Allen, a child of simplicity, has a very small world of simple pleasures; food and sleep and hot showers. Below this surface of placidity, there is a depth to this boy that transcends and questions even his own knowledge. This idiosyncrasy is best acknowledged when in three states: drowsy near-consciousness, the emptiness of his head in the wake of a concussion, and when the small pinpricks of hunger become too painful to ignore.

In the time between his acceptance into the Order and his excommunication, hunger's eager grip was not felt as often as exhaustion's drowsiness, but had the unique quality of anger to accompany it, which made it significantly more difficult to deal with. On most occasions, this small flame beneath his heart was dealt with in private, away from prying eyes half eager to see the Destroyer of Time's own unraveling, half terrified of being caught in its wake. When there was no luxury of privacy, however, anger sprang forth in the messiest ways when finally provoked.

This amounted to little more than set jaws, withering glares, and terse, tight-lipped replies, but with Kanda around, there always came an opportunity for a brawl.

Today, luckily, Allen has been given the chance of truly filling himself. Seconds, thirds, and a fourth serving has restored him again to his most gentlemanly form: Allen Walker, sixteen, ex-exorcist, runaway, pinnacle of boyish resilience and determination.

Johnny spies Allen's peaking gray eyes on his plate after everyone has set knives and forks down and pushed away from the table. He can't help but offer his scraps.

"Would you like the rest of my plate, Allen?"

The pinking of his cheeks is as immediate as it is satisfying, in a near perverse way. Johnny thinks almost nothing of it, save for the fact that it means Allen is as embarrassed as he thinks he is, but to Allen, it's mortifying.

"Yes… I would like that, thank you." Allen has held onto politeness as a virtue, despite it all.

Kanda comes up to their table a moment later, an unpleasant twist to his mouth not out of place, but surprising to see during such an uneventful afternoon. He's either going to spit out an insult or bark out another command, self appointed leader as he is in their endeavor. He notes Allen working on Johnny's leftovers, and there he finds his chance to say something cruel.

"Eating again, piglet?"

Between a mouthful of food and a muffled breath comes Allen's jibe, "You're just angry because you lost at billiards."

The contented state of Allen's belly spares Kanda none of its kindness, but anger lurches in his throat when he's pulled out of his seat by the collar of his shirt to look directly into the fire of Kanda's dark eyes.

"Listen, kid -"

"Make a scene. I dare you," Allen says lowly. The blushing boy from before is gone. In his place lives and breathes a creature colored in mute rage by injustices and no conceivable escape from the sins committed by his fathers.

Kanda looks confused, as if to say, the quirk of his brows and reflection in his eyes to ask, "I thought we were friends?"

Allen looks back without shrinking to reply, neither with bitterness nor ill intent, "I have no friends."

The quiet fire of Allen's gray eyes eventually serves to sever whatever tie there is between the two of them, enough to compel Kanda to let go of his shirt. Allen's heels touch the ground and he straightens out his clothing, unperturbed. Kanda's habit of coming away from games a sore loser will do nothing to his mood today, not with his belly finally full and a side of a clean bed to sleep in tonight.

Tempers settled and Johnny increasingly frazzled, they opt to leave the tavern, Kanda in tow. He spies at Allen's profile as he and Johnny chat amiably, once, twice, but stops himself the third time. Alma's brief reappearance in his life has loosened his heart to be something significantly more malleable, which has done no good to what admiration he held to Allen's abilities as an exorcist or his resilience as a young boy. His obvious growth into a young adult and the dawning potential of what kind of man he will become has done nothing to help matters.

As night falls, inhibitions lower. Kanda's agitation begins to burn low in his belly, and his legs grow restless. Allen finds himself increasingly aware of the looks Kanda has been sending his way, different from the ones he noticed earlier in the way they smolder and his eyes catch the light, how they look directly into his face. He knows that burn, even if he acknowledges it has not been as unkind to him as it has to Kanda in his years of silent, isolated hatred. This, however, is not the heat, the flicker of disdain, but of clear, ardent intent. What Kanda wants from him is not difficult to decipher, but Allen chooses to sit back, watch him from a mask of indifference, and await the first move. In such a confined space and the unfortunate opportunity privacy affords them, it does not take long.

Kanda's eyes are on him instantly. When the bathroom door clicks closed, Allen's heart pounds a hot, steady print of adrenaline into his chest.

"What do you want?" His voice rings out surprisingly clear.

"I want you to come the fuck clean." The force in which Kanda's explicative is spit out sends heat high into Allen's face. He doesn't turn away from the mirror to meet the glare that is undoubtedly turned in his direction.

"I suppose you'll have to beat it out of me, then, because even your best manners couldn't pry it out of me."

Kanda's hand is firm, a searing weight of heat and malicious intent on his shoulder. It's force spins him around, finally, to face him, and his other hand lands a fist on his right cheek. They delve into violence of the purist brutality.

A boy's freedom in 19th century London is nearly boundless. He can find himself in innumerable strange situations, but ones of this weight, Allen thinks, can be some of the most rewarding.

Biceps coil, the padding of muscle in his gut tenses in anticipation of every blow Kanda sends his way. Allen adheres to no sense of shame as he uses his dirtiest tricks, releases the loudest, most undignified shrieks in their fervor, and undoubtedly leaves behind a fair share of bites on Kanda's shoulders and wrists. Kanda, in turn, smothers him, chest to chest and his arms wrapped tightly around Allen's head. Allen releases a shriek, wild and telling of the beat of which his heart makes its sprint, in a mark of defeat until a fist into Kanda's kidneys releases him.

It's a game. As rotten and selfish as a boy's mind and his habits can be, it's a game with feelings aside and no definite fittings of a winner. Kanda would already be regarded as the losing party, however, when the force behind the hand that strikes Allen's scarred cheek is weighted by concern the foreboding warmth of some strain of love tight around his sore heart.