he was awake. Distantly he realized that someone was yelling and other people showed up in response.
Someone touched his shoulder. Then they forced him to sit up. They shook him, lightly slapped his cheek, pinched him, anything to get him to react. He didn't.
His eyes saw but he did not. He heard them calling to him, but no words came through. In his head there was only room for one single thought, one that had been running circles in his head like a trapped rat.
It came back.
The claw that killed Mana had come back. The monster-claw that seemed to live in his left arm came back.
And it had killed another person.
He shivered and a tiny sound escaped him, sending the nameless people around him into a frenzy. Whether it had been a whimper or a choked sob he didn't know. His eyes stung. He let them.
Numbness coursed through him.
He knew he had killed someone.
Again.
Just like the old man in the alley.
Just like Mana.
Mana…
He cried. Deep, painful sobs that wrecked his small frame and made his throat feel raw and sore. It took days before he started functioning again. By then the police no longer had the heart to question him.
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It had been shortly after he'd left the police station, when he finally discovered someone had removed the bandage around his left eye. The whole time, ever since his first night in this city, he had kept his wounded eye covered, only taking it of for short periods of time to wash it. After a few weeks he'd been able to see through it again, but he had become so used to the constant pain he hadn't noticed when it slowly dimmed and disappeared, so he had kept wearing the bandage.
But now, for the first time, he was using it again. The wonder of touching and moving it without pain managed to temporarily drive away the depression the return of the monster-arm had wrought upon him. The city, seen with both eyes, seemed to be a different city than he remembered.
And now he was actually paying attention to his surroundings, he also noticed the way people were staring at his face.
Feeling slightly curious he walked to a window and peered at his reflection. What he saw shocked him, and he immediately understood the reaction of the people. Without his hood on he finally noticed his hair - once a rusty brown - had become an unsettling ghostly white. That, and the angry red scar that ran over his eye and cheek. It was way too intricate and clean to be caused by accident.
He shuffled closer, eyes wide with disbelief. Hesitantly he wiped the pale strands from his forehead, almost afraid to see the rest of the scar.
He gasped when he saw the blood red pentacle above his brow. The shape, combined with the blood red colour, made it eerie and menacing.
It was a scar fit for a demon.
His fist smashed through the window, shattering the disturbing image that was his reflection.
He ran.
He ran, not because the owner of the broken window was chasing him, but to get away from the sight of his own face. His face that was both white and red, just like his arm.
His demon arm.
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That night the tears refused to stop flowing as he curled up beneath his blankets and heavy sobs nearly choked him. Inside he was drowning in the pain that radiated from his heart, and the memories he'd tried to forget kept assaulting him without rest.
-"You turned me into a Demon!"-
His whole body trembled in silent agony.
-"Curse you, Allen, curse you! CURSE YOU!"-
He bit down on his left arm in an attempt to muffle his miserable wails. I'm sorry Mana…
-"You turned me into a Demon!"-
He hadn't meant to do that! He'd just wanted his father back. He hadn't meant to…
I'm sorry.
His breath came in hiccupping gasps, grating inside his throat and making it feel as if it was bleeding. Please Mana, I'm sorry!
He hadn't meant to, but Mana had punished him anyway. Exactly like he deserved.
I'm sorry…
He had punished Allen by making him a demon too.
A/N: For those who are wondering: I used the word 'Demon' instead of 'Akuma' because I've always found it a bit odd that random citizens know the Japanese word. Instead the word 'Akuma' will only be used by insiders (like members of the Black Order and the Earl and his helpers). Though, honestly speaking, I kind of needed it to be 'Demon' for the sake of Allen's breakdown just now. But the other argument still stands.
That said: FEEDBACK IS MORE THAN WELCOME! So please tell me what you thought.