Mind's Eye

by anza (27.10.06)

The train clacked, jolted. The window rattled in synchronization with the rhythm of the wheels passing over the tracks. He could feel his teeth chattering along with that forceful rhythm too; as comfortable and cushy as they made first-class passenger seats, it wasn't enough to block all of him from bouncing up and down like some sadistic, grumpy Jack-in-the-Box.

He couldn't see him (because his eyes were closed), but undoubtedly Walker was on the other side, facing him, light eyes watching him carefully from under the fringe of his silvery bangs. Those eyes, curious and not judgemental in the least - childish in their regard, old in their understanding - frightened him a little, because it felt when that gaze settled on him so comfortably like a blanket, he had finally found someone to trust.

That was important to avoid.

But nevertheless he could see his partner in his mind's eye now. The boy was a little shorter than he was, but when he hunched over a little like he was doing now, he seemed even shorter. His hair would gather at his shoulders, then slide forward to hang around his face. Under the spluttering train lights it would gleam and darken with a life of its own. Both hands to each side of his body, clutching the edge of the seat, the white of the gloves stark against the red cushions. His hood might be up, which meant there would only be the faint gleam of his alarming eyes and the baby-pink hue of his lips adding any sort of color to the pale moon underneath.

He shifted uncomfortably in his half-asleep state. Walker had been slipping more and more into his thoughts lately. That was to be expected, of course - he was curious to see what a disciple of General Cross' had to offer, as well as skeptical to see how long the brat would last. Though, when he thought about it, Allen was only a few years younger than he was. If he was a brat, so was Kanda.

Perhaps more so. Snorting at the idea, he leaned his head against the back of the seat and decided it was enough mental rumination, and it was time to get some shuteye before he found he had no time to during the mission.

It was a few minutes later that he felt a little flutter of air beside him, too deliberate to be accidental. Mentally he tensed every part of him, ready to act, ready to take on whoever or whatever danger was so close, too close...

There came a little shuffle of clothes, and then there was the shock of warm skin on his forehead - one finger, pushing apart the bangs on his forehead. He could feel some of his hair flop back - he could see that in his mind too, the arc they made as they dangled like fishing lines in the air - the other pushed to the sides of his face. And then, in the skin above his left eyebrow, that finger traced a shape, the movement rhythmic as the rattle-clank of the train and the quickening thump of his heart -

- ah. It was a star. The clumsy diagram of a pentacle, mirroring the brat's curse.

Not a brat. Not a beansprout. Allen Walker, exorcist.

Memories played idly in his head. Eyes a little wide at his entrance, the tentative outstretched hand of introduction he'd scorned; movements jerky from Komui's ruthless repair of his arm; face concentrated over a report, and then the minute flicker from the paper to his face, and then back down again nervously. Walker seemed easily scared, and hardly fit to be an exorcist, but...

...if he had gotten this far, if he had received that glaring mark of the path Fate chose for him, if Allen Walker could go farther even after whatever horror lay behind him, then Kanda would see. See with his own eyes what that shockingly silver head would grow up into.

There was a little huff of breath that blew warmly over his cheekbone for a moment, and then the finger withdrew. A creak in the seat was followed by a just-audible, "Sorry." Despite himself Kanda wondered how they must look - his black hair in contrast to Allen's bone-bleached, both dressed like dark-robed undertakers. An odd pair...but, as the Japanese pictured in his mind, also discomfortingly fitting. He, head tilted back, the river of black hair caught on the open book of his collar, one leg over the other, arms crossed and body posture closed. Allen, his hands in his laps, back against the seat as he looked down at the green glint of the cross embedded on the back of his hand, wondering, wishing for a hand to be outstretched in return, with a smile that might crack his own frozen one -

- Kanda wondered, then, who he was talking about. The thoughts all blurred together, as if someone had taken a wet negative and wiped the face of it roughly all at once. There were no apologies needed, he wanted to say, there was nothing Walker could have done about it. But that wouldn't be understanding, not the kind Allen wanted. That would just be restatement.

Don't mention it. That sounded too casual. What the hell do you think you were doing while you thought I was asleep? Too unfeeling. Go to sleep, Walker. Now that was too caring.

Was Allen looking for an answer? Or just for a place to perch while he rested his weary wings?

Kanda could give him that.

With that thought, the face of the photo slowly blurred further, until finally there was no distinguishing what was what, and where and why there was only the pretend-memory of Allen's pale face peeking from beneath his hood, the pink of his lips the only drop of color on the canvas. And then there was only a mess of gray in his mind's eye, and he felt himself tumbling headfirst into the realm of sleep.