THIRTY-SIX

"Ladies and gentlemen, let's give Madarao of Third one more row of applause!" Sherman shouted into the microphone, and Madarao stood off to the side awkwardly as the legions of humans cheered and clapped with rising volume. A few of them called him out by name, and one particular woman clawed fruitlessly at the stage.

Oh boy, he thought with a thin press of his lips. This might be a problem.

He believed this because, after a while, one might start to realize the customs in the lives of the rich and famous. As, really, too much love actually could lead to be a bad thing after a while, in Madarao's wise opinion.

He walked towards the back of the stage in the same direction Lenalee Lee left earlier; hoping at the very least there was some sort of secret pathway for the contestants to safely escape the throes of humans called an audience.

Unfortunately, all he got was that Wisely douchebag.

"Madarao…no last name?" the small man spoke aloud, looking at a sheet of paper. He glanced up at Madarao's face, a sneer on his thin lips. "That's a little…flaky, you don't think?"

"I don't think much 'bout my name," Madarao replied blandly, tapping his foot against the floor impatiently. "And it'd prob'ly do ya some good to quit thinkin' 'bout my name too—I mean, let's get real here, Smartly."

"That's Wisely, smartass," Wisely clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in clear disdain, and he marked off something on the paper on his clipboard. "Well, congratulations—despite your obvious struggle with the English language as a whole, you and your two-bit band have advanced to tomorrow's events."

The singer hummed, nodding in acknowledgment. "That's good," he replied vaguely, and he looked up at the sky. The sun was falling through the clouds, and the world was darkening at a rate so slow it was almost calming.

This was Georgia—beautiful in its own right, he'd guess.

Wisely stared at him. "Yo, idiot," he snapped, waving the clipboard in his face. Madarao jumped a bit to attention, immediately looking down at the other man. "Get outta here—there are other people in this competition too. Go mug some hippies somewhere, ya crook."

Madarao shrugged, casually flipping the man the middle finger. "I'll be seein' ya lat'ah then," he retorted with a nod, and sauntered past the man with his posture straight. He wasn't the type of guy to get pissy because some short excuse of a man had issues with people his height or taller.

Now, he reminded himself. It was time to find his band, and from there—the Black Order. He wandered off the stage with this goal in mind, and walked in some aimless direction that seemed to be going opposite of the audience. Then again, anything opposite the crowd was never destined to be good, so Madarao pivoted on his heel and was met with an eyeful of manchest.

"Um." He trailed his eyes up slowly, only to be greeted with the scowling face of the drummer for Third. "Goushi. How'zit goin'?"

Goushi, a large, thick man with pasty white skin and a confusing excuse of a Mohawk, grunted in disdain. "Good," he answered curtly in his deep, grainy voice that kinda reminded him of Schwarznegger in that robot movie. He looked towards the side at the fence, sneering. "Came t' meet up wit'cha. So, uh, le's get outta he'ah."

"Ya don't even gotta tell me twice, man," Madarao replied, and he walked behind Goushi as the man led him through the throes of people. The drummer had more uses than one, the band members frequently commented—and human shield was probably near the top of that list. "How'd I do, in ya own thoughts?"

The drummer hummed minutely, shoving through more people in the thick crowd. "All right, I guess," he replied with a shrug. "I mean, ya weren't tryin' or any shit like that, were ya? 'Cause, ya know, if tha's th' case—ya fuckin' sucked."

Madarao furrowed his eyebrows, wondering why he attracted so many people with such unsavory attitudes. Tokusa was a total smartass, Goushi was just an asshole, Kiredori was kind of weird, and Kanda…well, he liked to think he didn't even need to finish that thought. At least, until he found a word for Extreme Douche Bag.

"Thanks," he replied blandly, and narrowly avoided a dirty-looking man that clawed at his arm. "Yo, with th' seriousness, can't you mow fasta'? I'm gettin' molested back he'ah!"

"Ah, shut ya trap," Goushi rumbled, and they were slamming by people at twice the speed as before. While he was sure that Sherman or the other douchebag camera crewmembers he called assistants would not approve of this kind of crowd surfing, Madarao found that watching a floored black man nearly get crowd stomped was almost funny.

And, finally, after a good minute or two of ruining lives, they made it pass the ragged chain-link fence that surrounded the fields. Goushi huffed a little, flexing his meaty arms, while Madarao shook his short, bluish hair.

"Alright, where's Tokusa?" he asked the drummer, who stared down at him with a look so irritated it was almost belittling to see.

Goushi sneered, his thick upper lip curling unattractively. "Why'tha fuck would I know?" he retorted, punching Madarao on the bicep like he was the same size as the beast. "Shit man, we split th' fuck up 'bout th' time you were'a almost done wit'cha song."

"Why'd ya do that?"

"Kiredori wanted a weina' or somethin'," the drummer admitted with a shrug. "'Kusa said that he 'saw someone famila',' and I wanted t' make sure ya didn't die or some shit like that. 'Cause that would be dank, asshole."

"Hell yeah," Madarao agreed. He looked down at his black combat boots, already edged with the notorious Southern red dirt at the soles, and decided that maybe Nancy had a point, and that these boots really were made for walking. "Let's go this way."

Goushi was, by the way, a Pretty Cool Douche. He was a complete asshole in the best sense of the word, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut. Out of everybody in that goddamn band, Goushi rarely questioned his decisions.

("With th' seriousness, let's do'a concert naked."

"Whathafuck? You hittin' that bad shit again?"

"No way, José—I don't got'tha boobs for that shit."

"…Ya don't even got boobs, numbnuts!"

"Shut'thafuck up!"

"Yeah, sure. I'm in.")

So they were walking towards some patch of trees offset by a bunch of lowrise buildings, and they were strolling like they had all the time in the world.

Well, they might as well have. Madarao had this big thing about thinking while walking, and he could think a hell of a lot for a public high school graduate.

"What song do ya think we can do next time?" he asked his drummer of a friend, and Goushi looked at him minutely before humming some old pop tune.

"I don't even fuckin' know," he replied after a moment, and they stopped in front of a simple chainlink fence that stretched in front of them to the sides for what seemed to be miles. "Maybe that Cowboy shit you an' Kiredori like so much?"

Madarao cocked an eyebrow. "Modoi'n Cowboy?" he said slowly. The title was actually 'Modern Cowboy,' and was written when the normally apathetic frontman was feeling particularly philosophical. It was a nifty kind of song—the kind of shit you could sing when you had nothing but a guitar and some free time. "Huh. That'll be real interestin' man. I think we should try it, like with th' seriousness."

"Yeah."

"I agree."

Madarao blinked. "Yo, did'ya say that?" he asked Goushi, who was turning around faster than one could say 'What the fuck,' and he followed suit momentarily.

Lee stood in front of them, her arms behind her back and this peculiar grin on her face. It was the kind of smirk that'll put you on edge in the South Bronx, but Madarao stayed calm because, hey, this was Georgia. The only danger was probably racism or something.

"Yo, hey, whassup!" she greeted, trying her hand at the stereotypical Brooklyn accent. Goushi rolled his eyes with no restraint, but Madarao thought it was pretty cute. She held out her hand, smiling amicably. "Name's Lee. Lenalee Lee—singa' fo' the Black Ordah!"

"Good fer you," Goushi replied sarcastically, but shook her hand anyway. "Whatterya doin' over he'ah, instead'a bein' wit'cha band?"

Lee chuckled, hiding her hands behind her back again. "Well, the thing is—wait, I mean, yo man, I got lo'ahst afta' the whole singin' thing, so I was jus' hangin' around out he'ah until I saw you'se two crooks walkin' by—"

"Quit with'a fake accent!" Goushi moaned, scratching his head. "Ya makin' me wanna laugh at how stupid ya sound!"

"I thought she sounded kinda like you," Madarao commented offhandedly, and took the punch to his arm with nary a wince. "But, with th' seriousness—you can't find'ja band?"

"Did you say 'with the seriousness'?" Lee asked, abruptly dropping the bad accent. A smile lit up her face, and she tapped her chin in thought. "That's really what's up! I've got to start saying that—with the seriousness!"

Now Madarao had to roll his eyes—but, to be completely honest, Lenalee Lee was really fucking charming. There was something about how she seemed so obviously enthralled with pop culture and the Ins and Outs of her generation that made her the go-to kind of girl a lot of people would appreciate.

"Yeah, with th' seriousness," he shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "You haven't found th' Black Ordah in ten minutes? You think they even lookin' for ya?"

Lee laughed like he was terribly ignorant when it came to the affairs of the Black Order. "If you know our guitarist like I know our guitarist, the answer is a big, fat no," she replied, shaking her head. "And he's probably trying to get high right now, while Al and Red take turns beefing at him."

Madarao almost nodded, but then refrained from doing so after a quick thought. It's been three years, he mused, looking toward the sky. Do I know their guitarist like they know their guitarist? Do I know him like at all really?

"Hmm…" he hummed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Whack, I guess." The Mongolian man rubbed his chin, as hairless as it was. "So, what? You wanna hang out with us lame'ah's or somethin'?"

"He's th' lame'ah, jus' so ya know," Goushi stated, pointing at Madarao with a thick finger. "I'm cooler than a fuckin' freezah—can ya relate?"

"Totally," Lee replied, nodding seriously. But, there was still that quirky smile on her face, and she trotted between the two men like it was her place to be there all the while. "But, che'yeah, I think I'll take you up on your offer of hangin' out. Either of you guys knows somewhere to eat?"

Madarao and Goushi shared a particular look of disbelief. "We'ah from th' Apple," Madarao replied, cocking an eyebrow. "This is th' foi'st time I've ever even stepped int'a Ge-or-gee-ah." He enunciated the word slowly, or otherwise it'd come out sounding like 'George-Gerah.' Whatever that was.

"The same goes for me!" Lee said, rolling her eyes. "I mean, the new to Georgia part—not the New York thing, 'cause I'm from Hampton, see. So, I'm not with any places to eat either, but I am like mad hungry. You guys aren't stupid hungry either? I mean, singing in front of all those people—pretty active, dude!"

"I guess so," Madarao replied, although he kind of had no idea what the fuck she was talking about. While, yes, he was hungry, he also sang in front of people all the time and never felt like he was losing weight. "I think I rememba' seein' a Mick-dick somewhe'ah down the street. You got th' keys, Goushi? 'Cause I think I got th' cash."

Goushi patted down his large denim pants, and huffed when he pulled a silver ring of keys from a pocket. "We good," he said, jingling the keys. He looked down at Lee, an eyebrow raised in question. "So. Mick-dicks, Lee?"

"If I even knew what a Mick-dicks was, I'd still say yeah." Lee replied. She glanced off to the side, and Madarao followed her view until he caught sight of the setting sun. The day was pretty much over, and yet the night hadn't even begun. "Well—I know where the hotel is. If those boys are anything, they are kinda smart." She paused. "I think."

"Do any'a them smoke weed?" Goushi asked.

"Uh, like, two?"

"They ain't that smart, then."

"Dude, shut up! I'm trying this new thing where I have faith in my friends."

Madarao snorted, walking in some random direction where he assumed the van to be. "Where the hell do ya sign up fer that?" he asked. "Because I think I'd wanna try it too, considerin' th' fact that all my friends're assholes."

It really sucked when you lit up so much weed it was hard to get high.

At least, it sucked for Kanda, but he believed that he couldn't be blamed. Regardless of the fact that he smoked a lot of weed—so much, in fact, it was a wonder his eyes weren't always red.

"Calm down, idiot," the brat—Albert, maybe?—scolded, motioning towards his shaky hands and faltering lighter. "You can't light up when you're shaking like a dog! I mean really, put your hand down."

Kanda glanced at him minutely, already tuning him out. Shit, the British could talk Laverne De Fazio into submission, for Christ's sake. He returned his attention to the long, wrapped roach in between his index and thumb, and glared at it with all the anger he could muster.

Then, he grunted and leaned back. He wasn't even that angry anymore—just kind of dead inside. He stuck the unlit joint in his mouth, and closed his eyes. Maybe he'll just pretend that he's high off his ass, and then he might even wake up in Virginia two months ago.

Fat chance, he thought, and his eyebrows furrowed. "Ugh, fuck this."

There was a familiar flick from his side somewhere, and then the admittedly bitter taste of marijuana in his mouth. "Huh," he opened his eyes, and found the end of his joint lit up like Christmas Day. Excellent. "Fuckin' A, kid. Guess you do come in useful."

The kid in question simply rolled his eyes. "Thank you Allen," he mocked, crossing his arms with a huff. "For assisting me in the process of losing brain cells—at least, the remaining few I've got."

"Pot doesn't make you dumb," Kanda retorted, rolling his eyes because the brat clearly had no idea what the fuck he was talking about. "It can fuck with your short term memory sometimes, sure, but there aren't any long lasting effects to the average person's smartitude. Tetrahydrocannabinol—THC, in case you're just that stupid ya'self, kid—is actually pretty useful for gettin' rid of a headache or some other painful shit." Pausing, he took a long drag, and then continued to speak with smoke pouring from his mouth, "And, mary doesn't make you smart—but it doesn't make you stupid either, kid."

Alfred (or…whatever his name was) blinked, his mouth slightly open in what seemed to be shock. "…" he shook his head, laughing in disbelief. "I hate to say it, but you win, Kanda. For the first time in all the days we've known each other, you truly win."

Kanda lazily upturned his middle finger, wisps of smoke escaping from his lips. "Yo, for cereal though—what the fuck are we doing here, kid?" he asked, looking at his young associate with a frown.

The kid cocked an eyebrow. "Well, I thought we were sitting in the back of the van for the sheer sake of you getting high off your ass while Lavi attempted to find Lenalee," he replied in that sarcastic way that really irritated the shit out of Kanda. He knew it wasn't cool to get pissed over something he should be used to, but, well. Recent events just reminded him how much he hates smartasses.

"No, skeezer," he snapped, flicking the ashy tip of the joint off to the side. "I mean here—like, why the fuck aren't you in school? Why the fuck aren't I at work? Just, goddammmit, why the fuck are we here, right now? Why Georgia? Why today?"

"You're asking a lot of questions with no set answers, Andy," Alfred replied calmly, grinning like the dork he was. "Especially things concerning your…work, or whatever you call it."

"I've got a fuckin' job, kid—and shut the fuck up with that 'Andy' shit!" Kanda shuddered as he remembered the psychotic bitch from that one show of theirs. The show that…well, could be considered the leading reason to why he's here right now, smoking weed and talking to a kid that doesn't understand what he's trying to say. "That's nothin' like my name, punk."

"Whatever you say, Andy Ol' Boy," the kid said, shrugging. He crossed his legs, tapping his red-dusted black Converse shoe to some unheard beat against the air. "And I honestly ask myself the same question, if anything."

"Huh." Kanda inhaled, the back of his tongue tingling with the taste of pot. He blew the smoke in thick circles towards the sky, where the sun was finally disappearing over the horizon.

The brat leaned back against his elbows, legs still crossed and foot still tapping. "I don't disobey Cross often for generally clear reasons," he explained, looking up at Kanda with heavy-lidded grey eyes. "He's…somewhat more sensitive than expected, and I've been punished before. I tried to escape from him once some years ago—worst bloody mistake of my life, I'll tell you now." He laughed. "Couldn't sit for a week after that boxing! Well, I'd suppose it'd be called a spank here, but it surely felt like I was in a professional fight."

"You make him seem like the most irresponsible ass this side of Jupiter, brat," Kanda commented, somewhat interested in the kid's relationship with his clinically insane uncle. Seriously, that motherfucker threw a hammer at his nephew—who the fuck does that?

The white-haired boy shrugged once more, smiling. "Well, he did leave me in a house by myself for five months with enough money to last me three weeks. He sent money twice, and then admitted to blowing the rest on slappers and pints," he said like it was no big deal. "So, yeah, he's a bit irresponsible. But surely he means well—otherwise I wouldn't feel so bad about being here, as you said."

Kanda hummed, looking back towards the sky. "He's the craziest bunk I've seen yet," he replied, but then paused. "Well, maybe third-craziest. I dunno." He flicked the ashes once more, a tiny bit of high starting to set in.

"Yeah, he's bonkers." There was a small stretch of silence, the kind that fills the air slowly with thoughts and breathing. It's more of thinking though—thinking of what was just said, of what could've been said, of what should be said, or of what needs to be said.

The long-haired man stuck the bud back in his mouth, frowning. "Daisya's the main reason I smoke pot," he spoke aloud, and felt the brat's eyes on him immediately. "I mean, the reason I started and shit."

The kid didn't speak in response, and Kanda was actually starting to find that the brat was almost okay to be around when he wasn't being a smartass or talking in general.

"Cyclops and I started doin' this shit about the same time, in like ninth grade," he continued, speaking around the joint between his lips. "Daisya, though—he'd been doin' pot since, like…ever. I dunno. He's always been that guy—the guy who was always high and shit. I really hated that part about him. Then I became that guy—or at least, kinda." He huffed. "Cyclops used to smoke twice as much as me, and only get half as high."

"Not very surprising, actually," Alejandro (shit, what the fuck was this kid's name) stated, grinning. "But, who am I to say?"

Kanda snorted. "No one, little asshole," he replied. "Anyway, like I was sayin'—we started about the same time. Daisya had a Hookah pipe—weird shit, because he never had any sheesha or whatever that crap is. He would smoke pot out the window with that pipe, kid—sneaky as hell, old man never found out. I did though—I mean, you find out shit like this in a three bedroom house. Especially if you shared a room with a burnout like him." He scowled at the mere thought of it, and how stupid he felt Tiedoll was all these years.

"So, what happened?"

"Cyclops happened," the Japanese teenager replied, groaning at the memory. "The guy, he looks like a fuckin' moron, but he's smarter than Hollywood fuckin' Squares kid. Believe me." He took a long drag, and exhaled through his nose. "Took one look at the Hookah and was all, 'dude, your bro tokes pot through a Hookah? Excellent!' Daisya and me both stared at him, like how the fuck did he know? And Cyclops rolled his eye and shit, all 'there's a dime big under your history book dude, and who has a Hookah in their house for reasons that aren't smoking'."

The kid blinked, obviously confused about something. "So, wait, had Lavi smoked before this? How did he know these things?" he asked.

"The hell if I know, but he said he never smoked before." Kanda shook his head with a shrug, because he couldn't read minds back then. He still can't, but whatever. "Daisya asked us if we wanted to try, and I said fuck no. Cyclops, though, was a curious dickweed. He bothered me about doin' the shit with him for an hour, and Daisya was all 'dude, it's not gonna hurt you, and you probably won't even get a good high off this cheap shit,' and I was getting annoyed as hell. I couldn't escape—that was my fuckin' room and I wasn't gonna move for anyone."

"You smoked to get them off your arse?"

It…it sounded kind of bad when someone put it that way. "Yeah. Yeah, I kinda did." He frowned. "And the shit was cheap—I upgraded myself to the better pot you could get from the seniors, and Cyclops mooched off my bags for a long time. Really, Daisya fuckin' sucked as a role model, kid." Kanda scowled deeply, clenching his fist as rage coursed through his blood again. "And I hated half the shit he did or said. He never took anything seriously, he was always high, and he stole my fuckin' Slinky once." He realized that at this rate he was bitching for the sake of bitching, but he couldn't stop it. "He came to a few of the band's practices—before you showed up, doy—and would talk so much shit it was weird he didn't have brown teeth."

"Kanda," the brat put a bare hand on his arm, one not enclosed by the cold texture of leather, but true pale skin against his own. "It's alright."

Kanda looked over at the kid, who just shrugged back with a quirky smile. "Why the fuck am I here?" he asked one more time, his voice weaker than he ever remembered. "Why is Third here? Why is Noah's Ark here? Why is Daisya in the fuckin' hospital, and why am I lit up like it doesn't even matter?" He leaned his cheek against his open palm, the joint in his other hand. "Kid, just, what the fuck."

"I can't say why you're here, Kanda," the brat—whatever his name was—replied, patting his arm. "Nor can I explain my own iffy presence—but we're here now." He grinned, a mouth full of perfect white teeth and perfectly wide lips. "And when you get back, I think Daisya would love to hear about our success, hmm?"

Our success. Well, that was an optimistic-as-fuck way of looking at it. Kanda shook his head again, his loose strands of hair swinging through the air wildly. "Huh." He inhaled the smoke more, closing his eyes against the darkening sky. "Hey, Albert—"

"Allen." The brat rolled his eyes like Kanda was somehow an idiot, but that was previously disproven so there was no reason he could be looking like that.

"Allen." He held the joint towards the kid. "Wanna toke?"

Allen—finally got the kid's name right—cocked an eyebrow, looking at the dub carefully. "Are you bloody serious?" he asked calmly.

"It's a yeah or a no, punk," Kanda replied, jiggling the joint. He sneered, leaning back. "So, what's it gonna be kid? This shit ain't cheap, I'll tell ya now."

Allen stared at it for one more minute, before gently taking the joint from between his fingers. "Sure," he replied with a short grimace. "I'll…try."

Kanda nodded, and returned his attention to the sky as he knew it. The clouds were pinker the further one's vision went, while the clouds closest were an almost depressing grey. It was a transition worth viewing, in Kanda's opinion.

A series of hacking coughs interrupted his thoughts, and he almost smiled in glee. "Can't handle it, dork?" he crooned, turning around to the struggling teenager.

"Oh shut up!" Allen wheezed, hitting his chest with a closed fist. The bud was pinched tightly between his red, wrinkled fingers. "I dearly apologize for not being as skilled in the art of being a pothead as yourself, darling!"

"Ch'yeah right, dweeb—just admit you can't handle it, and we can keep on livin' with the knowledge that, hey, I'm right. Y'know, like always."

"If by always you mean once in a blue moon, then of course you're always right," the kid retorted, his voice delightfully raspy. Kanda smirked, and the kid flipped his middle finger at him for like the third time that day. "Ugh! This taste is somehow worst than chai tea!"

Kanda shrugged. "You get used to it, kid."

Lavi was lost—like, seriously lost.

Who the fuck gets lost in Georgia anyhow? Well, other than the misled white people in horror films, but they don't count towards the grand scheme of things.

"Okay," he spoke out loud, rubbing his lightly stubble-brushed chin. He hadn't shaved in a few days, so it was feeling kind of like some sort of sign, or some crazy shit like that. Maybe. "Lenalee left the stage—that much is true. Then again, Madarao's also gone. Everyone is missin', and I left Al with Yuu and oh god what kind of friend am I?" He raked his hands through his hair worriedly, looking around wildly. "And where the fuck am I? The fuck is a Covington Highway?"

He was not used to being this confused, honestly.

Lavi looked around, trying to find something that looked vaguely familiar so he could at least make it back to the hotel.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he cursed, walking aimlessly towards a Waffle House. He was putting his hope in the possibility of someone in there knowing how to get back to…wherever that hotel was.

So, with a grim expression, he stepped into the Waffle House with a depressingly happy jingle of a bell. He searched the place minutely, and realized that there were a lot of black people in this particular restaurant, which automatically made him feel awkward. Fuck his life, man.

"Get outta the way, kid—you'se blockin' our way," a gruff, terribly familiar baritone snapped from behind the redhead, and he turned around slowly.

Just my luck, he thought with a sad frown. Not only is he lost in the metro Atlanta area, but then God decided it was totally cool to throw the merry band of Noah's fucking Ark sans Tyki Mikk and Rhode Camelot in the mix. This has been a wonderful evening so far, he must say sarcastically.

"Oi, it's the red Septic," David said in surprise, a twisted grin on his thin lips. "Fancy meetin' ya here, Yank—what, you've a hankerin' fer a waffle?"

"Or'a pancake?" Jasdero added, and then he narrowly dodged the swipe at his head. "The hell is yer issue, Davie?"

David snorted, hands on his hips. "Doezit look like we're in an IHOP, twit? Come off it, Jazzy—why would they sell'a pancake in'na Waffle Home?"

"Now, how was I s'pose t' know that?"

Skin shook his head. "Shuddup—both'a ya, please," he rumbled, placing a large hand on both of their heads, pushing them away from the other like a disgruntled father. His golden eyes fell on Lavi, who was really just watching in confusion at this rate. "Whassup Red?" He flashed a rather scary smile, and Lavi weakly returned it.

"Hey dudes and dudettes," he replied, scratching the back of his head nervously. "What brings you to this fine part'a town? I mean, other than hunger?"

"I'm a fan'na Waffle House," Skin admitted with a grin, shaking the two teenagers under his hold. "And Jasdavi were bein' kids again—so, hey, why not treat'em like kids and force'em to my favorite restaurant and all'a that? 'Sides, Lulu's from Atlanta herself—she's always been at'ta Waffle House."

Lulu Bell, the incredibly beautiful but silent bass guitarist of Noah's Ark, inclined her head with a smile. "It's a fan favorite," she replied simply.

"Whoa," was all Lavi could say. Firstly, Noah's Ark has never been this nice to him in all the time they've come into contact, and secondly—holy shit Lulu Bell just talked to him. "Um. Well, that's ace, I'd guess."

"What'tabout you, kid?" the large drummer asked, an eyebrow quirked in curiosity. "I don't see ya tiny bandies, so I know you ain't here for family fun or some shit like that."

Tiny bandies—that sounded adorable as hell. Lavi made a mental note to add that to his list of nicknames that everyone needs to have. "Dude, I'll be completely honest," he replied, laughing awkwardly. "I lost my singer…or somethin' like that."

The members of the rival band shared a look of distinct confusion, and Lavi grinned with a lackadaisical shrug.

Lulu was the first to look back at him, and she tossed her long, blonde hair over her shoulder. "How about you eat with us, and we can talk about it then?" she offered, quirking a small smile.

Lavi felt his heart melt. This really was shaping up to be a great evening! "Uh, sure!" he agreed, smiling widely. "Thanks, dudes."

"And dudettes," Lulu added with a wink. It was a good thing the members of Noah's Ark couldn't read minds, or else they'd just get an epic novel's worth of adoration and freaking the fuck out. "So, let's take a seat?"

"Yeah, definitely," Lavi said, sure that the dopiest look ever was etched onto his face.

Sorry Lenalee—give me a little more time, please.

"So, wait, yer tellin' us that ya somehow lost yer little Chinky singa' just'a minute after she finished singin'?" David asked, a strip of bacon clenched between his teeth as he spoke.

Lavi paused in his chewing of a delicious waffle. "Dude, don't call her that," he said disapprovingly. "Her name's Lenalee, and she loves you guys and ya music too—she doesn't go around describing you as some Irish wannabe Yazoo synth player, ass."

"Ey, I'm from Yorkshire—!" the black-haired synthesist started with a growl, but a clearing of the throat interrupted his rant in advance.

"Red's gotta point, Dave," Skin conceded, and David looked down at his plate with a scowl. "'Sides, that whole world war shit? It's over and done with—we can't keep bringing up names and shit from way back when. It just ain't cool, kid."

David huffed. "S'ry," he muttered. "I'm jus' used t' callin' everyone, well, whatever they are. 'Cept fa' black people," he added in a loud tone of voice, glancing around with a nervous face.

Lavi was pleased. "It's all good, man," he replied. "Just as long'a ya don't keep calling her that, we're good. But, yeah, I've got no i-fuckin'-dea where she went—and then I left Al with Yuu and I'm real scared that I'm gonna come back to a van full'a blood and gore and shit." He stuffed his mouth with eggs, wondering why he'd never come to this wonderful place before. Wasn't there one in Virginia? At least, he thought there was.

This required further research.

Lulu hummed, daintily swallowing the food in her mouth before speaking, "Allen Walker, right?" she asked, an eyebrow cocked. "The synthesist to the Black Order?"

"Uh, yeah!" Lavi nodded. "He's a real trip of a guy, I love'em!" He was pretty sure that they were going to assume his 'love' to be brother-like, and he was okay with that.

"Uh huh," Lulu nodded, smirking. She worked on cutting her waffle into more tiny pieces, and continued talking. "Why do you think your synthesist and guitarist are going to fight in your absence, Lavi?"

The one-eyed man blinked, fork frozen in his fingers. "Well, that's…that's just what they do, I guess," he replied uncertainly. Why was he so sure? It's not like they'd even gone to blows before.

"Because I think they're probably getting along more than you know," she finished with that same little smirk.

Lavi was confused. "Huh?"

"Don't think too hard'a 'boutit," Skin waved a hand in dismissal, dumping more sugary syrup atop his waffle. Lavi had no idea what the man should fear more: diabetes, or cavities. "She's good fer talkin' circles 'round ya. But, anyway. How's this shit goin' fer ya, kid? You think ya gotta chance at, hmm, winnin'?" He snickered a little, like there was a joke floating in the air that Lavi didn't know.

The redhead furrowed his eyebrows. "Yo, I actually do think we gotta chance at winnin', dude," he countered, a grin on his lips. "Did you not hear our first performance? Most excellent thing you've listened to yet and ya can't say it's not!"

"The shite was pretty good," Jasdero agreed easily, somehow managing to eat like a regular human being despite the thread coursing through his lips. "I mean, there's a li'l somethin' 'bout yer singa'—her voice? It's a trip t' hear it, I'd say!"

"I know, right? She's fuckin' amazing!" Lavi insisted, grinning like an idiot. "There's no one else I know with lungs like her's—she's oneuvakind, can you relate?"

Skin shrugged. "Eh, I think Tyki's a great fuckin' singer myself," he replied. "So, it's all accordin' t' matter. But Lee is pretty fuckin' good, I'll give ya that."

Lavi could take that, he supposed. It was all really a matter of bias, and he personally thought that Lenalee kicked everyone's ass—vocally, at least. Maybe physically, since now he remembered that time where Al told him that Lenalee punched Mikk in the stomach.

That sounds, like, crazy awesome. Why wasn't he there when it happened, again?

"Yo, kid, ya zonin' out on us?" Skin snapped his fingers, eyebrows raised. "C'mon, we ain't that borin'—are we?"

"Nah," Lavi replied, laughing. He had another bite of waffle, and then swallowed after a minimum of three chews. Hey, after extended amount of contact with Allen, one can start to pick up on a few culinary habits. "But, hey, can I ask you guy's'a question?"

David shrugged. "Go fer it, mate," he said.

"Uh, do you know where the hell my hotel is?"

Lenalee laughed in delight as she fished through her jean pockets in order to find the hotel key. "Dude, no, funniest moment yet—we tickled Kanda, like for serious," she said in the process, giggling. "He gets pissed at Allen of all people, and then plays the guitar like super loud to piss him off. I'm tellin' ya—too funny, dude!"

Madarao shook his head. "How th' fuck you'd get so close t' tickle th' guy?" he asked in a sort of raspy, deep voice unique to himself. Lenalee found that she rather liked the lead singer of Third (and apparent long lost friend of Kanda), as well as his drummer of a companion. "Tha's insane, Lee."

"Fuck yeah," Goushi agreed. "Kanda wasn't th' nicest guy around last time we saw each otha'—fucka' wouldn't even let'tus shake 'is hand!"

"Huh, really?" Lenalee replied, an eyebrow cocked. She made a small sound of rejoicing when she actually found the key, and proceeded to unlock the door with a grin. "So, wait, where do you guys know Kanda from, again?"

"…" Madarao shrugged. "New York. He's an ol' friend. Or, at least, he use'ta be."

"What do you mean?"

"He—" But the door swung open, accidentally interrupting his words. Lenalee flashed an apologetic smile at the cool man, who was looking through the door with an expression of distinct disbelief.

She grinned. "Sorry Madarao, but what were you saying?"

Madarao didn't answer her directly. "You sonuva bitch," he muttered darkly, and he squared his shoulders with a stiffness that belied his irritation. "You fuckin' Jap sonuva bitch—I can't believe it."

Lenalee, confused as ever, frowned. "Dude, what?" she asked, following his line of vision into their hotel room. She opened her mouth, and then shut it again with an audible snap.

"You're trying to plant a seed in my brain," Sam, from the show Cheers, accused from the television set. Diane scoffed, and replied with a simple, "Don't be silly. I know of nothing that grows in solid rock." Then, studio laughter—like always.

Allen cracked up at that, a hand to his forehead as he leaned against the couch and kicked his legs against the air. "S-solid rock! That is amazing!" he commented in his mirth.

Kanda nudged his side. "Dude, shut the fuck up, the commercials are comin' on," he snapped, and Allen straightened up at that. The two males stared at the television, utterly enraptured in what seemed to be an advertisement for Cool Whip.

Lenalee didn't know if the apocalypse came or if Cheers is just that enrapturing of a show. Like, it brings everyone together, and all that jazz.

Then, she ended up sniffing the air a little, and almost immediately gagged. "Aw, dude, keep the pot outside, would'ja?" she scolded, her hands on her hips. Lenalee walked into the room, Madarao and Goushi on her heels, and came to a halt in front of the inattentive duo. "Guys, hey! You listening?" She clapped her hands loudly for emphasis.

That was successful in catching their attention. Allen jumped with a gasp, which in turn made Kanda glare weakly at the younger boy. They both looked up at Lenalee as though it hadn't come to their attention that she was still alive in general, and a smile broke across Allen's face.

"Lenalee!" he cried, standing up exuberantly. "Why, it's been less than a dick year since I've last gandered upon ya!" He held open his arms and brought her into a sudden, yet uncomfortable, hug. "I've missed ya—god, I've missed ya. Where've ya been, m'dear?"

"Uh, McDonald's—" Lenalee attempted to answer, but found that being smothered by a guy was not nearly as fun as she thought it would be. She did, however, realize that Allen Walker reeked of a particular substance that she was used to smelling on everyone but him. "Wait, dude, hold up!" She pushed him away roughly, and held the other teen at arm's length. She watched him carefully. "Are, are you high?"

Allen's eyes widened, and he laughed in delight. "Of course not, Lenalee!" he replied, waving a hand in dismissal. "Now, why would'ja think that? I mean really—do I look high to you?"

"Uh, yeah?" His eyes were rimmed with red, his movements were awfully delayed, and there's no way anyone could smell that thickly of marijuana without having partaken in it themselves. "There's this thing about smoke, Al—it kinda sticks."

The British teenager blinked and cocked his head in question. "I've no idea what the bloody hell that means!" he exclaimed, and turned around. "Let's just get back to the telly—I think CHiPs is to come on after this."

"No, no, and no, dude!" Lenalee grabbed the back of his shirt as tightly as she could, and tugged the slightly larger teenage boy towards their shared suite. "You're comin' with me!"

"Riiiicky—"

Didn't Allen know that quoting 'I Love Lucy' was only going to enforce the fact that he's high off his ass? Probably not, considering how stupid he must be right now.

She finally managed to drag Allen into the suite, and looked out the door with a suspicious scowl. She found Madarao and Goushi were standing over Kanda, who looked up at Madarao in particular with the single most disgusted expression she'd ever seen on his face.

But, Lenalee couldn't deal with Kanda's drama right now—she had a fifteen-year-old Englishman with a possible drug problem to take care of.

"Allen," she started, pivoting on her heel with what she hoped was an appropriately pinched expression. "What the fuck."

Allen jumped, frowning. "My word, Lenalee—you just—"

"I know what I said, dork," she countered, rolling her eyes. "So, spill. What the fuck, dude?"

"I've no idea what you mean," he insisted, sitting on the bed and crossing his legs. Well, he attempted to cross his legs once, and then failed so terribly that the retry was destined to be better than whatever that was. Lenalee shook her head, shamed. "Why must you assume I'm pissed—"

"Pissed is the last thing I think you are, Allen," Lenalee replied, rolling her eyes. "In fact, I'm feelin' that you are perfectly happy right now. Perfectly happy."

Allen furrowed his eyebrows and rubbed his temple. "Wait. Oh, oh," he said, laughing. "No, no, Lenalee—I mean that why do you think I'm pissed, as in drunk! It's what they say in…that place that I am from."

"The UK?"

"Precisely!"

"Dude, I thought you were better than this," the Chinese girl admitted, sitting next to him with a huff. Allen looked up at the ceiling, likely looking for dragons in all of his magical thoughts. "Allen. Come on, I'm your friend." She patted his shoulder. "Why?"

"I don't want to be here, Lenalee."

She paused, eyes wide. "What?"

Allen shook his head, those lengthy white locks swinging with the motion. "I just, I," he stammered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I mean, I don't want to be here, and, I. It's that, there, I'm tired and. And I'm not making any sense."

None at fucking all, Lenalee thought, but refrained from speaking such. "What do you mean by 'here,'" she instead asked, cocking her head in question. "Do you mean, like, this Battle? Or, like, America in general?"

"America in general," he said, relieved that she somehow got what he was trying to say. "It's because, well. I—I had a talk with Kanda today."

"Obviously."

"No—no! We had a real talk!" Allen insisted, a smile on his lips as he gesticulated to encourage his point. "I've had chats with the bloke before—as in, the hospital, and the days after. But, he spoke to me first—me, Lenalee! It was, it was incredible!"

Lenalee cocked an eyebrow. That does sound pretty incredible, in all actuality. "But, what does that have to do with anything?"

"Have you ever seen a man cry?" Allen asked.

And she balked. "You're not telling me that—"

"What? No, Kanda didn't cry," because that sounded like the coming of the Antichrist by itself. "I mean, um." He shook his head, his speech obviously affected by his stupid decision of the day. "Have you ever seen your brother cry?"

Lenalee opened her mouth, and then paused. She's seen him cry once—and, well, that was so far back it almost felt like a dream. "Uh, once?"

"And wasn't it the most devastating thing you could've ever seen?"

"…" That's why it felt like a dream. "I, I guess. But, why?"

Allen jiggled his foot against the air, his chin resting atop an upturned palm. "My father cried before his death," he replied quietly, a smile on his face. "In all those days, months, and years, I'd always found him to be the strongest man I knew—I still do, actually. But, in those last minutes, he wept like a newborn child."

Lenalee did not want to feel awkward, but somehow she felt like this was not the kind of thing she wanted to hear from Allen. The boy always seemed so nonchalant and stubborn, and she kind of wanted to keep that image of him for a little more time.

As well, she did not feel that she deserved to hear this.

So, she kept silent.

"I watched him die," he continued, gazing at the blank wall adjacent to the door. "I stood there as the Devil himself tore into my father with fire and agony. I couldn't even bring myself to look away, let alone cry. I suppose that my dad did it for me, instead."

He turned to look at his female friend, and Lenalee caught his gaze with a nervous smile. Then, the English boy shook his head—his oddly white-haired head that was somehow it was appropriate and fit perfectly for Allen Walker.

"When a love one dies, the first thing everyone expects from you is tears," he said with a shrug. "For me, it's the last thing I could do. He's dead—what more can I cry about? It's a waste of energy, and a waste of time. I love my dad to the ends of this cruel world, but I never once cried for him. I think about him all the time though…sometimes, I want to cry." Allen fiddled with a frayed edge of his ripped jeans. "Kanda, though, distracts himself from thinking in gen."

"Kanda?" Lenalee forgot he was related to the conversation somehow, and straightened her posture. "I mean, why'd you say that?"

Allen shrugged, grinning. "I don't know Kanda's life—I haven't the slightest idea of what he's gone through, what he fears, his aspirations or any of those fruitless things," he replied. "But, I do know that he distracts himself. He told me today, he told me that pot doesn't make you stupid—but he also said it doesn't make you smarter, either."

"That's…true."

"And, really, I'm so easily distracted by everything right now, Lenalee," Allen admitted. "There's a light in the closet—it's been on this entire time, and I want to just stand up and turn it off. I'm talking and talking, and I'm still talking your ears off likely—but I can't help but think about everything else right now. I like your shoes—I've been meaning to tell you this the whole time as well."

Lenalee frowned. "Err, thank you?"

"Oh, but I still make no sense to you," the fifteen-year-old said sadly, shaking his head once more. "Marijuana doesn't make me think any less than I did three hours ago—which, by the way, is a general estimation—but I stop thinking so much about things that bother me and focus on the menial things. Kanda, he's no…pothead, as Americans put it, but he's done this many, many times. It's blatant that he just doesn't want to think."

"But, why?" Lenalee asked, amazed at how incredibly insightful Allen could be with a little help. "I mean, I know you don't know much about him, but what could be so bad that he doesn't wanna think?"

Allen shrugged. "I don't know," he replied simply. "And we may never find out. Until then, we just look out for the bloke—he's got a heart, but just doesn't know how to use it."

All the high that Kanda had worked so hard to get?

Well, it disappeared in record time at the sight of Madarao—no last name.

Even though Goushi's hulking frame loomed behind the blue-haired man, Kanda found that he couldn't stop glaring at the Mongolian asshole first and foremost. Madarao just rolled his eyes, and rolled back his shoulders in a way so infinitely familiar that Kanda's entire body tensed.

"Yo," Madarao greeted, and he held out a hand. "What's up, Yuu?"

"Don't call me that," Kanda replied with a tic in his brow. "And it's nothin' new, kid. What th' fuck're you doin' here?" The accent was starting to slip in his anger, and Madarao looked amused about it if anything. Well, in the way Madarao can look amused—he took 'indifferent' to a whole new level of emotionless facial expressions. He was like a classic Grecian statue—just, his hair wasn't nearly as great.

"C'mon man, do I look like I need'a excuse t' see you?" he retorted, his hand steadfast in waiting to be shook. "Don't be an ass, Yuu—shake m' fuckin' hand, kid."

Kanda bit back a growl and placed his hand slowly within the grip of Madarao's. And, almost as expected, the man roughly pulled him off the couch and to the stance of standing.

Oh fuck you, man. "Fuck you," he snarled, snatching his hand back.

Madarao looked him over, an eyebrow cocked. "Ya got taller, kid," he appraised, having to lean back a bit to see his hairline. "Filled out much betta', too. Goushi, whaddaya think?"

Goushi, who was as hideous and grotesque as ever, stared him down. "Kid grew up well," he agreed, clicking his tongue in disdain. "Kinda makes me sad that we missed th' days, man."

"Ya heard that, Yuu?" Madarao said, huffing. "We missed out on'na 'lot. C'mon kid—what gives?"

Kanda prided himself on not being easily cornered—much like how he prided himself on being able to play 'Stairway to Heaven' on his guitar at twice the speed of the original, how he prided himself on cutting his own hair and still have a distinct lack of split ends, or how he prided himself on being able to say that he hasn't lost a single physical fight yet.

So, he just sat back down with the most apathetic expression he had in his arsenal, and Madarao cocked an eyebrow.

"Hey," the older man called. "You ignorin' me, kid?"

"Yeah, pretty much," Kanda replied. "Yo, move out'ta the way—I think CHiPs is about to come on and shit."

Madarao turned to the wooden television set, and looked back at him oddly. "I don't think so, Yuu," he stated, and bent over to turn off the television. The man straightened up, turning to his with crossed arms. "Kid, you've got a lot'ta explainin' t' do. We've been lookin' for ya for, how long? Yee'ahs?"

"Why?" Kanda asked, an eyebrow cocked. "You're a grown-ass man, skeezer. The fuck're you doin' lookin' for a sweet kid like me?"

Goushi looked horrified, and actually took a step back. "Did…did you just describe ya'self as'a sweet kid?" he demanded. Kanda shrugged, because even though he knew it was the last thing to be true about him, he didn't deny anything unless absolutely necessary. "You've changed then, kid—and none of it was fo' th' betta'."

"Whaddaya talkin' about?" the Japanese man retorted, snorting in disdain. "None of it was for the betta'? Dude, you're outta your head—I've graduated high school with the second highest GPA of th' year, I've gotta job, an apartment, a car, and there's no fucking way you can tell me I'm not good looking." He pointed at his face for emphasis, an eyebrow raised in challenge. "But, if you can—go for it, dork."

"…" Goushi shrugged. "I stand corrected—you've changed, kid. And it looks like you're one'a th' most stuck up little bastah'ds this side'a th' fuckin' Hudson. It's almost like bein' on Staten Island."

That almost made Kanda wince. If Staten Island was the same as it was back in '78, then it really was the epitome of Yuppie Society. As well, to claim that he, Yuu Kanda of Lower Manhattan, was like being in the snootiest place in the world—well, it was an acute jab.

"You try'na insult me?" he demanded, ready to stand if need be.

"Yeah, jus' a little bit."

Madarao snorted, shoving Goushi in the side none-too-gently. "Quit bein' an ass fo' a minute so I can finish talkin'!" he said sternly, and the large man turned away with an affronted huff. The Mongolian man returned his attention to Kanda, who honestly was not anticipating his next words at all. "You gotta come back, kid."

"No."

"It ain't a question, asshole," Madarao rolled his eyes. "It's been four yee'ahs. Ye'ahs. Years. It's been four years, kid—ya not th' only one sufferin', little joi'k."

Kanda didn't believe he was the only one suffering in any way, shape or form, but this didn't mean he was going to cede to these douche bags. "You don't unda'stand, Madarao," he hissed, his hand clenching the couch arm tightly. "That kinda shit is outside my life now—so fuck you, fuck New York, and—"

"Fuck Alma?" Madarao finished, and for the first time in a long time, the words were choked in Kanda's throat.

The two men stared at each other spitefully, both unmoving and yet poised for attack. Kanda guessed that to bystanders, they looked like animals in the wild ready to kill for the sake of survival.

If only the world were that kind.

And, for the second time since him and Allen came into the room, the door opened—and the spell was broken like glass.

"—right on, thanks dudes," the ever familiar voice of Cyclops, fuck, Lavi, sounded through the door, and the Jew walked in backwards waving at…someone out there. "We'll be sure t' kick all your asses, so peace!" He turned around with a bright smile, ready to tell some lame-ass epic story. "Yo, guys, you would not belie—whoa shit awkward."

Goushi nodded solemnly. "Tha's only th' half'a it, Red," he said.

Lavi was frozen at the doorway, obviously unsure if he should leave the room in its entirety or try to sneak to his suite.

Madarao sighed, scratching the back of his head. "Look, Yuu, kid," he started, ignoring the low growl from Kanda. "We didn't come t' this 'Battle of the Bands' shit t' join in on ya little pity party, or t' slap some sense int'a ya like I'd really want to. We, Third, came t' this shit to win." He quirked a small smirk on his lips, cocking his head. "But, this is'sa great time t' advise ya, kid. So, after we win—head on back to the City. You won't regret it."

Goushi nodded. "Nice seein' ya again, kid," he said, and the two members of Third simply left the room, bypassing the quiet drummer with simple nods.

Lavi watched them go with wide eyes, and turned back to Kanda with a weak smile.

"Wanna use my suite tonight?"

Kanda didn't even argue.

September 7th, 1985.

When Allen woke up that bleary, gray morning, the only thing he could think about was the overwhelming hunger he felt coursing through his body.

I am so bloody hungry, he thought with wide eyes, gripping at his stomach weakly. I am near to DETERIORATING I am so hungry. Dear God, why?

His stomach let out a demonic sounding growl that left even him feeling a little frightened, and Lenalee turned to him with bleary eyes and a frown.

"Dude," she grumbled. "What the hell was that sound?"

Allen looked back at her, his face surely pinched in all of his discomfort. "My stomach," he admitted. "Lenalee, I am so hungry right now I can barely believe it. Why am I so hungry?"

Lenalee just continued to stare at him, blinking once or twice.

And a slow laughter bubbled from her throat. She turned over in the bed, her shaking back to Allen as she giggled like Steve Martin just said something especially funny.

Her amusement, thought, was not explaining why he was considering chewing off his arm in all his crippling hunger.

"Lenalee," he tried again. "You're not answering me." With her reply of harder laughter, Allen decided to sit up and fix his problem himself. Well, after brushing his teeth and taking a shower—food was secondary to hygiene, but it was still a close call.

Lenalee sat up as soon as his feet hit the floor, a large grin on her face. "No, Al, hold up," she said in a rush, scrambling to get out of the bed and run in front of him. "Dude, calm down—I'm sorry, I gotta tell Lavi this!" She grabbed his hand and dragged him out the suite with more excitement than necessary.

Allen frowned, utterly confused. "I'd really like to brush my teeth," he spoke up with a stroke of irritation. "So I can, oh what is that thing called again, oh, right, eat!"

"Lavi!" Lenalee exclaimed, finding the redhead bundled on the couch. The drummer sat up with a drowsy lurch, clearly unknowing on where the sound came from. "Lavi, wake up—you are about to laugh so hard, man."

"Guhwha?" Lavi grumbled, rubbing his good eye. The eye patch stayed on this time in his sleep, Allen noted with a small sense of amusement. "Wha's happenin' again?" He yawned, covering his mouth loosely.

"Allen's hungry," Lenalee announced with the utmost glee.

Lavi stared at her. "…" he clapped his hands uncertainly, and Allen had no idea whether he should be offended or more confused. "Um. Good job? I mean, isn't he always hungry? Like, for serious."

"No, no, no," the Chinese girl argued, huffing. "Allen, how hungry are you? Come on, seriously!"

Was this a trick question? "Um," Allen looked around the room carefully, looking for some sort of escape. "I'm…the hungriest I've ever been in my life. And I can't remember why, for some odd reason."

"Okay?" Lavi scratched his head, frowning in befuddlement. "I mean, I get hungry as fuck too when I've got the munchies, but what—"

"That is exactly it, Lavi!" Lenalee exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

"What?" the one-eyed man looked between the two younger teenagers. "The munchies? What the fuck does that have to do with—oh my god, you're not tellin' me—"

"High off his ass," Lenalee finished for him, smiling widely.

The only word that could accurately describe Lavi's expression at that moment would likely be 'dumbfounded.' Or perhaps even 'incredulous.'

"You, Allen fucking Walker, got in that pot?" Lavi demanded, untangling his long legs from the cover he was utilizing. "Yo, dude, where th' fuck was I?"

"Missing," Allen admitted with a shrug, less ashamed of the deed than he thought he'd be. "You went looking for Lenalee, Kanda and I talked, Kanda offered me marijuana, we got quite the buzz, and ended up here. Now, I am hungry after having the greatest sleep of my life and I don't know why."

"Munchies, munchies, munchies, kid!" the redhead insisted, standing up from the couch and cracking his bones into place with a rather pained face. "When you smoke weed, your brain blocks all its receptors. So, your mind is all 'dude, no food' and makes you think you're hungry—you're prob' still under those effects while having real hunger pains—resulting in tons of great food fun!" Lavi held up a hand, grinning widely. "Dude, high-five on getting ya first high!"

"Um." Allen weakly smacked his hand. "Okay?"

"Booyah!" Lavi pumped his fist in the air. "Next, crack-cocaine, dude!"

"Uh no," the British boy replied with a laugh. "I'm probably never going to smoke marijuana again, let alone expand to other drugs." Lavi was such a crazy bastard, it was nearly adorable.

"Oh you," Lavi laughed in amusement. "It's 1985. Everyone—but me—is on that crack, kid."

"And me," Lenalee interjected, still utterly overjoyed by his misfortune. "And I doubt Kanda is on that crack. Hopefully."

Allen rolled his eyes. "Right." His stomach began to claw at his flesh once more, and he scratched his head in embarrassment. "Well, if you don't mind me—I'm going to brush my teeth. And then I'm going to render myself bankrupt because I am going to eat so much." With that, he pivoted on his heel and stomped to the bathroom with a dignified upturn of the nose.

The bathroom door opened before he could even touch it, and he found himself looking into the oddly dark blue eyes of a "full blooded" Japanese man.

The seconds that passed as they stared into each other's eyes could've been considered nearly romantic in some European countries, while it's simply gay in America.

"Kid," Kanda greeted, nodding. He blinked his eyes, looking over the younger teenager's body with a raised eyebrow. A smirk flit his lips. "…How're those munchies feelin'?"

Oh.

Well, one thing is clear from this.

Yuu Kanda will never change and will always be a brainless, slag-mouthed, fashionably crippled wanker with a drug addiction and a bad habit of blaming everything on everyone.

Who cares that he's a pretty okay bloke sometimes? And what does it matter that him plus marijuana equals right fun?

He's still an ass—always will be, and that's the truth.

Allen smiled, cracking his knuckles idly. "You'd like to know how it feels?" he asked. Then, he reared back and punched Kanda in the stomach, grinning at the pained hiss he received in reply. Lavi and Lenalee gazed upon the event in absolute horror, but he wasn't worried. "That's pretty much how it feels, mate—except, you know, a telephone times worst."

"Ach, you skeezing bitch," Kanda started cursing, holding his stomach like a pregnant woman and stumbling out the bathroom. In his eyes, though—there was a short sliver of amusement and maybe respect.

Allen laughed, walking into the bathroom jauntily. It felt good to be a normal guy for once.

Adam 'The Millennium' Earl did not fancy waiting for anyone.

And when he said anyone, he meant everyone short of the Lord himself. And, even then, He better have a great excuse.

"Sir," his driver called, looking at him through the rearview of the mirror. "There's a man coming towards us. Should I step out the vehicle?"

The Earl glanced at him from behind his round spectacles, a wide smile on his face as he rubbed his stubble. "It's alright," he replied, scooting towards the door. "I'll just do it myself."

"Sir—"

"I insist, Tryde," the Earl stated sternly, cocking an eyebrow. "I mean, what must I do to convince you? Repeat myself?" How preposterous would that be! The Earl repeating himself—what a joke.

Tryde, his trusty bodyguard as well as driver, hesitated, brushing his dark bangs away from his golden eyes. "No sir," he finally replied, looking forward with a frown. "Please, go ahead and exit the vehicle."

Oh, that Tryde. He was so silly, with his intended sarcasm and overprotective tendencies. The Earl grinned, tipping his hat in amusement. "I think I'll be doing just that, my friend," he said, and opened the back door to the limo.

The one thing about DeKalb-Peachtree Airport that he really enjoyed was the fact that it was mostly private. Now, if he were in Hartsfield-Jackson—a big shot guy like him stepping out of a limousine would be a bit of a bigger deal.

The Earl turned around after closing the car's door, a jovial smile on his lips. He may have hated waiting, but even he could admit to the joy one would feel once the wait was over.

A man was, in fact, wandering towards him and the limousine. It was a generally average-height man with nothing but a suitcase, and the Earl grinned as he got closer. Features tended to become clearer the closer someone got, of course.

"Walk faster, you old dog," the Earl called, laughing at the way the man froze. "Come on—are your hips hurting? Does Grandpa need his medication?"

"Oh, off with'cha, ya skew-whiff codger," the man snapped playfully, and he began to trot towards the Earl. "I haven't seen ya in a good four years or so, and it's good to insult me? What kind'a mate're you?"

The Earl laughed heartily, wiping a stray tear from under his glasses. "The best one you've got, friend," he replied. The man came to a stop in front of him, and the Earl patted his shoulder roughly. "It's great to see you again, Walker."

"Oh, come off of it! The name's Neah," Neah Walker replied, grinning with his perfect white teeth. He seemed to have picked up a distinct tan in his travels, but his hair was as curly and dark brown as usual. "Don't go treatin' me like some…I don't know, victim of yours."

"I like to call them business associates," the Earl corrected, grinning. He waved the man towards the limousine, turning around. "But, we can't waste any time. We've gone an entire day without you, and you likely won't even be there until the last match." He shrugged. "But, eh."

Neah laughed, his voice high-pitched and fitting for his distinctive tenor. "Eh's right," he said with a wink. "I mean, I'm busy here! Let me get settled, then we can deal with this whole 'judging' business."

"Of course," the Earl agreed, smirking. "By the way, how surprised do you think they might be?"

"That I, The bloody Musician will be there?" Neah snorted, waving a hand in dismissal. "Pah! They'll get ova' it. It'll be a bit of a surprise, but, like you said, eh."

The Earl shrugged, amused. "But, I do love a good family reunion."

…I'm pretty sorry about this, actually. No, not the chapter, because I think it's a good chappie, but the wait.

While I, the Kaza, dutifully believe all my excuses to be valid—it all varies on you. :D So, shortly after the last chapter, I attended my senior prom. One week after that exactly, my eighteenth birthday (cigarettes wooo)! One week exactly after that, my high school graduation (I was in top ten percent, guize). Then, after that, my summer job (which was working web design at a daycare lolol) and my other summer job (which was t-shirt design). During that, I bought a PS3 that came with Final Fantasy XIII. That was my fucking LIFE outside of work and sleep. Then, got my driver's license, and two days after that I got in a car crash oops. After that, time for college. Hit the road for St. John's University and never looked back.

And as an art major, by the way, my credit hours are ridiculous. Instead of the normal 15 that most college students take, I'm stuck with 18. D: And all my classes? Fuck if they aren't long, dude. My graphic design class is from 9 to 11:50. THAT SUCKS. WHO WANTS TO BE IN CLASS THAT LONG? And the majority of my classes are just that long. :(

So yes, blah blah blah excuses blah who cares? This chapter is finally done, and I personally love Allen in this shit. :D MARIJUANA is bad for you don't do it. :D But even my mom smoked pot in the 80s, because it was the 80s. It wasn't acceptable, but it just happened ha ha OH MAN AND KANDA HAS A BACKSTORY THAT IS IMPORTANT? Pshaw yeah right that's crazy talk AND NEXT CHAPTER LAVI AND ALLEN WILL FINALLY GET SOME SHIT GOING and everyone who says I make Allen a "weakling" and "girly" I'd just like to say "YEAH RIGHT ARE YOU EVEN READING THIS"

Shout outs to: frizzie123, DeathByDawn, Darmed, d3m0nang3l1106, and everyone else who might've mentioned the 14th as the missing third judge (I looked through but I think those were the only direct mentions I got ha ha)

BY THE WAY I am picking up on this crazy strand of New York dialect! I now pronounce 'crayons' like a doucebag—"Hey, can you pick me up some crayns?" "Crayns? Wtf is a crayns?" "Crayns! Those things for coloring!" "Oh, you meant crayons. Ha ha look at what NY has done to you" "SHADDUP YOU MAKIN' FUN'NA ME?"

Wisely is my homedog. :D That is all.