When I think about how dgm might end, I always feel that regardless, Allen won't be happy.
If he kills the Earl, then he's killed Mana. If he erases Neah, he's prioritized his life over Neah's. Will he be welcomed back at the Order? Will he find a home? Who will he be, at the end of it? Who is Allen, if he isn't the harlequin picked up by a wandering pierrot?
And so it goes, Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.
One for me and one for you
(please, wait for me)
"Allen."
At his name, he turned, a halfhearted gesture, gaze slowly tearing itself from the neatly planted rows.
Link stood behind him, hesitant and all at once out of place. His clothes, even rumpled, didn't belong in the vineyard, and neither did the strain in his eyes and around his mouth.
Or perhaps it did, Allen mused, turning back to the field. What else did one come to a vineyard for but to relax?
Each plant with its own burrow, every carefully made row of dirt, the grass that grew between, all in its rightful place.
Allen seemed even more misplaced, and the looking-glass showed him a man too old for the face he wore.
This was one of many haunts Allen had stayed at before, and he was welcomed once more even at the war's end, accompanied by two companions. They stayed in a house made of wood and brick, homely and small, a relief from all the towering homes Allen had laid claim to in the past.
"Allen," Link pleaded.
Relenting, he allowed Link to gently guide him by his elbow from the view over the hill, knowing his touch was light because Allen looked fragile as glass.
It was that perception that made it true, a damning prophecy Allen had relented to time and again.
Red, Allen, a weapon, an enemy, a friend, a past, no future— who?
"Allen, I love you. Please…"
Ah. That's who.
He smiled back.
Link had established a routine and Kanda, a creature of habit, took to it like fish to water.
Like Cross to wine, Allen thought a little deliriously, watching Kanda prepare tea. Every evening, before dinner, Allen sat and drank tea with Kanda.
In reality, he thought Kanda would have preferred sparring, but even Kanda held his tongue lightly around him. Not a chance to get a good fight in. Allen sipped his tea — still, even after all this time, relishing simple warmth.
Link set something on the stove to simmer, rich and earthy. Kanda won't like it, Allen thought, but he was reluctant to break the quiet moment over something nonsensical.
Slipping behind him, Link traced the line of Allen's shoulder and, when his head lolled forward, kissed his nape, tucking his too long hair —not mine, who's, since when— over his shoulder. Allen turned, plaintive, and Link easily scooped him up, taking Allen's seat and settling Allen on his lap instead.
Allen accepted the ready embrace, reaching under Link's arms and around to grasp at his back, tucking his face into the crook of his neck, smelling spices, earth, sun, and leather, but not fire, no. He breathed in deeply, and on his exhale felt the warmth reflected on his face. Link soothed a hand down his back, resting his cheek on Allen's head, simply cradling him. In Link's strong steady arms, Allen felt the bits of himself he couldn't quite grasp settle, like the world bowing before the pressure of a storm.
Kanda set his cup down with a soft clatter on the wooden table, chair creaking as he stood. Allen listened for him, one ear steady on Link's heartbeat, the other attuned to Kanda's quiet steps, the clank of the gas stove turning off, the subdued pour of stew into bowls.
He set three on the table and took his seat. Allen reluctantly let go of his grip on Link, opening his eyes and regarding the spread.
A simple loaf of bread, darker where Link had baked it too long, a pitcher of water, cups, bowls filled with a dark broth and meat, and the ready place between Kanda and Link.
Allen eased off Link's lap and gingerly sat in the straight-backed chair.
Years. They sat in silence, knowing what the pause meant, but reluctant to fulfill it.
They broke bread without prayers.
Routine continued, and Allen sat with his knees to his chest on the edge of the bed, watching.
Kanda patiently allowed Link to check and bandage the wounds that would not readily heal, and in turn Kanda soothed a salve over the burns marring Link's forearms. Allen watched — the smooth practiced glide, the methodical circles, the eventual drift towards Link's hands, taking them and interlacing fingers.
Kanda bowed his head and Link tilted to meet it, forehead to forehead, noses aligned but not quite kissing, eyes closed. Sharing, being, living, alive.
Allen waited, and the moment gradually eased. They came to him, a kiss on his forehead, his cheek, and, when they tucked him in between them, hands around his waist and sternum, anchoring him.
Between them, and all that entailed.
He nosed up under Kanda's chin, hands on his bare chest, tracing inconceivable patterns in the subtle shift of his fingertips. Kanda pulled him close, quelling the shaking.
"I'm here," he whispered, voice heavy, words passing over Allen's temple, in his hair, to curl around his ear. "You're here."
Not alone, not cold, not in a city too packed with people, not standing across from a man with a face far too familiar, but here.
Link's hand settled in the dip of his waist, shifting to be comfortable, a steady presence at Allen's back.
When they both fell asleep, Allen slipped away.
Under the shade of a fig tree, Allen watched Kanda.
He was kneeling, tending to a long stretch of soil he'd overturned, surrounded by infant rose bushes. He couldn't be as versatile as he'd once been, but beauty was always welcomed. The diseases that rotted the insides of grapes were the same ones that decayed rose petals. Surrounding the border of the vineyard, they'd be the first to die, in time to save the harvest.
Hidden here among the rows of swelling fruit, leaves filtering emerald sunlight, dappled on Allen's cheeks; here, he felt as far away as the memories from yesteryear.
He half lay supine on the trunk of the tree and nestled among its roots, scars open for all to see on his bared chest and clad only in worker's pants. Lethargy had settled inside of him, and he lifted a languid hand through the summer waves, falling short of the nearest bough, but close enough that if he sat straight, he could've grasped the rough bark.
There were no figs, but Allen already had his fill of fruits, grapes plucked and eaten messily, fingertips sticky. In a wicker basket beside him was a loaf of bread, a cut of cheese, all wrapped in cloth, and then surrounded by bountiful clusters of bruised blue grapes. Dropping his hand, Allen plucked a fruit loose, brought it to his lips, felt the flesh against them, parted them, and broke the skin.
Kanda sat back on his haunches, wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm. He surveyed the work he'd done, then turned over his shoulder to look at Allen. Kanda was close enough that Allen could see the blue of his eyes, but far enough that he couldn't see the glimmer of wet skin on his temple. Picking another grape, Allen held it out wordlessly.
Kanda swung to a stand effortlessly, dusting his hands free of loose warm dirt, dark stains still winding up his arms. Once he breached the shade he sighed, eyes fluttering close in relief.
He sat beside Allen, resting on his side and propped up by his elbow, legs stretched out to lay parallel to Allen's. On his back and only considered sitting by virtue of the tree supporting him, Allen pressed the grape to Kanda's lips.
Meeting his gaze, Kanda took the grape, bit into it and swallowed, then caught Allen's hand as it fell. Cradling it against his chest, Kanda leaned down and kissed Allen, taking the swell of his upper lip between his, sliding his tongue against Allen's when he obligingly parted them.
Sweet, sweet, Kanda tasted like the sun, nectar, hand hot where it held his, summer heat rolling off of Kanda in waves.
Kanda's hair slid off his shoulder and pooled on Allen's chest, and Allen arched his back, reaching up to wind his arms around Kanda's shoulders, pulling him close, making that summer heat coalesce between them.
The wind whistled high in the fig tree's leaves, a moment later lifting Allen's bangs off his damp forehead, blessedly cool. Kanda shifted, kissing the skin exposed, and Allen closed his eyes.
Hidden under the crown of barren leaves and under Kanda's protective embrace, existing here.
Allen knew that the longer he spent walking paths between the vines, the more worried Kanda and Link grew, but there was a fire in his bones, at his feet, urging him to keep moving. It licked at him whenever it pleased, early morning or mid night, propelling him to leave whatever task to just linger in walks.
The first few times they attempted to join him, but all he did was mindlessly walk. Up and down and down and up, across every row until the fire burnt to embers and smoldered out.
Kanda's wounds were nearly fully healed and Link's burns were becoming merely scars. Between the three of them they probably had a decade altogether, knowledge that spurred the life they'd settled here, at the end of a vineyard where no one would come looking for them. Roses bloomed along the outskirts, petals heavy and drooping.
In all this time, Allen hadn't spoken a word.
He'd run out of promises the day the world ended, when the man he'd sworn his life to breathed his last.
Mana Walker died, and with him so did his son.
Sliding from between Kanda and Link, Allen slipped to the edge of bed, searching for his shirt to pull on, if only because the nights were chilled.
Their home held only a kitchen, living space, bathroom, and bedroom. Allen stole through the night, feet light on the wooden boards he knew creaked. The wind outside blew the tails of his white shirt apart, but this late and this far out, there was no one Allen needed to mind his privacy for.
He liked the nighttime, like this. The field opened out under the heavy full moon, light shining on the edges of leaves, dull glow on the curves of fruit, gentle on his skin where the sun was harsh.
He stepped away from the dirt packed path at the foot of their door and into the grass, blades licking at his ankles. The hill their home sat on sloped down into the vineyard. Long ago, it was the watchman's house. Now, it sat empty but for when guests filled it. Allen was there only by the grace of the war that had stolen all it could from him.
Bitter was a good word. For the disgust, the hatred, the bone-tired exhaustion that ripped at him.
Lost was a better word.
He sat where the hill began to curve down, laying flat on his back, knees propped up. The sky felt overwhelmingly close, as if he could touch it if he reached, just like the fig tree.
No matter how many walks he took, or nights he spent staring at the sky, or hours lying under trees, Allen couldn't find his way back—
He drew his hands down, dragging his nails through the dirt, over his thighs, up his chest, and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, forcing back the tears. He'd cried rivers and oceans and nothing had changed, his grief hadn't abated and his past remained.
Kanda and Link were never given chances to be comforted or to comfort, and when the days stretched into weeks and months guilt had driven Allen further and further, into painful lingering walks and echoing dissonance that numbed his nerves into something manageable.
—grief had taken him and ruined him and Allen couldn't find his way back from the hole he'd tumbled down head first, reaching desperately after the shadow of a man who never even turned to look at him.
The tears spilled unrepentant down his cheeks and he desperately wiped them away, tired, tired, tired, but still unbearably sad.
Without his promises, his resolve, his past, he was nothing.
Not a son, not a man, not a lover or a friend or a weapon or anyone, nothing, no one—
The sound of footsteps on grass tore the last sob from him and he stilled, hands over his face, knowing that the nighttime would hide nothing.
They walked closer, Link hesitating before he sat to his right and Kanda kneeling to his left, calloused hands grasping at his wrists. His touch was so gentle it hurt Allen even more.
This was how they saw him — broken by grief and promises unfulfilled, so fragile that they did the best they knew how to make him better, painfully aware of where they fell short — and like all the times before, Allen fell victim to his own desperation, becoming whatever they wanted, needed, saw.
Kanda pulled Allen's hands back, meeting his eyes, and Link made a soft sound, as if the sight of Allen hurt his heart.
Allen's face crumpled in tears and he jerked at his wrists, but Kanda's grip was like steel, forcing him to bare his face.
"This has to stop," Kanda said, voice stern. His hair reflected all the starlight, his eyes somber blue in the night. He felt so much more human, now, body breaking down and barely healing.
Allen fought against Kanda's grasp, not wanting to be alone but ashamed of his plaintive sobbing, just wanting to cry long enough to fall into that pleasant numbness afterwards.
Instead of letting go Kanda lifted him up, pulling on his wrists so that Allen had no choice but to follow. Link slid close, slotting Allen comforting against his chest, turning him in so that Allen was tucked under his chin. Kanda released his hands only for Link to bring them between them, firmly embracing Allen.
Kanda scooted closer, enough so that Allen could feel his warmth at his back, and like this he cried between them.
Link subtly rocked, gentle, soothing. "You don't have to be alone," Link murmured. "Not anymore. Not ever. Not again."
Allen shook his head, mute, but grabbed at Link's shirt, wrinkling the fabric with the strength of his grasp.
"Do you know what it means?" Link asked quietly.
Allen stilled, lips parting but still wordless.
"When I say I love you?"
It wasn't the first time Link said it and was surely not the last, but the significance of the words sunk in, and Kanda's hand on his shoulder eased the trembling there.
"It means I love you, Allen," Link said, shifting to become comfortable, pulling Allen closer. Kanda moved, too, until Allen felt cocooned between them.
Link's hand found Allen's chin, tilted it up so that Allen met his eyes. His bangs had grown out some, enough to need a cut, and it brushed at his cheeks now, blond hair loose and falling straight.
"Don't leave us behind to cry, Allen. You can be with us. It's okay. We always notice when you leave, but you can stay. It's okay to stay."
Was it really?
The fever hot urge, desire, need, to rip himself from their arms and to stumble down the hill, up and down those neatly planted rows, going absolutely nowhere but moving all the same, filled him, scalded him, and his shoulders jerked abruptly as he shoved against Link's chest.
Link let him go only because Kanda was right there, hands clamping down on Allen's shoulders to steady him.
"Do you want to go?" Kanda asked. Allen stilled, breath short, before looking over his shoulder. Kanda's expression was steely and all at once sad. "We can leave. We can keep moving."
Link grasped Allen's hands, interlacing their fingers and squeezing until Allen looked at him. "We can go anywhere you want to — together, we can go wherever."
Maybe that's what Allen needed. Traveling, journeying, moving on and away. Not this miniature garden, leeching life from him to burrow into the fruit and wine. He felt bare as the fig tree, standing sentry over a harvest that had stolen its life, surrounded by beautiful wilting roses.
Slowly, Allen nodded his head.
Link's shoulders collapsed with his relieved sigh. He brought Allen close, hugging him to his chest and burrowing his face into Allen's shoulders.
"Tomorrow, then. For now, let's go inside and sleep some. It's late and we should be in bed."
Allen nodded again, and Kanda stood first, pulling Link to his feet and then Allen. At the threshold of their home, Allen looked back over the garden.
Cast in moonlight and empty, it felt surreal.
Resolve buried itself deep in Allen's bones. Here, he'd leave behind what he had been, and, just as before, he'd make himself again.
His home wasn't a place he could come back to but a heart instead, and if he took them with him, he didn't need to go wandering in search once again.
He looked at the fig tree, tall and alone, and offered it a wan smile. "I'll be back," he promised. At the end of his journey, he'd come back here.
It was time to keep walking.
A/N: Written for a friend who asked for a happy ending. I did a pretty poor job on it, though.
Thank you for reading! If you'd like more of dgm, you can find it on my ao3: nea_writes