So this story has been sitting on my computer for years, and as such, does not coincide perfectly with cannon because I wrote it without knowing the things I do now. So yeah.
Pairings include: Allen/Tyki, Allen/Road(one-sided), Allen/Kanda, Lavi/Lenalee, with eventual Allen/Kanda/Lavi/Lenalee because I want them to be a big happy family, okay?
Warnings for: death, violence, language, vague sex, homosexual relationships, polygamous relationships (but not as a kink, but for warm fuzzy feelings), slow updates.
Mending the Divide
He connects the dots with his mind, creating imaginary lines between the stars. Constellations form across the sky, abstract pictures creating arbitrary symbols of hope, guidance and history. It's the seven stars of the bible that stand out in his mind. Seven glittering diamonds, a single shape, with so many names that try to capture and pin down an impossible true meaning: Butcher's Cleaver, Plough, Great Wagon, Steelpannetje, Otava, Sapta Rishi, Hokutoshichisei, Bukduchilseong, Buruj Biduk, Big Dipper.
It guides him to Polaris and takes him to where he needs to go for duty.
"Hey! Carlo! That you over there?"
The footsteps over are quick, awkward, and muffled by the grass.
Carlo turns calmly on his heel, fixes his expression to kind and mature, and becomes the best older and wiser brother-type anyone could ask for.
"Ermanno? What are you doing out here? Aren't you leaving early tomorrow morn for the army?"
Ermanno grins; his teeth a jumbled mess that piles all over one another. He scratches at his mop of mud brown hair goofily. "Too excited to sleep. Besides, I was sent to find you." He casts Carlo a sly look. "Viviana wants to talk to you."
Carlo rolls his eyes. "Viviana always wants to talk to me."
"Oh Carlo, you wound me! Viviana is the prettiest thing for miles, and to you? It means nothing. I wish she'd look my way. I'd give my left arm for just a taste."
Carlo gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder, just one, and careful not to let his hand linger. He gives an amused smile, ignoring the memory of a left arm that condemned its owner to walk a path lined with sorrow. "There are more important things in the world than pretty girls you know."
A sudden thought seems to hit Ermanno as he straightens his back, puffs his chest out, and gives a crooked grin with crooked teeth. "That's why I'm off. I'll fight for this land of mine. Those Ethiopians should've honoured our treaty. And Russia, helping them," he spits black spoon-fed hatred. "I may be a boy now, but soon I'll be man. I'll come home a hero. That's when I'll get myself a beautiful woman and start a family. That's when I'll be someone."
Apathy coats Carlo's insides like an old comfortable sweater; the wool is weaved from the fibres of a freely given up childhood, of parchments piled endlessly high, of scathingly accurate memories, recordings that belong to history and not to him.
Carlo records Ermanno's proud stance, his naïve dreamer grin with teeth so misplaced it consumes his tanned farm-boy face. He records everything, from the apple crisp night that smells of sweet hay to the patterns wind-brushed onto the durum wheat field. He records as a small ignored voice screams from a heart that doesn't exist. Fool. No glory. You'll break. Death. Too heavy. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Instead he says, "Just keep a cool head out there, Ermanno. When you return and we meet again, I want you as undamaged as possible."
Ermanno's expression turns strange and thoughtful. It's a face that he doesn't usually wear. Carlo tilts his head and analyzes it in the sudden silence.
"Come with me," the farm boy says at last. He says it with such conviction that Carlo almost sees another face, scarred and captivating, from a different time. "It's not too late."
"Eh? I'm not really much of a fighter, to be honest. I'd be useless out there. I'm more of a bystander. An observer, really." He grins sheepishly. "I'm more than a bit pathetic when it comes to action."
Carlo can read Ermanno's suspicious and annoyed face with ridiculous ease. He can see Ermanno's mind working, thinking, Liar. I'm not stupid. You can fight. I know it.
Only everyone knows it. It's Carlo's worst kept and not meant to be kept secret. Aniela has a generous and forever chattering mouth. She just happens to be the younger sister of Claudio, the brazen dunderhead that trails after Viviana step for step. Sadly, Viviana's fluttering doe-eyes shine for Carlo alone.
It'd been moonless the night that Claudio decided to ambush Carlo. He'd been with Serge, his brother in all but blood, when they decided to flank him near the woods to teach him what was what.
Carlo had grinned then without humour, before moving like the wind, silent, and ending it all before the first battle cry was even uttered.
Rumours and crazily built up stories had spread like wildfire. Carlo had only shrugged at the curious glances. He'd expected it.
He isn't sticking around long enough for it to really matter anyways.
"Do it for Her, Italy. You're too modest. You can fight. Everyone knows it. Come with me. We will set the world right with these hands of ours." Ermanno spreads his hands wide, palms open, in invitation.
Carlo favours him with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, but no. I'm but a simple writer. I assure you I am much mightier with ink and paper than I am with a weapon. I will write for Italy," he says with equal conviction, expression spinning sincerity into it. "That is the greatest thing I can do, trust me."
Carlo watches Ermanno's brow loosen as misplaced brotherhood floods into the cracks of his inexperienced heart.
Ermanno smiles and Carlo mimics the gesture, not even bothering to think how easy it is. How easy it always is.
"I will tell Viviana that I could not find you."
"I'd appreciate that," he says means it for once.
"I don't know when we'll meet again …"
"But we will meet."
Ermanno nods. "We will."
Carlo nods back, face carefully warm but expectant. We will meet again, it says. Lies, he knows, but that doesn't matter.
They part in amiable silence.
Carlo sighs in half annoyance and half amusement the moment Ermanno is out of earshot.
"And here I thought I could get away without running into anyone."
He checks the position of the stars, determining it to be just past midnight. He heads north, seven stars showing him Polaris. He pictures the elegant font of the old panda in his head, clear as the day he'd read it, telling him of the meeting place at dawn.
Carlo steps farther and farther away from this small village, never bothering to look behind as his recordings are complete. With every step he feels himself shedding skin. Carlo peels away, cracking and fading into the air.
Bookman Junior has no smile as he falls back into the folds of a timeless existence. Time is but a thing to record; it's something he can't be part of.
.
.
"Thank you so much Dr. Lee, how can I ever repay you? It's your day off, isn't it? I owe you something special." An old hand like leather, wrinkled with time, clasps a smooth and dainty one.
Dr. Lee laughs like summer rain. "You can repay me by getting plenty of rest Mr. Chin, I've heard the rumours. You're not as young as you once were."
His laugh contrasts against hers, sounding as if his throat is lined with gravel. "If I'm alive I might as well live."
Her eyes harden and become steel. "But you're going to be good for me and not do anything strenuous for a month, right?"
The silence that passes feels like a dark and dreaded thing under her doctor gaze of doom.
"Right," he cows.
She brightens immediately. "Excellent! Now you best be on your way before your wife comes looking for you."
"But you're much prettier company."
"Hmm?"
"Like a ray of light to the matrimonially bound man I am."
"I see. Well, I hope for your sake she never hears that. It's been said that her fury is like a storm. A storm where lots of people die."
I don't think she could compete with your fury though, Dr. Lee."
"Hmm, what was that? I don't think I head you properly."
He doesn't miss her chilled tone. "I … um … I said I best get back to my wife."
"Good idea. Now I want to see you in two weeks, alright?"
"Yes Ma'am.
Dr. Lee helps him to the door, mindful of his walking stick. His arthritis is getting worse, and she knows that he sometimes has problems keeping his balance.
With Mr. Chin gone she starts to pack up her tools into a soft leather bag. She mechanically cleans everything up, deft hands moving quickly. It's been a year since she's opened her own clinic, and already she's use to this life style. It's her own little bubble of a world that closes in around her, much like being wrapped in a blanket that's been sunning all day. She'd used money given to her by the Vatican to set up shop; they owed her that much at the very least.
Four years she had trained, immersing herself in medicine, focusing in on it with such single-mindedness that she could see that worry lingering on her brother's face. She had smiled her best for him, but she wouldn't slow down. She'd remembered all the people that she couldn't save in the final battle (looking for a flash of white hair, Where are you? I need you? You promised, you promised me!) and her resolve hardened.
She hears the door opening behind her. "I'm sorry I'm closed today, please—"
"My sweet Lenalee! I've missed you. Tell me you've missed me too!"
She heaves a sigh. "Brother, what are you doing here? I was just on my way home."
"I thought we'd go out for breakfast. There's this new dumpling house. They are trying to revolutionize the way we eat dumplings. Breakfast dumplings, lunch dumplings, dinner dumplings. It's all a little odd, but let's go! Besides, I haven't seen you in two weeks. Why didn't you come home after your mission? I mourned your absence all night."
Lenalee's mouth becomes a hard line. "Brother, is Reever expecting you at work this morning?"
"Oh," he says dismissively before shrugging, "he'll get over it. More importantly, come give me a hug."
Or a kick, that works too.
Komui nurses his swollen cheek, his mood finally subdued. "So your mission went well I hear."
Lenalee takes out a folder from a locked drawer and hands it to him. "Here's my report. It was just a couple of level twos. The amount of Akuma still lingering has faded considerably."
She gives him a wry smile. "You're going to be out of a job soon."
"I do more than just look for stray Akuma," he huffs.
"If you do even that. When's the last time you did anything useful?"
Lenalee straightens as she sees how her brother's demeanour suddenly changes, smooth and gradual, like silk being unravelled. He looks nostalgic, something warm but melancholic moulding his features. "I found her."
She perks up. "Who?"
"The one Kanda's looking for."
Lenalee feels her heart race at the name. Long black hair similar to her own and midnight blue eyes that were never nurtured to properly express warmth. His voice is harsh, quiet yet penetrating. She hears it still ringing in her ears, saying, Do what you want.
She wants to ask a million questions about him, but she has no right to ask them. "Have you told him yet?"
"I've contacted headquarters, but he was on a mission at the time. I left them a message and the documents should arrive there shortly." Komui sees his sister fidget with her gaze cast downward.
"He's doing fine," he tells her, putting a hand on her shoulder to bring her close.
"I left him," she says miserably.
"He had a choice, as did you. You left no one. He's not mad at you."
"He'd never leave headquarters, I know that. I left him. He's too stubborn to believe he needs anyone. He's lonely and he's too stupid to realize it." Her voice is deep-rooted with guilt. "I made you come to China with me too."
"No, I decided to come home with you. This is where we were before. The war is over so now we can go back to our daily lives."
"I don't remember life in China. It's all blurry." All she remembers are voices that were once filled with warmth, life, and laughter. They quickly become choked screams, soon replaced with voices telling her how precious she is, her and her innocence that will save them all. You can never leave, you are chosen by God.
She hugs him close, fingertips pressing into the strong back that would take all her grief if she ever allowed it. She never will. She doesn't want him to shatter for her, all with that loving smile that would deny her nothing.
"We're here to take back what was taken from us." He smiles suddenly, easy. His eyes are bright with mirth. "Now let's go eat! Before Reever checks to see if I'm here."
"Brother!"
"Come, food!"
"I don't want to hear anymore from you! If you say anything that's going to make me angry I'll stop making you coffee. I'll make it for everyone but you. You're the reason I fear for Reever's health every day."
The wail Komui howls after her as she walks out is long and terrible on the ears. She ignores him easily while muttering dark words about older brothers.
And if she happens to miss the sadness that flashes on his face while heading out into the muggy morning air, well, that's fine with him.
.
.
He leans on the hard knuckles of his hand, mindlessly staring out the window. The sun is at its peak in the sky lording over the green of the landscape. He closes his eyes in boredom at the passing scenery.
The train rumbles over the rails and Kanda meditates. He clears his mind until it flows with the relief of nothing but images of flowers, soft, pale, and over blooming. He forgets about his recently completed mission, a level three that barked with too much laughter while it spun with fire. He'd killed it in one fluid swipe like it was nothing.
He forgets about everything. He rids his mind of the past, never looking to the future. He focuses on the here and now and the tranquility he finds in these moments of silence. Kanda can't imagine any kind of future for himself; always empty of content and cut short. Trying to imagine a future makes his body seize with something; a clenched hand brought to a tattooed chest and eyes that refuse to see. His past is a joke, the kind that would humour the sadistic and deranged.
He's been made to be tough and durable, but also disposable. Kanda helped them win their war, and he's surprised that he's still alive.
He still has use though. His arms are still strong and his movements still swift. He can still kill with the best of them, all in the name of some laughable God. Mugen is a comfortable weight at his hip, filling him with purpose and assurance. To Kanda it's the only companion he needs.
People come and go, but his sword remains with him always. Swords don't leave when everything's done and over, detaching from reality. Swords don't get broken over death and run away to the past. Swords don't go off against orders only to die and never be found.
His heart wrenches but he knows it's nothing. He's a warrior, a soldier, and that fact alone means that nothing stirs his heart.
The train reaches its destination mid-afternoon and he heads back to headquarters, travel bag slung over his perfectly straight back.
.
.
Sunset is fast approaching, and with it so is his pace. He weaves in and out of the bustling crowd, steps light on the chilled and chipped cobblestone. Cold air sweeps through the town, the frosty bite of it sends a slide of ice down his spine.
He licks his chapped lips and hugs closer a brown papered package. The glare of the sun catches his eyes, burning bright and striking the sky crimson.
He quickens still.
Almost running, his strides start to shorten, and he slows to a stop in front of a respectably sized house. The bricks are yellow in nature, but they glow and glitter when the rays strike at them just right, dusting them golden.
His chest aches at the sight. At sunset the fire from the sky sets fire to the house, flickering across the walls in warm, violent hues, reminding him of less pleasant times. Times of loss without finding, of cries and deranged laughter, of broken promises, and of a haunting lullaby that once threatened to conquer his world.
The gate clicks open with the release of a latch, and he plucks a white rose from the garden along the pathway. Weeds run rampant, but still can't overthrow the jewelled greens of the garden, with flowers spilling out of the beds, tall and so alive. These days the garden begins to recoil in the wake of the coming winter, but it fights for life with such mule stubbornness that the neighbours whisper words of witchcraft.
He enters a house that doesn't seem real with its glittering bricks and overly fertile plant life. It appears to be touched with magic, to be touched by God; he laughs and laughs at the thought, bitter and not at all sweet. Of all the things in God's domain, the inhabitants of this household are the last things to be blessed by His holy touch.
The stairs are silent with every step, his ears straining to hear any sign of life.
There are sounds, a soft broken chatter coming from the last door of the west wing. Hard solid boots move like a ghost down a wood paneled hallway. The framed golden eyes of the fallen adorn the walls and drink in his every movement like a heady red wine. He raps his knuckles a neat three times on the mahogany door, pausing a breath before turning the ornate brass knob.
The two in the room watch him as he enters with identical pairs of eyes that turn molten in the dying light of the setting sun.
"Hello," he greets, setting down his package on a nearby dresser. He takes off his coat, revealing long and crisp white sleeves, and drapes it on a plush chair.
"Allen!" Road pouts, "I haven't seen you all day. Will you play with me? Tyki is getting so boring in his old age."
Tyki chokes on his cigarette. "Old age? Thirty-three isn't that old Road. Aren't you even older than me anyways?" He sighs, deliberately long and deliberately suffering. He turns to Allen. "So boy, you don't think this old man is getting dull do you?
A wry smile and, "I don't think you could ever be dull Tyki."
Tyki grins lopsidedly, waves a hand dismissively, and heads towards the brown package.
Allen wanders to the window, feeling the draft that Road says doesn't exist and yes her bed is just fine where it is. "You know, I don't think I was ever told your age Road."
"And you never will." She sticks out her tongue, a pale pasty pink. "I don't look my age, do I Allen?"
Allen wishes she didn't look the way she did; tiny and kept propped up with a comical amount of pillows, her skin so pale and faded of life that she blends in with the bleached linens on her bed. Her bones jut out too sharply from her sunken and sallow skin, cutting into Allen with every disjointed movement made.
He swallows past the lump, pasting on one of his warmest smiles, the one reserved only for lies. "You look as ageless as you ever have. Whoever you end up with is going to look like a pedophile." Allen's tone is strung with easy humour. He's careful to ignore the longing in her eyes, distracting himself instead with the white rose that he's been rolling between his fingers. "And before I forget, a flower for you."
Road blinks, then squeals happily as Allen places the rose in her lap. Her voice hitches at the end, and she falls into a vicious coughing fit.
She stares at the blood freckling her hands with grim amusement. Road's eyes shine something sinister, her bloodless mouth curling at the corners as her cheeks dimple in silent, hysterical laughter.
"It's hilarious, isn't it? In the end I'm as weak as they are," she says, face coloured warmly from the still setting sun.
Allen only ever visits her at this time nowadays, when she seems the most alive with false colours painting her healthier with gold and orange and red and pink. During the day light only serves to wash her out and away. Night is the worst; silver moonlight casting deep and dreadful shadows that dig harshly into the gaunt hollows of her face, neck, and body. Road becomes a skeleton dolled up in a frilly nightdress, and Allen who's seen death in all forms can't stand it.
"Road, this isn't weakness." Allen puts a hand on her blanket covered lap.
She snorts, childlike, before her demented grin evaporates and leaves her looking so ageless he has to look away.
"Hmm … you would say that. Wouldn't you, Allen. But you don't know what weakness is." And she plucks off a petal, using it to wipe the blood from her hands in gentle rosy smears. She kisses the scarlet side, soft against her lips, and licks off the blood.
"Winter's coming," she continues after a long silence, opening the window a crack to discard the petal.
Allen watches as the wind carries it out of his sight.
Tyki turns around from the dresser where he has busied himself. The bare skin of his hand clings to a little plastic cup swollen halfway with liquid, appearance like dark purple tar. His hair is tied back loosely at the base of his neck with the curls sticking to his black dress shirt.
Allen watches the sway of Tyki's hair as he approaches Road's bed, gaze drifting to the exposed collarbone that frames the top of his torso so invitingly. Allen imagines tracing it with gentle fingertips, the pads whispering across it and along the hollows. Images of tongue and teeth go along with it, firmer and slick with heat.
Allen shuts as eyes as Tyki hands Road the cup, her nose scrunching up in displeasure. He doesn't imagine farther than that.
Road chokes down her medicine, whining all the way.
"That tastes disgusting."
"That's not the point of it Road," Tyki says.
She huffs in his general direction, but then takes his hand into hers, squeezing it weakly.
"Allen, you should stop bringing me back medicine and bring me back candy instead."
"You know I can't do that."
"Do it sometime in the near future. Please?"
"Oh fine. I'll bring you candy, but you still need to take your medicine."
She looks out the window, Tyki's hand still in hers. "I promise, but only for now. I'll eat only candy in two weeks."
"Why?" he asks, swallowing the pain he feels with the kind upward curve of his lips.
She beckons him closer, taking his hand. She hugs both their hands to her forever flat, undeveloped chest. Her lungs rattle with every breath.
"I'm sorry Allen, but it won't matter when winter comes."
.
.
"So where are we going now?" Junior asks.
"We're going home," answers Bookman.
Junior's face freezes. There is only one place that Bookman calls home, and it's the one place he's never been. It's where Bookmen are born and fade into that timeless space between existence and death.
He's carefully impartial. "Does this mean that—"
"It means you have one final task. It will be given to you there, you will be sent out alone, and you will return when it is completed."
Junior grins. "You won't be able to tell me what to do anymore after this."
He gets a good wallop to the head as a response.
"Owe, that hurt Panda."
"I'll be able to tell you what to do until the end of time, you brat." Bookman gives his apprentice a hard look. "You'll meet the others there."
"I don't suppose they'll greet me with much love, will they."
"They'll respect your space."
"And send sharp glares at me behind my back."
"Does this bother you?"
"Nope. Not at all."
"Good. Now let's get going."
.
.
Komui watches as his sister twists a smile on her face, and it isn't pretty. He finds the curve of her lips too sharp at the corners, her lips pressed together tight. Komui notices how her jaw clenches and locks together without the forgiveness he thought the years might nurture.
He can feel the anger rolling off her in waves, fierce tumbles of dark liquid fury. It laps into his hands, fingers twitching in a way they haven't in years.
"He's coming here," she questions what isn't really a question. She hears him correctly and he knows that.
"He is," he confirms anyways.
Her rage grows deeper. "Send me off on a mission. I don't want to be here when he arrives."
"It won't matter."
Her eyes narrow terribly, her voice forced out flatly. "And why not?"
"He's doing a follow-up of the war. You were a key player." That he will search for her until he finds her is left unsaid but understood.
"Fine," she snaps, "he can observe and record his damn history. But you tell him that I don't want to hear or see him anymore then I have to."
She leaves him in the dumpling shop, the click of her heeled boots falling into the distance.
To her, Lavi is as good as dead. Just as she made her choice, he made his. And if he is willing to throw his comrades away to the pages of history, no attachments whatsoever, then she is willing to do the same with him.
.
.
Kanda steps into headquarters with mud-caked boots, his gait smooth, strong, and solid. Those before him scramble off. His cold rage is legendary among the halls of the order.
Sometimes there are whispers of those that could hold their own against him. The previous chief that uses the right words only when it matters, a female exorcist that everyone admires in one way or another. There are words of a deceased fatherly general that cried as much as he smiled. There'd been a boy with a head of red that knew just how far to push before dodging away from the swipe of a sword, simultaneously terrified and amused. One finder speaks at length about the Destroyer of Time, a fearless boy that faced Kanda's rage at every encounter.
No one is left now. They have relocated, died, or moved on. It suits Kanda just fine. He finds his life less annoying and noisy now.
"K-Kanda."
Kanda turns and finds a small and meek Finder. They look for Akuma instead of innocence these days. Others try to find the traitors that assisted the Earl for personal gain.
"What do you want?"
The man sinks into the collar of his uniform just like a turtle shying into its shell. "Th-the chief. He w-wants t-to see you."
"Che." Kanda nods at the man, a sharp quick tilt that makes the Finder jump.
The Finder runs to the cafeteria happy to be unscathed and alive. The rhythm of his feet sounds a jumbled mess when compared to the even and steady strides leading the opposite way.
.
.
Allen's lips press against the pulse point of Tyki's neck, not really a kiss but heated breaths firmly caressing skin. His teeth scrape over the racing pulse while a deformed hand slides down Tyki's back leaving dripping red lines.
Allen groans. The sound is low and guttural and takes him back to his days on the street, passing crumbling alleys where common whores served their customers. A finger slides inside him with practiced ease and he forgets to breathe.
When it's over he is sticky with sweat, saliva, and semen. Flush against Tyki and warm, he sighs with a hand curling into the other's thick hair. Allen feels relaxed and ready to fall asleep. Tyki's face is nosed under the line of Allen's jaw.
Dark hands slide down Allen's body to rest on the hip. "You need to talk to her."
Tyki can't see Allen's face, so Allen doesn't bother to hide the pain that takes hold of it, voice concocted to be casual. "I talk to her everyday."
Tyki's sigh feels heavy against Allen's jugular. "Don't play dumb Boy. Neither of us are fools, so don't pretend that we are."
There's a hollow feeling threatening to consume Allen, forming low in his stomach and forcing its way upward until he wants to choke. Dry humour comes out instead, "I'll stop pretending when you stop calling me Boy. I'm not that young anymore."
"You never had the chance to be young. So I don't want to hear any excuses from you." Tyki traces the cross on Allen's hand with calloused fingers. "I'll stop calling you Boy when your gusto returns to you. You were always a little dark, but ridiculously optimistic in a pessimistic way, at the same time. Somehow." He pauses. "Running doesn't become you Walker."
Allen says nothing.
"You know your silence is hurting her."
Allen swallows back the thickness that feels like rancid honey. "I know," he says. "I'll talk to her." He has to.
"You should do it soon. It'll mean more to her if you go see her during the coming full moon. Not at sunset like you usually do. She wants you to see her for how she is."
"I know," Allen says again. He pictures death in a nightgown, the harsh streak of crimson dripping from a small mouth that grins in misplaced mirth.
"She loves you."
He leans himself further into Tyki's arms. "I know that, too." Guilt fills him, swollen and painful.
It heat starts up slow and stays that way. Unbearable, but needed.
Allen takes Tyki's cock in his mouth as deep as he can before Tyki take him again as deep as he can.
Allen's cheeks burn where Tyki's tongue licks and scorches a hot trail.
"Salty," Tyki breathes into his ear with a sharp upward thrust of his hips.
Allen gasps, face now moist with spit instead of tears.
.
.
"Going back to the Order? I never thought I'd see those guys again." Junior stares into the vastness of the desert. The wind is dry against his lips, sand blown into all the various folds of his clothing.
The task is simple and substantially less dangerous than the last time his task involved the Black Order. It's just a simple follow-up. He tries not to think about how closing the book on this one historical event leaves him feeling oddly numb.
Bookman Junior is to go to headquarters and the Asian branch. Bookman is going to go to the other branches with the second in line successor.
It's frighteningly easy how effortlessly he can recall memories from that time period. It's never been hard or tasking to recall his recordings with inhuman accuracy and detail, but it's the fluid, welcoming ease that wraps around them that unsettles him so.
He thinks of headquarters. There's the image of a perpetual scowl on a beautiful but cold face; Kanda Yuu, known as the ice warrior. Junior has always thought otherwise. Kanda feels just like the rest of them, he just doesn't know what to do with his emotions. Kanda stomps down on his emotions to such a degree that the container he's created for them is disturbingly small.
It's funny, Junior thinks, how Kanda takes any unwanted or complex emotion and forces it to becomes something simple. It becomes something he can understand and work with. Anger mostly, he remembers, as the memory breathes the breath of a sword at his throat.
Headquarters also bring the science division, though most of them followed Komui to Asia. It brings faces of those that played miniscule roles, many that aren't recorded into history. Most of them dead.
It brings forth a face that is branded all over the pages of the war, dead but remembered as the Destroyer of Time.
Gone.
He's headed to the Asia branch first and the exorcist that is registered there. Junior goes over the profile of her that's imprinted in his memories, but only receives the expression he'd caused when he left.
She'll never forgive me. He knows it and he's glad.
"Junior"
Junior tilts his head towards the owner.
"Dio," he answers. It's the name given to all immediate backup successors.
Dio is tall and lanky with long black hair. His eyes set deep and almond shaped. Junior barely glances him over. Despite Bookman's monotonous snipes at how Dio is more naturally impartial, Junior still finds that the dislike directed at him is not imaginary.
Dio was once called Junior, before they got a message arrived from Bookman claiming a new successor and apprentice.
Being the keepers of history means using only the best. But being respected as the one best suited for the job doesn't mean that you're liked any better.
"We both leave tomorrow. May our ventures be fruitful," he says the customary farewell flawlessly.
Ah, so he won't be seeing me off tomorrow.
Junior wonders if Dio realizes how bad at acting he is. He's too aloof, too flat. To record accurately you have to constantly border, almost breach that line of caring. You have to worm your way into people's hearts. People don't respond well to cold brick walls. You're allowed to make friends as long as they're the kind of friends you won't miss when they're gone.
To be Bookman means you have to break a lot of hearts.
Junior nods at him politely, ignoring the expected reply. "Take care of him, he's getting old."
"I don't need you to tell me that."
The bite in the tone makes Junior smile. Dio's brows furrow in distaste at the show of emotion.
The silence stretches while the desert winds howl around them.
Junior just smiles all the brighter and recites textbook words. "May the fruit we bear one another at our next meeting sweeten our knowledge."
.
.
Lenalee spends most of her time at her clinic. She loses herself in her work, patients and reports. This is her home. This is where she belongs. She may do some odd missions for the Order, but it's for herself too. She destroys the Akuma to keep her lifestyle. The war had been a tragic detour, one that should never have happened, but she is back on track with her life now. She's content living the life that had been hers once before, she has no need to be taken away from it again.
She has no need to see him again.
A head of fire-red hair, mischievous green eyes, and a lopsided easy grin. They all belonged to a person that was once part of her world. She would've burned this whole world to cinders for those that made up her world, him included. But he left her world willingly without a single glance back.
She remembers watching him leave from her window. He'd never slowed in his unhurried steps, eyes gazing off into something she could not see. Her brother called it the "Bookman stare". It's the stare that doesn't look at you but through you, gaging your worth in the weight of history.
"Lenalee."
She startles at her name and at the hand that is placed on her shoulder.
Komui stands behind her with a small frown. He's not happy that he is able to catch her unaware. It's troubling her more than he thought.
"Brother!" She forces a bright smile. "How impatient are you? You've been showing up here more than normal."
"I'm sorry to have to do this to you."
Her expression becomes blank. "Do you have a choice?"
"No."
"Then you have nothing to be sorry for."
Lenalee has always been slim, but looking at her now Komui finds she's too sharp and angular, the softness and curves weathered away by anxiety.
"You haven't been eating properly," Komui tells her, voice falling quiet.
"I've just been busy," she returns brusquely, not missing a beat. "For some reason everyone is falling off their ladders these days. I think it's Mr. Chin's fault. He was trying to show up all his fellow aging companions by fixing the roof himself. Trying to prove they're still able bodied or something. It's absolutely ridiculous."
"Lenalee …" He sees her trepidation. Komui takes a small step forward, but Lenalee takes one back. She looks away from him.
"I don't want to see Lavi again. I don't want to see the person that turned his back on everyone. Friends don't do that!"
"Lenalee." He wishes he could do more for her. "Lavi is your friend "
"He is not," she hisses, "my friend. He's dead to me."
"Lavi didn't leave you, it was Bookman Junior that left you."
"It's the same. He had become Lavi by the end. He left as Lavi." Lenalee's words become fierce and spiteful. "If he's not Lavi anymore it's because he killed that part of himself along the way."
"He's always been a Bookman first and foremost. It's what he's been training for his entire life." Komui always feels like he loses his wit around his sister. He's too emotional with her. He can't keep himself composed the same way. Finding the right words for the one closest to him is the hardest of all. It's all some terrible joke played on him, he's sure of it. "Just treat him as you would Bookman when he comes around. You don't understand. The Bookman "
" You," she breathes, "don't understand Lavi. You weren't there when, when we made our promises."
The four of them had stood with hands piled up on top of each other. Kanda had glared daggers at her as she held his hand in hers. He thought it was stupid sentimental bullshit, but she thought he was secretly pleased regardless, even if he didn't realise it. Lenalee had made them promise. They'd promised to live and return to her. They were to return home so they could make more memories together.
Komui bows his head. "You're right, I wasn't there. But I'm here now. And I'm asking you to call him Bookman. He's not Lavi anymore."
Lenalee laughs, too delighted to be real. "Oh, course I know he isn't Lavi anymore. Haven't you been listening?" Her tone turns cold but her voice remains airy as she speaks, "Lavi's dead to me."
.
.
Kanda's heart throbs in his chest in a way it hasn't for years. Danger doesn't send it off this time, but anticipation.
"Is this report correct?" he asks, firm and unyielding as always.
The man opposite to him is as tall as he is wide. He towers over everyone, including Marie. He's a severe sort of man, and wishes more of his subordinates were like Kanda. Personally, Kanda finds him pathetic, talking all the time with nothing important to say. He's the new chief: Robert Strap.
Called Dick Strap behind his back. Kanda often hears idiots giggle about it.
"It was sent to me by Mr. Lee," Dick Strap replies, fat moustache twitching as he growls out the words.
No more needs to be said.
"I'm going to need to take leave for a while." Kanda never looks away from steady stream of ink printed on the page. He's been waiting most of his life for this.
Strap's sigh reminds Kanda of the heaving that only a dying man can perform, heavy in
its finality. He lights a cigar. "As I expected. Shame. Such a shame. You're the only one I trust to get anything done."
Silence is Kanda's answer, his chin tilting just so to indicate he's listening and waiting.
"But as I said before, it's as I expected." He pats the sweat off his balding scalp with an ironed handkerchief, initials embroidered golden on the corner. "I trust you'll keep us posted to your whereabouts."
"Yes."
"And no dawdling."
"Understood."
"I don't know what the world is coming to these days," Dick Strap starts. "The moment that everyone realizes that the world isn't going to end anymore they start to slack off. The world's not going to run itself just because it's not in perilous danger anymore," he huffs, much like an indignant steam engine with his skin flushed red and his cigar chugging out thick coils of smoke.
"Sometimes people need to gather all that remains before they can start working to piece everything back together." Kanda closes his eyes. When the war ended, all that had been left for him was what he'd started with. Nothing.
"That may be so," Strap continues to huff, "but it puts more work on the shoulders of good men."
"Like you?" The razor sharp curve of Kanda's mouth goes unnoticed.
Strap nods. "Like me. Like you. Both of us. That said, I understand this errand of yours is important to you. So you be off as soon as you can. The sooner you leave the sooner you'll be back. I want at least one competent person around here. Understand?"
The paper in Kanda's hand feels like all the things he's never had. He grips it until his knuckles turn bone white.
"Understood."
.
.
The night is silent in a way that reminds Allen a little of the moment before the final battle. They'd stood positioned at the arc he had hummed into existence, everyone too intoxicated with fear, determination, and feelings of "this is it", to make a sound.
He feels it now in the thrum of his chest, and imagines himself all the smaller for it. This is nothing like then. The world doesn't depend on this.
No, but my peace of mind does.
Golden stares from the many frames haunt him, glowing yellow even with silver moonlight. He feels them judging him, looking through him, the family that he was forced into that hated the whole savage world. Sometimes he wonders what they see with their inhuman gaze, everything beneath them and below the ground they walk on.
He goes in without knocking, knowing that she's awake and waiting for him. And she is, her eyes finding his immediately in the night washed room.
"Allen," she says, calling to him from her giant mound of pillows. She smiles teasingly. "I was wondering if you were ever going to come in."
The door shutting behind him resonates with the past. The arc sealing behind him as he sets forth into battle. He felt stronger back then.
"Road …"
She smiles at him patiently. It makes Allen feel somehow warmer even though she appears to be touched by death.
"Don't just stand there," she laughs, ragged. "Come here silly! This is like a dream come true. I always wished you'd come by in the middle of the night to sweep me off my feet."
The bed is soft and comfortable. Allen sits on it just as Road beckons him to, trying not to flinch as she rests her head in the little crevice of his shoulder.
"I know this is hard for you," she says, lacing her fingers in his. "I know why you only come at sunset. Only time I get any colour on my face, isn't it?"
"I'm sorry." He squeezes her fingers, cold in his. "I hurt you."
"The only one that has hurt me is myself. These feelings are my own."
Allen can't help but feel, deep in his gut, that he's broken her. Time passes slowly. During that period Allen has slumped to a horizontal position, Road nestled neatly in his arms. No words are exchanged in that time, only breaths. Allen has one hand threaded with hers and one threaded in her lank black hair. She smells sickly sweat.
"Allen."
"Yes?"
"Don't do this to yourself. I knew you'd never be able to love me back."
Allen has always noticed the way she would watch him, sunset golden eyes lazily following his form across the room. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be stupid. I'm okay with this. You came here, and that's what mattered." Road sticks her tongue out at him. "Stupid."
"And if I didn't come here?"
"Oh," she says dreadfully, amusement barely concealed, "you'd be sorry. I'd haunt you for the rest of your life throwing candles at you."
His mouth twists, left eye twitching. "Not one of your pointed candles I hope. Another close acquaintance with them may kill me."
"But that's the point. You were very pretty like that, I'll have you know. It was love at first stab."
Road laughs because she's insanely morbid. Allen also laughs, and it's probably because he's morbid too.
When their hysterics die down to quiet chuckles, Allen's stomach grows heavy, barren with only dread remaining.
"How long?"
She snickers, and he acknowledges that Road is more macabre than he. "Not long," she sing-songs. "Not long at all. Promise me that I'll be buried with an endless amount of flowers and candy. And burn me to ashes. Rotting sounds icky."
"You're not taking this serious at all."
She shrugs, boney blades digging into Allen. "I accepted my human death a long time ago."
Road fidgets restless beside him, oddly quiet, and Allen knows that the old side of her has stirred; weary, sad, and wise with too many years gone by unfulfilled.
"Once upon a time," she begins, quiet and nostalgic, "there was a girl that was born into a wealthy and loving family. Her lifestyle was the envy of all the other little girls. They would watch her skip down the street in fancy new clothes, between both parents with her hand in theirs.
"She was never a healthy girl though. She was often ill and weak. Her parents would use their human money to send for all the best doctors available. They would always leave her though, their heads shaking in condolence. She was dying, and there wasn't anything that anybody could do.
"This girl grew to accept her death. She drowned in the idea of it, fantasizing what it'd be like when she went. Would it hurt, sharp, fast and short? Or maybe it'd be like a slow poison, taunting her with every dying breath. She would dream of blood and pain and ending. She would dream of screams and tears and loss. She dreamed and dreamed and dreamed. She dreamed of everything but of miracles.
"But," and Road becomes alive, the shadows casting her skeletal fading before the light she speaks, "a miracle did happen."
"Noah," he whispers before he can stop himself.
"Yes," she agrees. "The Earl came when the blood she bled was no longer internal but external from the crosses lining her forehead. My forehead, my body healed, and I could now twist all my dreams to become reality. Humans are so very weak. They can't heal my ailments, prevent death. When I was human all I could ever see was my death, as a Noah I could see everyone else's instead."
Allen holds her as tight as he dares. He could break her so easily.
"So you see Allen, this isn't your fault at all. When you killed the Earl, when you destroyed the Noah in us all, I just reverted back to how I was before. You didn't kill me. It was being this weak human that killed me."
Tears slide down Allen's cheeks. "You're not weak." I am. Especially now.
"Humans are weak Allen. But you're special to me despite all that. You took me and Tyki away, even knowing that you'd be dead to them, your pretty little exorcist friends. I hated you for what you did to me, my family, yourself. But I loved you more. I still love you. You who could actually love the Akuma, the only creatures more pitiful than humans. You couldn't love me before because I was a Noah, and you can't love me now because I'm human."
"No, Road." Allen shakes his head, eyes running freely with grief. "That's not why."
"It is," she insists. "You can't give your heart away to a lost cause. I understand that. You think of Mana and that screws your insides up thinking about it. You are a master of hiding and revealing only the necessary when necessary Allen Walker. And you're stupid for feeling bad. Dummy."
"You're right." He feels as if he'd been soaking in his own misery and Road has finally decided to wring him out and hang him to dry. "I am stupid."
"As long as you admit it." She curls into his warmth. She'd lied. She does feel the draft of the window, and it goes straight to her bones. But the window serves to remind her that there's more than this lifeless room, and as Road finds breathing harder with each passing day, she needs the escape even more desperately. "Will you stay here until the sun rises?"
"Yes." He smiles. And then, "You know Road, if things were different, I think I could've loved you." When she stops hiding in the shadows of her dreams she's real and warm. After the war, when he left those he loved behind, it was Road that helped him pull himself together, her own woes put aside for his.
"Don't tell me that now," she cries, her mouth beaming wide. "I'm not ready to die in peace anymore Allen Walker. Now I really will haunt you."
Allen is aching and happy at the same time. His tears soon follow hers. "Then don't die and get better."
They laugh together, broken, but tension relieves their bodies with every sob.
.
.
She looks tired, Bookman thinks. Lenalee stands stiffly by her brother's side, looking positively lethal with that clipboard of hers.
Despite the dark smudges present under her eyes and the sallow skin from fatigue, he thinks she's gotten prettier. Her girlish youth has faded leaving behind a strong woman of twenty-four. Her breasts and hips have grown and rounded, all traces of baby fat gone from her face. She's beautiful, the violet of her eyes burning strong though the mist of fatigue.
"Mr. Lee, Ms. Lee." He dips his head in a polite bow. "It's been some time. Sorry if this brings any inconveniences. But since this involved a war that plagued the world for centuries, doing a little follow-up on some of the key players is necessary to complete the records."
Bookman pretends not to see the narrowing of Lenalee's eyes. He is correct. She really hasn't forgiven him.
Komui shakes his hand. "Of course we understand, but please also understand that there is still work to be done. While I will assist you in any way possible, please take into consideration that many residing here have their own agendas."
Ah, Bookman understands. Around Lenalee business only. "Of course."
Lenalee leaves after the expected social greeting, her forced politeness holding out for only so long. To be honest, Bookman's surprised she showed up at all.
"So tell me," Komui says, leading him towards his chambers, "how are things? You just visited the Asian branch, right? Sorry we're not there to make this easier for you. Lenalee took her practice up here, and getting her to leave is like trying to convince Reever to let me feed Bak to the birds." Komui's grin turns demented. "You know, Bak is still after my sweet darling Lenalee after all these years. I thought he'd notice the looks Fo sends him, but I guess it can't be helped that an octopus like him is mentally challenged."
Komui shrugs like it's a sad thing and Bookman can't help but be relieved that Komui is still the same; fluctuating moods, sister-complex and all.
"I hear you're Bookman now."
"Well, close enough. This is my final task before I get the whole ceremony and whatnot, but I'm to go by Bookman instead of Bookman Junior. I suppose so we get used to it." He follows Komui down the brightly lit hallways, a cream colour that it meant to be inviting.
Komui seems amused. "A Bookman forgetting?"
"They like being thorough."
The rest of the short walk carries out in silence, not that Bookman cares either way. They stop at a simple wooden door. It's clean and new, like everything else in this place. He touches the wood and feels the texture of smooth varnish. His mind is filled with trivial memories like this. Just simple things he'll never forget.
"Thanks for showing me the way," Bookman says, taking care to let gratitude shadow his tone.
"No problemo! You can pay me back by letting me hide here when Reever comes looking for me!"
Bookman stares at Komui, hard. "I can't believe you haven't changed at all. Or that Reever hasn't left you by now."
Komui pulls a face of the ought most distress. "You're so cruel to me! Just once I wish someone would understand me. Where's Jerry when you need him?"
Dead actually, but Bookman isn't going to bring that up. Komui's recollection is probably close to as good as Dio's. Not everyone could have his once in a blue moon's right eye. It's why the old man snatched him up right away from all the debris of destruction all those years ago. His path had been set the moment he'd recounted every splatter of blood that day with horrifying ease.
"Are you free later this evening to talk?" asks Bookman.
"I should be." The corridor is cool in this part of the building, and Komui feels the goose pimples rise inside his sleeves. "Bookman, I don't mean to be rude, but I need you to finish up your business as quick as you can. I don't have any problems with your presence here, but … well, some people have more trouble letting go of the war than others."
Lenalee's glare still burns into him at the back of his mind. "I understand," he answers, the ghost of humour to his grin becoming empty.
.
.
Days have gone by since Lavi's arrival. Lenalee spends all of it in her clinic. It's harder than she expects, seeing that familiar head of hair and lazy grin. He's taller now with about four inches added to his height.
Lavi hasn't come to her yet. It's something she both curses and is grateful for. Part of her wishes to get it over with. The other part struggles to keep her wits together in preparation for the unavoidable encounter. Every time she spots him Lenalee can feel her emotions turning cold with a terrible anger. To her liar is written on every inch of his skin and in all of his movements.
It isn't Lavi but someone with his face, voice and scent. The title Bookman tastes of sawdust on her tongue, and she can't bring herself to say it.
When she arrives at home far past her bedtime, she finds Komui sitting stiffly on her bed. Her stomach drops away. She knows she won't like what she hears.
"Lenalee," he begins to say, and she will have none of it.
"Say what you mean to say, then leave. I don't want to argue with you right now."
"Alright." His expression straightens, no-nonsense, like he's sending her on a mission. "I think you should go with Bookman to headquarters."
Lenalee fills with so much emotion she knows she'll explode in a fit of something awful. She bites her tongue though, and lets him continue.
"I don't want you to go just to sort out the problems between you and him, but between you and Kanda." His lips press together. "I know you're unhappy with how you left it. It'll be killing two birds with one stone."
"I don't want to travel with him." The flickering of the candle makes her fade in and out of the heavily shadowed room. Her fists clench tight enough to leave crescent moon dents.
"Just as Bookman needs to do this follow-up to close the book on this war, you need to reconcile your anger to move on."
The ache of her jaw grows more pronounced as she grits her teeth firmer together. "I'm just fine without him."
Komui stands, a sigh escaping him with the defeated slump of his shoulders. "Just sleep on it, and I'll see you in the morning."
He kisses her brow, soft and affectionate, before leaving her alone.
Lenalee crumbles to the floor, palms pressed to her aching eyes, wondering what has happened to her world.
.
.
Kanda has been travelling for days, his destination taking him across miles and miles of land. He's waiting at the pier now. The boat is to take him to America.
There's been a delay as the waves roar high and crash into the rocks with loud wet smacks. He stands before the ocean, his dark blue eyes brightening. The gale blows the spray sharply into his face. The salt stings his eyes.
He stares across the ocean at something only he can see, the power of its tumbling waves stirring the coals in him to a hot white.
.
.
Allen sits with Tyki standing behind them. His gloved fingers trace idle patterns in the snow before a tomb stone that's littered with a hideous amount of flowers and candy. Both men adorn sharp black suits, eyes cast low on a rainbow of petals and dyed sugar.
"I'm cruel," Allen says to the frosty winter air. The steam trailing from his mouth gets whisked away by the passing wind.
That Tyki can easily hear him doesn't matter to Allen at all.
"Oh?" Tyki lights up a cigarette, the drag warming up his lungs. "Why do you say that?"
"I told her," he says, loudly, as if to confess to the whole world his sins. "I told her, that if things were different. Well, if things were different, I think I could've loved her." He hears her laughter lined with sobs while he stares at her grave.
"Well, I suppose some would consider you cruel." Tyki blows smoke. "But it couldn't be said that she wasn't cruel either. Didn't she stab your eye?"
Allen snorts. "Didn't you destroy my left arm and get one of your butterfly pets to eat a hole in my heart?"
Allen can't help but think that Tyki's amused grin is inappropriate.
"And yet," Tyki chuckles low and smooth like satin, "you're here, with your eye, arm, and heart fully intact."
"My heart is not fully intact. If my innocence goes so does it. Besides, all those injuries hurt. A lot."
"And you stabbed me twice, broke her heart, and are responsible for destroying our happy Noah family."
"I'm sorry." Allen rolls his eyes. "I don't condone mass genocide. Especially if it's against the entirety of the human race." Allen wonders how he got to a point where he can playfully bicker over the doom of mankind. He blames it entirely on Tyki and Road.
"You don't condone it, but you saved Road and I, didn't you? And we were the ones attempting the terrible deed."
"Don't remind me. You guys always remind me."
"Then stop complaining."
Their banter dies, and Allen thinks of Road, Tyki too. He remembers the Noah in him dying with the Earl, pain singing torture along all of his nerves in one final act of spite. It must have been worse for them, for those that embraced their Noah. He and the fourteenth constantly fought for his body, never blending to become one.
At that time the world had turned upside down with ruin and chaos; there they lay, broken amongst it all, barely breathing and so very, very human. He had made his choice then, Lenalee's promise whispers brokenly to him every day, but he doesn't regret it.
"Well boy," Tyki says, the harsh force of his tone setting off alarms in Allen's mind. "I guess this is where we part ways." His fingers flick the burnt butt away.
Allen's world stills, sudden and glazed.
"What?" Allen scrambles frantically to his feet. "What do you mean this is where we part ways?"
Tyki grins, crooked and for once not smooth but brittle. "Tell me, Boy, Allen, what happens if we go back to that house that smells of death? That place where death haunts the hallways. That poor sad mockery of a life with its pretty golden bricks and garden."
"It's something," Allen says without any real strength. "It's home."
"It was home because Road was there. She held everything together, even while dying." He puts a hand on Allen's cheek, noticing the contrast of his bronze to Allen's porcelain. They look so different; Allen full of sweetness and gentle smiles, himself suave with danger and alluring as sin.
Allen leans into his palm, and Tyki knows what he must do.
"You and I are alike," he tells the porcelain boy with a wicked smile." I've always thought so. We ease into the social gaps, pretty smiles and pretty words. We lie with our entire bodies, knowing how to get what we want without them knowing it. But we don't pick our homes, not by choice. If it was left to us we'd wonder forever. We're clay that can mould into any shape, but while we may be able to fill in the gaps, we were never the intended piece for that spot.
"Road though, she's not like us. She may toss out pretty words and smiles with the best of them, but she's glue. She can take wanderers like us and stick them together. She can make a home for herself anywhere; she just pieces it together for herself. Probably because she's selfish and doesn't like to let go.
"But she's gone now. If we go back to that house we'll just be wasting our fronts on each other. We'd fuck and then fuck some more. There's affection, but neither of us are grounded, and in different ways. You know this too."
Allen does know it. He knows it in the way Road held both their hands to her flat chest, her heart beating slow and lungs rattling in pain. In how Allen holds Tyki's hand in the secret of night, desperate for escape and separated in the morn.
"I just don't know where to start." Allen hears Mana's words in his head, the ones that tell him to keep moving forward. The words imply he doesn't need one, but having a destination helps.
Wind blows snow into Tyki's face, and he squints eyes that flash golden at sunset. He shrugs. "You could try living your life again. From the sounds of it, you haven't been living. You might have been forced to cling to life, but there's a difference. You had to run ahead in life so quickly that you missed all the details. The Noah didn't take me until I had at least lived like a boring normal person. I think it's your turn."
Childhood to Allen is often a blur of cold, hunger, and later on debts, courtesy of bastard number one, Cross Marian.
The sigh Allen produces is resigned, wry, but not unhappy. "I guess this is goodbye then, Mr. Mikk. Or will I catch you in hobo form stripping poor travelers down once more?"
Tyki smirks like a shark, baring his teeth. "You might. But I'll know not to play you this time and just give whatever poor sod their stuff back."
"What's this? No confidence in your proud poker abilities? For shame."
"If only you had any shame at all. Your cheating abilities make me question your morals."
"I don't want to hear anything from you until you can prove it."
An hour more they stay in each other's company before parting at Road's final resting place. Allen receives one last kiss from Tyki, soft on the corner of his mouth, and speaks his last words to Road.
Duty leaves him with a heart that doesn't know what freedom is. He stares straight into the overcast sky, pregnant with millions of snowflakes. He'll keep walking, but for some reason, he feels like retracing his steps a little, footprints larger and restamping the older ones.
Allen leaves the grave smothered with candy and flowers after Tyki, the ghost of a hand letting go of his, forever small and ageless.
Her giggles ring in his head, bittersweet but comforting. He's leaving a home that no longer exists.
.
So I'm not going to lie, I have no idea when I'm going to update. Kanda is being a complete bitch to write.