Title: Via Dolorosa
Pairing: Kanda/Daisya, Theodore
Rating: G
Disclaimer: DGM belongs to Hoshino Katsura et al.
A/N: Kanda is not very good at fighting with himself, I figure.
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In a world where people are haunted, Kanda, of all ruthless people, would be one of the first people in line.
He knew this the very moment Daisya did not come back. He knew it when he saw him hanging there, the pitiful thing. And he knew it when he had to recall it for Theodore, for Theodore to understand.
He was so sad. That man, so sad. Kanda had never seen someone so sad before. Not in all his years working on his anatomy and Chinese; not in all his years in Britain, planning the gradual stop to his future; not in all his years following around this guy with the wannabe-father complex. The pitiful thing.
Kanda chews on the inside of his cheek; looking on, he can see that Theodore will never let go, carry on, do whatever he needs to do to start his art again.
How Kanda knows this, he would never say. It's just one of those things. Correct, that kind of pitiful thing.
Could he be using the wrong word? Could it be sorry?
Sorry, your son is dead now, so get over it.
Kanda looks on, scratching the tip of his nose. You, you were never his father, Theodore.
Kanda adjusts his collar and can't seem to get enough breath. He doesn't want to call it guilt. That's the last thing he would ever call it.
He watches Theodore in Mass, and Theodore goes on listening to the priest's droning sermon as if this is the answer to his prayers. A drone. A droning bee. Kanda hates the devotion in Theodore's eyes, the sleep-deprived entity under those eyes, the crawling-through-earth noises emanating from that entity. Oh it's all very impressive.
Your devotion is impressive, and I know exactly what you're going to do after this, Kanda thinks.
He waits behind Theodore, crossing his legs. No one sits anywhere near him. Kanda would only go to Mass if he could sit by himself, and still, if his tolerance wore out, he could leave. Up and leave. Go do something like drink the tea Lenalee likes to bring him or make jabs at Walker. Or do both while planning how to put a stop to his future.
But he's not going to let himself get away. Not yet.
He fingers his beads. They clink against his wrist bone. Theodore doesn't turn around. They warm his wrist bone. He thinks about an endless supply of rosaries.
The priest starts a prayer, and Kanda will not join hands with anybody. Forget it. He ignores the Creed. He doesn't give any thought to his boot, jittering in the air, leather and metal and unfit here. He catches a look someone throws at him and he thinks about giving them a gesture.
But he's not that ruthless. They are in the middle of Mass.
Haunted. Haunted. Even in the middle of Mass?
Yes, even in the middle.
Not the end?
Maybe the end.
Not the beginning?
Kanda humors himself for a bit while it lasts, hooding his eyes. There are footsteps heard, scuffing against his eardrums. Then he looks up to see Theodore taking an early leave. Kanda doesn't follow just yet; he waits for Theodore to reach the outer aisle, genuflect like an aged man, drag his hands over his thighs to fix his uniform, do this, do that, walk away, etcetera. The pity for all of this; it should all be a waste.
Kanda would have forgotten to follow him if he hadn't already premeditated on this so much. So much.
It's something so small. Nothing at all.
If there is one question to ask.
Kanda drags himself up at first, but steps lightly, Order members and ordinary people opening this gateway for him. He is the only one who can see it. The choir rejoices in their operatic voices. Lovingly, charitably, forgivingly.
If there is one question to ask, it's.
The back of Kanda's neck grows itchy with the image of a rosary hanging from Theodore's wrist.
If there is one question to ask, it's you will always be haunted by your father, Daisya.
Because it is a question. It is. In a way. You see, only Kanda knows this.
It is open, like that gateway. There is no answer. Nobody answers: open-ended.
Suddenly, he hears a prayer and Theodore is kneeling at the rows of lit candles, his old routine, and Kanda wants to tell him with all his ruthlessness, this is getting old, old man.
You didn't take the body and blood, old man.
You didn't wait to be excused this time, old man.
We're all just falling short, old man.
You see, Daisya had fallen short of a lot of things, and Kanda never got to say his piece.
You might as well rest in peace, old man.
Kanda gets tired of waiting around, alerting Theodore to his presence. I'm still here, he says. Then, to be nice and son-like, he kneels next to him, imparting silently.
Yuu, you must show proper etiquette here, Theodore says patiently out of the corner of his mouth. It is out of the corner of his mouth. It is predetermined. It is edited.
Kanda can see that Theodore is trying to find his peace.
Get over it, that's what Kanda should say, to encourage them both.
Theodore stops praying with his hands pressed flat together. He intertwines his fingers now so that he looks possibly more devoted. Kanda runs his tongue over the back of his bottom teeth. Bump bump bump. Cheap entertainment to keep his spirits from plummeting. It's how things go, you know, planning no future to your name. Shit like that.
He doesn't feel guilty. He feels cheap. Falling short.
General, Kanda tries to say. His tongue keeps him from finishing. He lights a candle with another candle. He bows his head and says, General, Daisya likes the five candles you lit.
It was only four the last time.
Then the three. . . They really hold no meaning, do they?
Theodore nods at the lit wicks. They nod at the lit wicks.
One day, Kanda says, Daisya told me he had learned more English from a prayer card an altar boy had given him. He had said learning the English was far easier than embracing the concept.
Theodore's throat swallows on its own.
The concept of God, Kanda amends, hardly amending.
Maybe Kanda shouldn't be saying such things after all. Maybe he should go on ahead to Jordan, Jerusalem, wherever, alone, with the others trailing behind, wondering aloud what his problem is.
Theodore gives no indication that he appreciates any of this. He continues looking old.
But he said, Kanda adds, he said because you had advised him to, that he decided to learn this way. Talk about a cross to bear.
Theodore then looks on at Kanda, eyes crinkling, forehead furrowing, glasses the color of intuition-institution. Again, he doesn't appreciate Kanda's outward attempt at dark humor.
The whiskers on his chin appear like gray sky in the candlelight.
The choir finishes with an alleluia.
And Kanda's father bends over, smelling of Bibles and chalk. I light them for you, he says, voice like an alleluia.
Roles reverse, and Kanda.
Kanda is such an old man, with feeling, bearing that cross of his.
He will never feel Daisya's brushing kiss on his ear again; he will never discuss religion or Turkish delights or killer sport again; he will never refuse to return the affection again; he will never feel, this way, again.
Daisya haunts them, yes. But.
The answer is:
Kanda haunts him.