TWENTY-FIVE

July 11th, 1985.

Lavi wondered, sometimes, what the hell went through Allen's mind. Sometimes, though. This is because other times he was too busy wondering how the hell did someone of the male gender fit into jeans at least two sizes too small.

He liked the kid—he liked the kid a lot. Allen was the best thing to come into his life since, well, Yuu, but don't tell Yuu that. He'd blush and stutter a little, voice hitting a pitch higher than usual, if that was even possible—or was he thinking of Allen again?

Lavi rolled his eye. Either way, that was his motivation, his motif, his reasoning.

That was why he stood in front of the door, hand poised in knocking action.

Please, let the Brit be here, he thought with a smile that was so wide it kind of hurt. Like, really hurt, actually. He rapped his fists on the door a few times in some well-known rhythm, his other hand tucked in his jean pocket.

Then, the redhead waited.

After a few minutes of loud cursing and words that Yuu couldn't even attempt to beat after a guitar string broke, the door swung open.

Hazel eyes gazed at him from behind half-mooned spectacles. "…Oh," Cross muttered, leaning his forehead against the doorframe. "It's you."

"Yep, sir," Lavi greeted jokingly, waving a hand jauntily. "It's just me, the Lavi. Aren't you happy to see me?"

Cross blinked in a way that showed he wasn't really listening and that he was totally smashed at this point in his day. "The brat ain't here," he said, jabbing a thumb towards the interior of the house. "I sent him grocery shopping, like, minutes or hours ago. Wait, did I send him yesterday?" The man furrowed his eyebrows in thought, frowning. "Did he not fucking come back? Is he trying to run away? Goddammit, if I've told him once, I've told him a thousand times—you can't get on a plane to England without my signature, brat!"

Lavi blinked. But, anyone could forge a signature, and a better reason to keep the boy here would be to say that he couldn't get on without an actual adult. "…" But, he did not say this aloud. "Yeah, I doubt he ran away. He loves me too much." He grinned, rubbing his chin. "Then again, so does everyone else. It's hard being me, lemme yell ya."

Cross stared at him. "…you know what," he muttered, moving out of the way so Lavi could come into the house. "I really like you, boy. I really like you a lot."

The eighteen-year-old nodded slowly, walking slowly past the unpredictable drunken man. "Uh huh," he replied. Once he entered the abnormally retro decorated interior of the house, Timcanpy poked his yellow head over the couch with a toothy grin.

"Woof!" he barked, scrambling off the couch to properly greet one of his favorite friends, and it was with much licking and Eskimo kisses with his wet nose.

Lavi was only slightly disturbed that the dog was big enough to reach his chin when he stood up on his hind legs. That dog had just been a small puppy a few months ago—now he's all extra-big. It's really quite confusing, and more the reason why Lavi needs to know what the hell goes on in Allen's mind, because it's got to be a hassle keeping a dog this big indoors.

The door had slammed, and the bespectacled man had wobbled unsteadily to the staircase, and he leaned heavily against the railing. "Yeah," he said, nodding. He eyed the teenager suspiciously. "Do you know why I like you so much, boy?"

He didn't. But, he could at least guess. "Because I'm dead sexy?" Lavi tried, shrugging one shoulder in nonchalance. "It's totally understandable. I mean, when I look at myself in the mirror in the mornings, it's like—whoa, someone needs to dump some water on me, because Christ I am hot." His overconfidence will one day get him metaphorically murdered, and he was so aware of it.

"You see, that's why I like you." Cross said, smirking. "You're confident—you remind me of me. And, I love myself."

That's so ironic. "Yeah, I love myself too," the eighteen-year-old rubbed his nose with a grin. "Even though it'd totally be a trip if I had two eyes for use." He waggled his eyebrows, grinning. "You should know why."

Cross shook his head, bemused. "Yeah, yeah," he replied, feeling his goatee with long fingers. He then snapped his fingers in surprise. "There we go! I sent the kid grocery shopping…two hours ago. He should be back in…Tim? When should the punk be back?"

The yellow dog sneezed a little, and he nuzzled closer to Lavi. Lavi honestly had no idea why Yuu freaked out around Timcanpy—the dog is radical!

"Shit," the red-haired man snapped his fingers in defeat. "The kid could be back in five minutes or fifty. I don't give a damn, really, as long as he gets my vodka."

"Vodka?" Lavi said aloud, although he didn't mean to. "He can do that?" Damn, he couldn't even do that, and he looked his age.

"Hell yeah," the man looked oddly proud of himself. "The boy's an idiot, dresses like a woman, and fucks guys—but I'll be damned if he can't make it in life."

Lavi snickered. "Fuckin' A," he replied without much thought, but then he scratched behind his neck in embarrassment. "I mean—effin' A. Sorry, sir."

"I don't give a damn what you say—just as long it's not about your late-night fucks with my nephew," Cross said, a look of acute disgust on his face. "There're some things that I just don't need to hear."

Well, that was a nice thought—but it wasn't true, so it was getting annoying fast. "Yeah, uh, sir?" Lavi coughed into his fist. "Uh, look, I'm totally digging Al, but he doesn't dig me, so we're not fucking."

"If you aren't dating, then why the hell are you here?" Cross asked, crossing an eyebrow. He snorted, rolling his eyes. "Exactly. C'mon, boy. I already know, so don't try to pass me off for some yuppie with as many brains as a goldfish—or my nephew. Either works."

I think I got something! Lavi almost snapped his fingers at that, because the statement totally warranted it. He stuck his hands into his jean pockets, the fingers to his right hand playing around with a wrapped piece of candy within the pocket. "Well…" he grinned, eyebrows raised. "Can I ask a favor? Seeing as how you're so stuck on our…relationship and all."

"…" the redhead reached into his own pocket, pulling out a thin cigarette. He stuck it in his mouth, between his white teeth. "What do you want?"

"Since you're Al's uncle and all—I can totally see the family resemblance, by the way—I was just thinking…" Lavi trailed off, looking down in pseudo-bashfulness.

"Spit it out, boy."

"Okay, so I was just thinking…maybe you know how the Brit's mind works, so you could tell me a few things about him…" He looked back up with a devious green eye. "Or, you could find me someone—something—that does."

Cross stumbled a bit with his lighter, his current drunken state making the action of lighting his cigarette harder than usual. "Uh huh," he muttered, cocking an eyebrow. "So, like, a diary or something?"

Diary? Well, Lavi wasn't too sure about that, but why not? "Yeah, sure." The eighteen-year-old smiled, using his best con-artist impression. "So, whaddaya say, sir? Will you do me, Lavi, this one little favor?" He reached into his back pocket, patting his leather flap of a wallet. "I can make it worth your while, for sure."

"Hmm?" Cross straightened up, smoke trailing from the red end of his cigarette. "How much're you talkin' here?" he asked slowly.

"Twenty."

"Thirty," the bespectacled man blew smoke out of his nose, smirking. "I'll even throw in an excuse for why I'm in his goddamn room—I hate that place." Cross gritted his teeth. "When he graduates, I'm turning his room into a fucking…bar or something."

"Okay, thirty." Lavi pulled out his wallet, opening the flap. "So, when'll I get this diary or whatever it is?" he asked idly as he sifted through the green bills.

"Come back tomorrow, same time." Cross replied, blinking as his vision slightly blotted. "You'll get it."

"Ace!" Lavi grinned. "Pencil me in for tomorrow, sir, because I'll be back, and on the dot." He held out a few greenbacks, which Cross just about snatched from his hand. "And, you might wanna lay down."

Cross looked at him. "Why're sayin' that?" he said with a vague slur.

"Because you are fucking smashed, sir." Lavi flipped off a fake salute. "Peace out, and later days!" He walked back to the door, taking the time to ruffle Timcanpy's ears before opening the door and stepping outside.

"Pah," Cross snorted, waving a hand in dismissal. He walked to the couch, legs stumbling everywhere. "I'm not drunk. Not even close—I don't get drunk. Ain't that right, Tim?"

Timcanpy replied to him with a simple look, honey golden eyes expressing his feelings much better than illegible barks could.

The red-haired man looked offended. "You've been spending too much time with the brat."

The yellow dog panted, tongue lolling out of his mouth. "Woof."

----

If there was anything Cross hated more than his college years, it was probably tequila and his nephew's godforsaken room. The two had nothing in common, but he despised them both the same.

"Shit," he cursed, stumbling back away from the mace on the ground. He furrowed his eyebrows, looking around the room. "Seriously, what kind of kid has this kind of fucking stuff?" And, he was just talking about the crap that looked like the boy robbed a Renaissance Faire.

He stepped over a pile of books on the ground (which were pertaining to exorcisms and the various theories of war) and reached over to the dark bookshelf. The man placed a hand on the well-dusted top of the wood, and he bent down to his knees. Truthfully, Cross wasn't too sure on where a thirteen-year-old girl would keep a diary, but he could probably guess.

"The Chocolate War," he read the titles aloud, running a long finger down the spines of the books on the shelf. "Lord of the Flies, The Jungle, Nineteen Eighty-Four…bunch of gay shit."

Then, he finger hit the metallic spiral spine of a notebook. "Finally," Cross grumbled, pulling it out. "Little girls should keep their diaries in better places, brat."

It was a dark notebook, the front decorated with stickers of The Cure, Generation X, and a few other English rock bands that Cross hated. He was positive it was a diary of some sort, though, because a silver strip of duct tape kept it shut and unable to be immediately opened.

Cross picked at the tape, curious on what was written within those lined pages. (Although, he was so sure it was a long list of men the brat had sex with, and which one was most compatible with him for the future of being his sugar daddy.)

Unfortunately, though, disaster struck. "Uncle!" was the thickly accented shout from the first floor. "They didn't have vodka, oddly enough, so I had to get you the tequila. Hope you don't mind!" The front door was slammed shut, and even from his place upstairs, Cross could hear the telltale sound of an aged vehicle screeching down the street.

"Aw, shit," he cursed, hazel eyes roaming around the room for any verifiable excuse.

Allen was getting closer—like, much closer, and fast. "Uncle? Where are you?" he called. "Your car is in the driveway, so I know you didn't go anywh—wait, Tim? Why're you just…sitting there?"

"Woof," Timcanpy replied, and Cross almost smacked his forehead in exasperation. He hired the dog to keep the boy out, and, goddammit, he wasn't doing his job properly.

The door swung open. "Uncle?" Allen spoke softly, white-haired head peeking around the doorway. He spotted Cross on the floor in front of his bookshelf, and he couldn't help but raise a slow eyebrow. "…Why the blast are you in my room?"

Damn it. Cross stuck the notebook in his shirt, conspicuously, and then threw some books on the ground. After that, he started moving around the action figures—or Barbie dolls, since they looked pretty lame—and picking up miscellaneous items, just to piss the brat off.

"Why are you touching my stuff?!" Allen demanded, obviously affronted.

"You're on drugs," Cross replied with ease, still touching stuff for the sake of touching it. "I know you are, boy. I can smell it on your faggo' clothes."

The white-haired boy faltered. "I'm terribly sorry, but what?" he asked in a voice a few octaves higher than usual. "What do you mean you can smell it—" He froze, an expression of disgust overtaking his face. "Kanda."

Who was Kanda, again? Cross shrugged, standing up shakily. It was probably another one of the brat's gayfriends. He thought he was on to something when he was raising the boy, so where did he go wrong, anyway? He could only blame the brat's father—god bless his soul.

"I'll find those drugs," the bespectacled man threatened, stepping up to his young nephew. "When I do…" Well, he never actually thought this far. "…you'll be grounded?"

"…" Allen held a hand to his temple, sighing. "I'm not doing drugs, twit."

Bullshit. "It's 1985," Cross replied, cocking an incredulous eyebrow. "How can you not be on drugs?"

"It's very simple," the British teenager said, a terse smile on his lips. "I just don't. Now," he stepped to the side, holding an arm out towards the door in an extravagant manner. "Feel free to get out of my room. I must clean up because of your arseholery."

Cross blinked. Arseholery. That was a new one—with an American touch, too. Maybe something really was getting through to him. "Whatever," he replied, placing a hand on the top of the boy's unnaturally soft white hair and ruffling it. "Druggie."

Allen batted at his hand, huffing with a smile. "Am not, so shut up."

----

"Excuse me," Allen started as he walked into the kitchen. "But, have you seen my journal?"

Cross looked over at him, the rim of his glass to his lips. Inside, though, he was gagging, because holy shit he hates tequila. "No," he replied, shrugging.

But, Allen wouldn't let it go. "Are you sure?" he asked, hands on his hips. "It's a dark gray notebook with stickers. I know it sounds rather ponce, but I need to find it.

"Who the fuck says ponce these days?" Cross demanded, the sad excuse for alcohol sloshing within the glass cup as he moved his arm around in annoyance.

"I do, clearly."

"Fag." The red-haired man coughed a little, the tequila burning against his throat. "I haven't seen your journal-diary-thing, so quit being a bitch about it."

Allen rolled his eyes. "You're such a help," he muttered sarcastically.

Cross shrugged. "If you say so," he replied. The refrigerator was opened, and he perked up at the sound. "You're gonna make my dinner now?"

"Why would I do that?" the teenager replied, looking through the newly placed groceries in the cool air of the interior of the refrigerator.

"Hmph." Cross poured more tequila into his glass. "I'm just saying. If you're going to dress like a woman, you should act like one too."

Allen sniffed, reaching for a large package of lettuce. "Why couldn't you just answer with 'Because I'm hungry?'" he asked. "Womanizing prick."

Cross rolled his eyes. "Because I'm hungry."

"Much better."

----

July 12th, 1985.

It was, like, broiling hot outside.

Lavi knew, since he stood out in front of Allen's door as the sun beat down on him like Ike Turner with Tina.

The redhead had even taken the loving consideration of the heat and practically chopped a pair of his favorite jeans into calf-length shorts. A tear had fallen down his face when he did it, too.

Lavi knocked on the door. "Hey," he called. "It's totally cool if you don't open up, but it's even more choice if you did right about now." He brought his hand to his forehead and wiped at his brow underneath his folded bandana, because it was sweltering.

With the click of a lock, the door was slowly opened, and Allen poked his head around the frame.

"Hullo, Lavi," he greeted with a smile, opening the door further. "All right?"

"All right?" Lavi repeated, and then he laughed. "Oh, you're asking if I'm all right! Yeah, I'm stellar—and you, babe?"

"Don't call me 'babe,'" Allen automatically replied, grinning. "But, I'm just jolly." He cocked an eyebrow. "So, why're you here?"

The redhead sniffed, hands in his pockets. "Can't I just come to see you?" he whined. "I mean, that's what people in love do—they see each other and all that shit."

"Aww," Allen replied, pulling a false look of adoration. "You are so sweet—" He snorted. "But we aren't in love, and I doubt you want to take me out to lunch right now."

Leave it to the British to mess up a perfectly good excuse. "You got me there," Lavi replied, holding up a hand in surrender. "I'm here to see your uncle."

"Cross?" That was quick to make the fifteen-year-old boy straighten up, expression disbelieving. "Why would you want to see Cross?"

"I'm…" Lavi waved a hand around, clicking his tongue in thought. "I'm doing errands for him. Yeah."

"Errands." Allen didn't seem to believe him, but he moved out of the way anyway. "Well, come in. You've got to be dying out there, Lavi!"

"Oh, most definitely," the redhead replied with a grin, stepping inside and reveling in the cool air that was probably the fan in the living room. "So, yeah, where's your uncle?"

"He isn't here," Allen said, shrugging and shutting the door. "Did you not see his stupid car missing from the driveway?" He gritted his teeth. "One day, I will slash his tires."

"I wasn't thinking," Lavi admitted, fixing his bandana on his forehead. "It's so hot out there, and thought is, like, unobtainable or something."

"You do have a point," the white-haired boy replied, walking past him to the kitchen. He waved Lavi over, and the older teenager almost missed it because he really wished Allen's backside was a subject in high school, so he could've gotten another 'A'. "You can sit down if you'd like."

"Oh, right," Lavi looked sheepish as he plopped into a wooden chair. "Well, do you know if Cross left something for me?"

Allen looked over at him, arms crossed. "What kind of errand is this?" he asked suspiciously. "Because it's sounding more and more like a drug run the more you talk."

The one-eyed teenager held up his hands in a placating gesture. "It's not a drug run," he promised. "I came by yesterday and he said he needed help with—" Here, he paused, because he needed a really good excuse. "—his taxes."

"Hmph, Jew," the British boy teased. "Honestly, his taxes? Please, tell me more."

"Yeah, his taxes. I can also write scripts and speeches, and I can sell things at retail prices," Lavi replied, smiling. "But, seriously, did he leave anything for me? Like, a folder or an envelope or something?"

"He did." Allen said, nodding.

Lavi blinked. "Then…why didn't you just tell me that in the beginning?" he asked slowly.

"Because I wanted to know what was in the envelope," the younger teenager replied honestly, grinning. "I mean, I can't just open the bloody envelope—so I went with the next best approach."

If he didn't love Allen before, he was just about ready to marry the sneaky zeek, without the divorce. "Holy shit," Lavi muttered, running his fingers through his hair. "You got me in the face."

"I usually do." Allen walked around the table, patting Lavi's head on his way past the older teenager. "I'll be back with your envelope in a moment. Feel free to get a drink that is not alcohol and to eat foods that are not sweets." He walked out of the kitchen at that.

Lavi hummed lowly in his throat, tapping a finger on the tabletop to an unheard rhythm. That was probably one of the best parts of being a drummer—a person gets more of the beat in their veins than blood.

Over the sink, a clock ticked away.

The redhead couldn't help but notice that it was wrong. According to his watch, it was 3:37, but the large analog clock insisted that it was instead 7:28.

"Hmm…" Lavi hummed, standing up with a stretch. "Al shouldn't mind if I change it." He couldn't just let the clock sit there and not be right, even if it did make him look like some sort of obsessive-compulsive freak.

Lavi walked to the sink, reaching up and taking down the round clock. "This thing hasn't been changed in years!" he muttered, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Crazy." He worked on winding the time, foot tapping on the ground in his rhythm again.

"Sorry it took me so long," Allen started as he walked back into the kitchen, and he paused at the sight of Lavi. "Why are you changing my clock?"

The one-eyed teenager looked at him, grinning. "Because it was wrong. Doy."

"Well, thank you." Allen huffed. "I've been trying to get my uncle or Timcanpy to do it for me for a while now, but neither of them went out of their ways to get out of their seats to do it."

Why Timcanpy? "Why can't you change it?"

"You wouldn't understand," the British teenager replied, sadly looking at his wristwatch. "Even I don't understand my terrible luck with time."

"It's all good," Lavi said laughingly, placing the clock back in its original spot. He turned around, hands on his denim-clad hips. "So, where's my envelope?"

Allen tossed him a manila envelope, rolling his eyes. "I hope you have a jolly great time," he said with a grin. "Those taxes are going to be rough."

"Just like me if you'd give me one night?" Lavi asked, and ducked a well-aimed smack. "Moded! Okay, okay, I'm kidding, Brit!" He held up his hands in surrender, envelope tucked underneath an arm.

"See you later tonight," Allen replied, waving as he walked by him. "Lunch is at eight today."

Lavi just about tripped on his shoelaces at that.

He just can't win with the kid—and he's really okay with that.

----

July 14th, 1985.

Allen really did wonder where the bloody hell his journal ran off to.

"Timcanpy!" he called, arms crossed and posture regal. "Where's my journal?"

"Woof!" was the somehow annoyed reply, because apparently even dogs could get pissed off at the repetition of questions like so.

Allen narrowed his eyes. "One day," he muttered, turning around. "I'll find my missing journal, and if you're the culprit…" He never thought this far himself, pausing. "…I'll ground you?"

"Hurf," Timcanpy huffed, yawning as he changed positions in his lounging position on the loveseat in the living room.

"Hmph." The British boy sighed. That journal wasn't even that personal, but it held a vital list of things about the house that needed to be fixed, because he had struck a nice deal (in almost legal ways, at that) with a repairman, who knew a gardener and a painter. The tape was there just so Timcanpy wouldn't chew at pages, like he did with his copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.

His train of thought was cut short by the sound of a knock on his door, and the boy walked over to the door to peek through the eyehole.

A tanned hand waved back at him.

"Lavi?" he muttered aloud as he opened the door. The British boy smiled, though, in delight. "Lavi! How do you do, today?"

"Just dandy, Brit," Lavi replied jauntily, flipping off a fake salute. His other arm was hidden behind his back, and the redhead grinned. "Ready for band practice?"

"Well, surely." Allen cocked an eyebrow. "You act as though there is some other source of entertainment in this country."

"Dude, just because America—" Lavi paused, scratching underneath his bandana. "—okay, maybe we are a little out there, but still!" He brought out his arm, and in his hands was a rather colorful bouquet of spring flowers—even though it was the summer. "So, yeah, I brought you something."

Allen took one look at the bouquet and almost immediately took a step back, hand on the door knob. "Did Mikk put you up to this?" he demanded, voice bland and face deadpan. "Because if he did, I really will punch you. In your one good eye."

Lavi blinked. "No!" he exclaimed. "I'd be dead in my grave before I'd do something for Los Assholé de Mexicó."

"Then, what the…" Allen motioned towards the flowers with an odd expression. "…the bloody hell is this?"

"Um." The one-eyed teenager coughed into his free fist. "It's for you?"

Allen paused in his prepared tirade. "For me?" he asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "…hmm." He took the bouquet, bringing it to his face and inhaling the engaging scent.

Lavi laughed, relief evident in his mirth. "Yeah, like," he started, threading his fingers through his thick hair. "A birdie might've dropped a line that you were sweet for flowers."

The British boy sneezed suddenly, a pale hand covering his mouth and nose. There was a look of panic on his reddening face, and he sneezed again.

And, Lavi had the feeling that, well, he done wrong. "Bless you, Brit?"

"Thank you," was the automatic reply, albeit very nasally and thick. "Please, tell me," Oh God, the accent, too? Lavi was going to have a tough time understanding the kid now. "What is in this…bouquet?"

The redhead furrowed his eyebrows in thought. "It was some sort of choice spring fling thing," he replied. "Even thought it's July and shit."

"The flowers, Lavi," Allen said, sniffling deeply. "I need the gen on the bloody flowers!"

"Okay, Al," Lavi held out his hands in surrender. "Don't have a cow. So, it's got carnations, daisies, larkspurs, marigolds, pansies, snapdragons—tried to get some roses in, but they were all 'lame-o' and I was like, no way, it would be ace! Because it totally would be, and they were—"

Allen snapped his head up, hand still over his lower face. "Did you say pansies?" he asked slowly.

"Yep," the drummer affirmed. "Carnations, daisies, larkspurs, marigolds, pansies, snapdragons, and we can pretend there're some roses in there—"

"You—!" the British boy sneezed again, and he closed his eyes. "I am…" He removed his hand, revealing a bright red nose and his eyes were pretty colored as well. "I am allergic to pansies. Ach!" He sneezed once more.

"Oh." Lavi stuck his hands in his pockets. "Man, I am so sorry—like, cereal, I didn't mean to kill you."

"I'm not dead," Allen replied in his new nasal tone of voice. "I'll be fine in a few hours." He smiled, although the red nose really messed up the whole 'I'm not pissed at you' image.

"I feel so bad though…" the redhead insisted, scratching underneath his bandana. "Dude, I'll make it up to you. I'll, uh, I'll buy you lunch or something."

"You do realize that this is a given, correct?" the white-haired boy grinned, sniffling again. "It's really okay, I'll be fine. Now," he stepped farther into his house. "Why don't we go to Miss Lee's house together?"

Lavi looked up at him, still very guilty. A smile twitched on his face. "Cool," he replied, coming inside. "I'd like that."

----

"Why the red nose, Rudolph?" Kanda asked, pinching the younger teenager's aforementioned red nose. "You know Santa doesn't like Europeans, right?"

"Clear off!" Allen smacked at his hand. "I don't believe in Santa Claus anyway."

"Che'yeah right," the Japanese guitarist rolled his eyes. "You don't even sound like you believe yourself, Zeek Freak." He cocked an eyebrow. "But, for sure, why the nose and the gayer accent than usual? You sick, or something?"

Allen waved a hand in dismissal. "It's just allergies," he replied, smiling. "I'll be in tip-top shape in an hour or two. Right, Lavi?"

"Ugh," the redhead groaned, hitting his forehead on the cymbals with a resounding clash. "Dude, don't make it bleed more—I'm hurtin' inside, like Johnny Cash and his Ring o' Fire."

"Huh." Kanda held a hand to his mouth and yawned, eyes closed. "Either way, I'm guessing Cyclops has a new song that we need to practice, because Lenalee will pitch a fucking fit if he was too busy mashing with a nine-year-old."

"I'm fifteen, Kanda," Allen retorted, sighing. He sniffled a little, rubbing his nose. "Well, I'd guess that you'd have to ask Lavi about that, since he keeps them in his special notebook—"

"Don't make me feel worse!" Lavi whined.

"—and such," the pianist finished, giving the redhead a weird look. "By the way, where is Lenalee?"

"She's applying her make-up." Kanda replied, shrugging.

"…" Allen cocked an eyebrow. "And, you aren't with her, because?"

"One day, I will kick your ass," the long-haired teenager threatened, poking the boy in the chest with an accusing finger. The garage door opened, and the singer of their band trotted down the short flight of stairs. "When that day comes, you won't be walking for days."

Lenalee frowned. "Wait, what?" she asked, an odd expression on her face. "You're already pass third base? But, Red isn't even near second!"

"Guilt!" Lavi cried, tapping a hand against the right tom drum.

"What?" the Chinese girl repeated, finding herself rather confused about what was going on at the moment.

"It's okay," Allen said, smiling. "I'm not dying, so you don't have to feel guilty!"

Kanda snorted. "It doesn't matter," he muttered. "Your face makes me feel guilty for God, because he broke the record on ugly when you were born."

"You don't mean that," Allen replied, patting the older teenager's shoulder with a grin. "In fact, I bet you even like me."

"Huh!" the Japanese teenager snorted. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

Lenalee leaned over, grinning. "He totally likes you," she whispered.

Kanda glared. "I can totally hear you, too," he snapped.

She laughed, flicking a finger at his forehead. "You're so crushing on Al," she teased, hopping back as the nineteen-year-old made a threatening step forward. "If you really didn't, you would punch Al!" She hid behind the younger boy, as though to show her point.

"Hey!" Allen cried, holding up his hands. "Calm down, Marlon Brando!"

"Marlon Brando?" Kanda repeated, pausing. "What the fuck—" An arm wrapped around his neck, and he stumbled back a bit in surprise.

"Take 'em down now!" Lavi exclaimed. "I can't hold him back much longer!" He tightened his grip. "This is my way of beggin' for forgiveness, because I still feel so fucking bogus." He faked a sniffle.

"I will push you off a cliff—" the Japanese teenager was threatening all the while, thrashing in the redhead's hold. "—then I'll fucking burn your house down!"

Allen looked at Lenalee, who gave him a thumb up.

"This is gonna sound so faggy," she said, smiling brightly. "But, we should tickle him!"

"Tickle?" the white-haired boy looked at the struggling Kanda, and he grinned. "Count me in."

"I'll fuck both of you up!" Kanda snapped, very angry at this point. "Don't try me, Punk and Joanie!"

His tirade was cut short, though, because the two youngest band members attacked him in the worst way possible.

This is the shortest chapter I have done in a while, and I blame my cold. D: I've been sneezing and sniffling and groaning and coughing and generally dying for the past three days. D: It doesn't help that I'm super stressed over the SAT and GHSGT and all that shit (so, if the chapter comes across as terrible, it's because I'm not feeling my best).

But, even if I'm not feeling my best, I'm still giving my best. :D I enjoyed this chapter a lot, especially Lavi and Allen and British Pansies (I love the way actual people from the UK dub themselves that when sending me a PM or something)(lol Miss Souba).

Emi, once again, has OUT-GENIUSED me by completely renovating the ending and giving us more to work with throughout the school semester for the band in August and further on. Battle of the Bands is soon, so HELL YEAH TYKI By the way, Emi is seriously happy that there are people out there that acknowledge her existence, and imagination HELPS HER GROW :D

Lol we'll be at Momocon this weekend, just in case anyone is interested. :D I'm a Team Rocket grunt, and she's a Flareon. HIT HER WITH YER POKEMANZ :D

Miss Israfel, we will put forth a great effort to see what we can do about that showing. :3 It's a great idea, that's fer sure.