A/N:Right, I'm going to say ahead of time that you might find the format of this a bit weird. I've taken classes about art trying to get to as close to real life as possible, mirroring how the eye sees and the brain think, and decided to experiment and see if I could write as close to thought as possible. And I don't know about you, but most of the time when I think I don't do it in full sentences. Or with the word 'I'. I don't think, 'I want to move my pinkie', I think 'move pinkie'. And I don't think a lot of names. So yes, the lack of Kanda using 'I' and 'Allen' is completely intentional and I apologize if it's weird to read. It was weird to write. As I said, this is an experiment in trying to get writing to mirror real life as much as possible. Please let me know what you think.
Never mind this is fanfiction. As this is my first Man fic and thus our first introduction (most likely) dear reader, please don't think I write like this all the time.
Human
By Uniasus
Can't help but let my eyes wander down the line of showers to where you're standing. Quickly pull them back and shut them, not wanting to invade your privacy and not knowing why there is the compulsion to do so.
Open eyes and reach for the soap, the rag, lather, and start on my left arm. Watch myself rub the cloth up and down its length. Put the rag back and use my hand to trace down the skin of my forearm. Are the suds what make my skin smooth? It is always like that?
Turn away, back towards you, embarrassed at what you might think. My hand moves to my chest, traces a cross. Smooth. Smooth, smooth, smooth. Trace the tattoo, not even looking because its lines have been memorized long ago and the action has been done before. So many times.
You're in my sight again, facing the tile wall, warm water pasting your hair to the side of your face and a bit to your neck. Is it longer? But nowadays when we meet your innocence is activated and your hair sticks out in the back. It takes so little for you to take care of it. Finger my own locks. Time for a cut?
Your body angles as you move a part out of the shower stream cover yourself in soap. Your scars are visible. Fingers trace my chest again. No scars, no bumps, smooth smooth smooth. Human?
There's a desire now, to wonder, to touch, and my body turns automatically, no longer sneaking looks at you over my shoulder. Openly staring through a bland face.
After a moment, you notice.
But you don't really seem to care.
"Did I miss a spot?" you ask.
Shake head. "Does that hurt?" Gesture to the line going from shoulder to hip.
"Sometimes."
The idea is foreign. Pain and wounds disappear quickly for me. Nothing lasts, shouldn't last. Is that human?
Humans struggle, humans change, humans bear marks.
Stretch out my hand. "May I?"
Steps, from both of us, until we are under a dry shower head. Your hands are by your side. Your eyes don't look at mine. They watch my hand as it follows your scar downward without touching it. You lean forward so it does just at the end, near the top of your groin. Pull back hand.
"I said you could touch it."
Doesn't seem fair to be only me, take your human hand, put it on my mark. It stays there, palm completely flat over it as my finger follows your scar down again. Touching. Moving side to side to compare it to the rest of your skin. To feel the transitions. To wonder.
You're warm, your chest moves as you breathe, me too, so that doesn't matter much.
Your hand moves too. Slowly, carefully, one finger only. Miss the feel of your palm. Wasn't smooth. Mine are.
Travel the scar from your sword twice, never going below your last rib. It's raised from the rest of your chest, rough on my smooth fingers. Move on to the others, the small ones. Tiny scars from other battles, wonder how and when you got them. They're smoother, fainter, closer in color to the rest of your skin, but there. Different color. Different feel.
Normally it doesn't matter. My difference, my body, my unending life. But the Noah have broadened the idea of a human and thus the definition feels as if it should get narrower. Should include those in the order. Finders. Exorcists. You. But maybe not me. Too smooth, to free of bodily suffering. Don't bleed the same way, don't fight the same way. Don't see life the same way.
"Is this how a human feels?"
Your hand pauses on my chests, retreats, and covers mine, clasping it to your chest. It's warm. Your heart's beating. Gently you lift it and place it on your left eye. You take my other hand in a loose hold.
Glance down at it, your left hand, your black hand, your fake hand, and then into your right eye, the left still covered.
"Maybe. I wouldn't know. I'm not human." Your voice is soft. Can barely hear it above the sound of our showers running. Something clenches in my chest, for if you aren't human, what of myself? Why should you be human, why does my mind want that? For you? For…me?
But you don't sound regretful. It doesn't matter to you. 'Human' is not who you are. And it's obvious you're not talking about the fourteenth, you're talking about something older, some revelation that somehow gave you strength even as is it must have hurt to think.
Want to protest, say you are, that you're good, kind, and human. Can see your response, a trade mark smile and tilt of your head, a soft noise, a dismissal. Your path does not involve 'humanness'.
There's the brief thought you're stronger than me. Doesn't matter. You're good, you're warm, a person if nothing else.
Me too.
A/N: Did it work?
So, I finished the anime today (in just about two weeks) and was disappointed in how they did it. I have a couple of other ideas floating around in my head, so I may or may not write another story. But first, I have a qustion: who says the line "When we first me, he didn't call himself Allen?" I can't figure it out if it was Cross or the Cardinal.
Reviews are much loved!