*edit - reuploaded with minor reformatting. coupla things were bothering me. hopefully now a better reading experience ^^

Umm…I'm…not really sure where this came from……………..well, that's a lie, actually. It came from overdosing on –man and really depressing music..

My first fic, so please be nice *sweatdrop*

uh…the idea I had was making the bookman completely inhuman and completely separate from the lavi alias…there's a lot of stuff where it's like the only thing fake is the name, so I thought I'd try it from completely the opposite direction…then I started adding bits to kanda's pov and it grew a bit out of control..

Hopefully fits with canon and is in character? (kanda is horribly out of character though. well… so it's all ridiculously ooc. but I couldn't make it work otherwise)

I don't think I made any grammar/spelling mistakes, but please let me know if I did ^^

KandaLavi ftw! I don't really get lavikanda because, well, ukekanda? wtf?

Disclaimer: dgm=not mine…no shit, sherlock

Ok, so enjoy! Enjoy the ridiculous shortness…and OTT angst…and general suckiness…

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It's the ache in his chest, the longing like a sweet feeling of falling forwards whenever he lets himself think of it. Dwelling on the bookman-in-waiting for any length of time is enough to make Kanda miserable and pissed off at himself. The two go together naturally, hand in hand. As much as the 49th alias can annoy him, as much as he can threaten the idiot, and as much as the idea of the anonymous, emotionless bookman observing from behind the tastelessly bright green eye terrifies him, it's the join in the middle, the raw, aching overlap between human mask and automaton heart that makes his something in the back of his mind cry out in pain. Then he realises that he, Kanda, is having these thoughts about Lavi, for God's sakes, and that this is all just too stupid and ridiculous for words, and he'll retreat into a sulk of self-loathing and lashing out at anyone who speaks to him, looks at him, or, to be honest, forces him to acknowledge their existence at all.

But still, the knowledge that the dumb grin, the inappropriate enthusiasm, the over-intimacy, the fucking nicknames are all a shell, an act, haunts him. Sometimes this knowledge burns like Innocence behind his eyes until it's too painful to look at Lavi, feeling the shadows behind his cheerful teeth and upturned eye. Kanda doesn't understand how the rest of the Order, Lenalee and the moyashi especially, can't see it, how they can talk to him, sit with him, spend so many of their days with him, without being gripped by the paralysing fear of falling into the emptiness that is the bookman, waiting in the darkness behind the eyepatch. He thinks he can see it, sometimes, when Lavi is caught by surprise, see the mask settle on the corners of his face as he turns, and the dullness in the single eye quickly replaced by the usual roguish gleam. It's these edges that dig into Kanda, their movement that tugs uncomfortably at something in his stomach, something in the core between his ribs.

But then again, it could just be his imagination, becoming overactive as his heart speeds up and the petals fall from the lotus. He's constantly aware that he is dying, and he wonders whether it's affecting his mind, whether it will be a fast death at the very end, or whether he's already being eaten away, changing from alive into dead with no visible transition.

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It's his mouth drying out, the hot liquid sensation running down his spine and dissolving his knees from a glance, a word. Lavi has slowly developed this reaction to Kanda, just like an allergy. As hard as he tries, every time he looks at the beautiful exorcist, and he is beautiful, he thinks, before mentally slapping himself, every time he hears the surprisingly rough voice, he'll shiver, mind flooding with tortuously sweet images and sensations that are so wrong and impossible, that fill his mouth with the taste of honey and make him want to lie down on the floor and weep. Every time, he has to push these thoughts away and force himself back into the real world, to turn back to whoever it was he was talking to with an extra wide smile, shove his hands behind his head, and carry on whatever conversation it was they were having, when all he really wants to do is let himself fill up and overflow with soft, inky hair, harsh murmurs and violent caresses. Hard eyes like slate hammering into him and devouring. He wants to drown in a flood of blue-black and anger.

He feels like it's slowly killing him, and he recognises that one day it really will, that he'll get distracted in the middle of a fight, in the middle of a mission, and the 49th alias will have got itself as well as the bookman slaughtered by the same history they're supposed to be chronicling, killed by one of the same exorcists he's supposed to be not one of. Lavi tells himself how stupid he's being, how he should just take advantage of this brief existence, and flirt and laugh and fight until his time is up. He should just find pleasure in the warm sun and his friends and the seemingly endless string of giggling women and girls falling over themselves to be seduced by the sparkling green eye and dashing eyepatch above the handsome grin.

Lavi hates himself for not being in control.
Lavi knows he's not even real.

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The bookman-in-training predicts that this tendency will lead to extreme emotional, and possibly physical, trauma for the alias and notes that intervention, and perhaps even deletion, may be necessary to prevent compromise of the records and permanent damage to itself. The alias' feelings are intended only to complete the disguise. They are a means to an end, not an end in themselves.

Kanda doesn't know what he wants, other than to skewer Lavi with Mugen, so that, with the damn rabbit's guts all over the floor, he can finally have some peace and quiet in his own head.

Lavi wants Kanda, wants Kanda to want him, wants Kanda's hot breath and angry voice in his ear, on his neck, and Kanda's hard, pale hands slamming into his chest until they bruise.

The bookman wants nothing, has no desires, but feels compelled to fulfil its purpose in recording history. Nothing can be permitted to interfere with that goal.

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*ANGST* *pines* did you like?

o-o I just realised how I have this horrible tendency to write long list sentences, that go on like this, and then a bit more, and then just a bit more, with another metaphor at the end like this.

*wail*

I think this could be like the prologue for a really angsty story…does that sound like a good or bad idea? I dunno if I could even write it. I'm not good with the whole plot thing…..

Don't forget to REVIEW because reviewers get to make REQUESTS ^^ and if everyone hates my writing style, that's useful so I can change it..

Also free cookies and lavi plushies?

Thankyou for reading 3333