A/N: Yeah, okay, so I've already got a Kuro/DGM crossover going. But I found this idea trawling through my old stuff and realized that it didn't have to be the full-out story I'd planned and never managed - it makes a half-decent oneshot, too. (I'm trying to copy down everything I write this year so I know how much I write in a year. So far, I'm up to almost a hundred thousand words, and this is BEFORE I get down the excess junk I wrote in my journals since February.) (I'm pretty sure it's going to come to a hundred fifty thousand by the time I'm finished copying.)
Title: Pit-Pat Goes the Rain
Author: liketolaugh
Rating: T
Pairings: None
Genre: Friendship
Warnings: Vaguely mentioned character death
Summary: Ronald is a cuddly drunk. It figures that he doesn't always get all the way to a home in time.
Disclaimer: I only wish I owned D. Gray-man. Don't own Kuroshitsuji, either.
The rain wasn't pouring from the sky, exactly. It was too thin and slow for that. But it was too thick to be a simple drizzle. It was, in the end, just rain, the kind that could reduce the most excitable to a lethargic flop.
It was in the midst of this that a redheaded man, seemingly oblivious to the oppressive atmosphere, stumbled drunkenly along, nearly fell over, and caught himself on a wall.
He lingered there for a moment, then started to laugh for no apparent reason.
"Lawnmower!" he said, loudly and abruptly. He giggled a moment, then caught himself and frowned. "I… I wan' my lawnmower!"
His insistence fell flat in the silence, otherwise broken only by the patter of raindrops. He pouted, then decided to take another stumbling step forward. This caused him to trip over his own feet and tumble into an alley, barely missing a stack of crates.
One of his flailing arms caught something warm and earned an instant protest.
"Hey! Watch it!"
He started hard and turned his head, bicolored green eyes landing on a gaunt, auburn boy, scowling at him tiredly but ferociously. He grinned drunkenly.
"Hey, ki… kid," he greeted. "W-whatcha doin' out…" He frowned. "Out here?"
"Sleepin'," the boy snapped, eyes dark in the dimly-lit alley, flashing angrily.
"Oh." The man brooded over that for a moment, watching the boy bite his lip and shiver. "Why're ya sleepin' ou' here?"
"I don't sleep nowhere else, idiot," the boy snapped. "Go home. You're drunk."
The man blinked. "I am?" he asked, genuinely surprised. He thought about that for a moment. "That ex… explains a lot."
"Bet it does," the boy muttered grumpily. "Go away, drunk. I was tryin' ta sleep."
The man looked at him, expression slightly pathetic. "But I don' wanna!" he whined. "It's… it's… cold at home!"
"It's colder out here!" the boy growled at him, more annoyed by the second, still shivering. "Lemme alone!"
The man ignored his last words entirely. He did this by launching himself at the boy, wrapping his soaked form around the boy's, letting out a contented sound a moment later.
The boy thrashed violently. "Lemme go!" he demanded.
The man let out another whine. "But you're warm," he whimpered. The boy growled at him. He didn't let go. The boy squirmed. No response.
Then the man let out a snore.
He had fallen asleep.
The boy let out a huff, squirming for a moment longer before he gave up, slumping against the man's form, letting his head rest on his arm. Gradually, he relaxed, listening only to the patter of raindrops and the drunk man's slow breathing, beer in his breath. The boy's eyes drifted closed, and soon, he, too, was asleep.
Once again, the only sound in the street was the splattering pitter-patter of raindrops.
Ronald woke up with a sore body and a pounding headache, shivering hard. Also, there was a warm body pressed to his.
Now, normally he had no problem with this, against regulations or not. On the other hand, normally he would be in a warm, dry bed, and the body would be about the same size as him.
He grimaced hard, letting out a groan as he turned his head and the unforgiving sunlight hit his eyelids.
Eventually, he worked up the nerve to open his eyes, letting out a piteous moan at the light searing his retinas, driving a nail into his skull.
He looked down, trying to spare his eyeballs, and found a small bundle curled up against him. A kid.
Great. He must've been too drunk even to find a girl and instead found some random kid to cuddle.
Outside. In the cold, and the wet.
"I told ya ta go home," the kid muttered suddenly. Ronald startled hard as the boy pushed himself up, rubbing groggily at one eye.
"Sorry," Ronald apologized, voice rough, smiling sheepishly. He reached out to ruffle the boy's hair. "Cuddly drunk."
"I got that," the boy muttered, swatting at his hand with a scowl. "And cut that out!"
The slightly raised voice made Ronald wince as his headache spiked. "Okay, okay," he grumbled, shying away from the light and noise. "I'm Ronald. Who are you?" He'd like to watch for the kid's name. Looking at his situation, it'd probably be sooner rather than later, and he usually preferred a little warning before he reaped someone he knew.
They didn't seem to think of that when they determined that children were best reaped by reapers they knew, if they knew one at all.
The boy, though, just snorted bitterly. "No one."
Alright, then. Ronald tried again. "What's your name?"
"Don't got a name."
Great. So he'd have no warning. Shame. He liked the kid. He decided to call him Red. He acted on this decision immediately.
"Well, Red, I better get home." He pushed himself unsteadily up, using the wall for support. "Nice to meet you, and, uh, sorry for molesting you unexpectedly."
The boy grunted. "'S fine," he mumbled. He leaned back against the wall. "Go away."
Ronald did, and the world spun on.
He never reaped the kid he'd called Red, but around a decade later, he took the soul of a boy with shocking white hair and the same silver eyes.
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