Reaching for dreams
All in all, everybody had always said Kanda's imagination was limited.
And it was, he knew, and he never protested much over it. Unless they were hinting it was due to his lack of brains, in which case he did take offence and the perpetrator was promptly impaled on Mugen.
Komui thought it was a very sad and very heartbreaking loss for the young samurai. He said the lack of imagination was tragic and needed to be fixed. This of course led to the science department being utterly destroyed in very imaginative ways which did nothing to help 'the lack of imagination' argument.
Allen didn't mind. He said that he made up for his lack of imagination in other ways.
Of course, if Allen didn't mind Kanda didn't either. He found imagination was a stupid thing and the last thing he need was a dose of more craziness in his already hectic life. He was just fine without it.
Despite Kanda's lack of creative thought process, it did not; in fact protect him from the dreams that came.
Sometimes the dreams were full of blood and the anguished cries of Akuma, and sometimes they took place in a location far from the bloodshed of the holy war.
But always, always they were the best dreams he'd ever had.
In these dreams, it was just him and Allen – nobody else. They were alone. But it wasn't the stifling aloneness like when they were on a mission, of the awkward aloneness when they were well aware Lavi and Lenalee were listening at a door.
No, this aloneness full of a calm, unwavering serene air. It didn't matter if it were in the middle of a battlefield or in the woods choked with miles of green ivy.
And things were beautiful.
Allen himself a pure image of a smiling tranquil face, his eyes showing inner peace with himself, his body healthy and without internal blemish.
It was just Allen. No one else was outside and more importantly, nobody else was inside that head.
There was no fourteenth, no destroyer of time. Just a young boy in the middle of a silent field dressed in the robes of an exorcist but doing no fighting. No killing. Doing nothing a young boy should not be doing.
And then he would wake up.
And there was fighting. There was killing. There was bloodshed. And, there was another personality slowly eating away at his lover's heart and mind.
And the dreams were suddenly not so pleasant.
He wondered if it was because of his lack of imagination that those simple dreams of unobtainable hope came to taunt him well he slept.
He supposed it didn't matter.
Because for those precious few seconds he felt like he could be happy. Like they could be happy.
God, how he hoped those dreams never ended.