Chapter 8: Under Cover of Darkness
Preliminary Author's Note: Here's your warning: this is not a nice chapter. If you are squeamish, you probably didn't make it this far in my story, but for those who did, this chapter definitely earned its 'M' rating.
The constant noise of the storm made the mansion quieter somehow as it muffled all of the sounds of normal night: doors opening and closing, clocks ticking, bedsprings creaking softly as their occupants moved to get more comfortable. Still, the rolling drumming on the tiled roofs couldn't mask every disturbance so what happened there in the midnight cloaked halls of the dim mansion at 3:57 a.m. did not pass into oblivion unheard.
Allen's peaceful dreams shattered and were blown away like dust in the wind while he thrashed his way back into the realm of consciousness, flinging bedclothes every which way in his haste to untangle himself from the sheets and to scramble from the mattress.
And in the room next door, the sound reverberating against the walls, Kanda howled out one last bloodcurdling shriek.
"Kanda!" Allen called just before his feet hit the cold wooden floor. "Shit!" he added when his sleep-numbed feet tangled in the fringe of the oriental carpet under the bed so that he tumbled heavily to the floor. Next door the screaming abated, leaving behind a terrible silence that made the cursed exorcist's gut clench in a nervous spasm. He pushed himself up off of his belly and sprinted out the door, his bare feet sliding painfully on the smooth, waxed boards of the hall floor. He made it to the other exorcist's door in a record time that would have made an Olympic gold medalist proud. Allen's red-skinned left hand closed on the handle and tried to turn the heavy brass knob, only to find that the door was locked. The deadbolt rattled in the jamb as he yanked on the handle.
"Kanda! Kanda, open the door!" Allen yelled, now pounding on the heavy oak door with both fists. The only reply was a nearly inaudible whimper that drove the white-haired exorcist to drastic action; he kicked the door fiercely to break the jamb. He was a little surprised, to say the least, when the door sprang open, unlocked, slammed into the wall, and rebounded into his face. It took several seconds for the stars to fade away, but when the last glittering twinkle winked out of existence Allen gasped with shock.
Across the room, a single large window stood open, its gauzy curtains billowing in the cold, moist breeze that flowed into the dark bedroom from the storm-torn night outside. A tall, knobby figure stood eerily still in the half-light from the wide bay window, its eyes dark holes in a pale face that glistened and reflected the incandescent glow of the forked tongues of lightning that rent the boiling sky. The figure—a man—stepped up onto the broad windowsill and leaned out into the night. Even in the gloomy darkness, Allen could make out short, well-groomed white hair, finely wrinkled cheeks, and a distinctive, stubborn chin.
"Mr. Harrison!" Startlement wrung the words from Allen's lips and the elderly gentleman turned his head to bare his teeth in a mocking grin that made his even, white teeth gleam threateningly. Suddenly, the man leapt from the window with disturbing agility and vanished into the shadows of the formal garden.
"Wait!" Allen shrieked at his rapidly-retreating back. A fierce gust blew a copious amount of rain through the window to create a shallow puddle on the wood floor that soon spread to soak into the edge of the carpet. From the corner of the room where the nebulous darkness hung heaviest came a soft groan that abruptly refocused Allen's attention.
"Kanda?" Allen inquired hesitantly. Once more, he received no response so the pale teen brushed his white hair out of his eyes and advanced until he stood at the foot of a sturdy four-poster bed that dominated the dark corner. Pale grey eyes widened and Allen blanched, color rushing from his face until the scarlet pentagram over his eye stood out vividly.
Kanda lay on the bed spread-eagled and vulnerable, the loose clothing the Finder had dressed him in after his bath laying in pathetic tatters on the sumptuous coverlet. Shallow gashed that oozed sticky blood suggested that his clothing had been cut off by someone carelessly wielding a very sharp blade; this was confirmed by the cold weight of Mugen that lay forgotten on the floor next to the bed, its wicked blade smeared with Kanda's crimson life-fluid. Mugen's sheathe was missing and Allen sought it out until he found it bound to Kanda's wrists in a manner that forced the swords master's arms apart. Further restraints held his wrists to the bedposts and, between the solid wood pillars and Mugen's cold sheathe, Kanda's arms were rendered entirely useless. Pale grey eyes focused on Kanda's wrists, which were torn and bloody where the swordsman's struggles had slashed the harsh cord that bound him across his unprotected flesh. Fine trails of plod traced the hard muscles of Kanda's arms to his shoulders, guiding Allen's disbelieving eyes to the Japanese man's chest. The grey-eyed exorcist felt sick.
Red hickies and purpling bite-marks stood out lividly on Kanda's pale golden skin. The light bruising became heavier and darker until it reached the raven-haired man's hips where a deeply purple hand-shaped bruise marred each side of his body. The next vision that swam before the pale exorcist's horrified eyes forced him to turn away from his fallen companion with both hands clamped over his mouth in an attempt to keep himself from being violently sick. Blood was smeared thickly up the insides of both of Kanda's thighs and stained the sheets below his rump darkly crimson. The powerful muscles of the sword-wielder's legs were trembling and twitching under the gore-streaked skin from the strain of the tight bonds that affixed his ankles to the strong posts at the foot of the bed and a deep gash yawned open on the bottom of his left foot, bleeding sluggishly.
Oh, my God, Allen groaned inside, still fighting down the urge to vomit. It was like a scene from his worst nightmares—ones based on some of the things he had seen on dark nights in narrow alleys in the worst cities he had visited with General Cross. Oh, my God, Kanda…I have to help Kanda. The sickened, abnormally pale exorcist swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut as he turned back to the bed and its battered occupant. Allen opened his eyes slowly as though he was hoping that everything was just some horrible trick and flinched at the renewed sight of his companion. Shaking uncontrollably, the cursed teen fumbled in his pocket for the worn pocket knife he had taken to carrying some months prior and cut the tough cords at Kanda's wrists and ankles, allowing Mugen's sheathe and Kanda's limbs to drop onto the mattress.
"Kanda? Are you…okay?" Immediately Allen realized the absurdity of the question. He hunched up a little out of reflex, expecting the Japanese man's typical scathing reply. It never came. The parasite-bearing teen uncurled from his defensive ball and slipped his pocket knife back into its pocket, then, for the first time since before Kanda collapsed, allowed his pale grey eyes to seek out his companion's gaze. Allen could feel a warm salt tear slip down his cheek.
Kanda's deep blue eyes, once so bright and sharp and cunning, were dim and dull; no interest or emotion showed in those glassy orbs. Even when freed he lay unresponsive and listless, making no move to protect or shield himself, and Allen, deeply ashamed of his own morbid fascination with the swordsman's damaged form, floundered about until he found a soft, pale blue blanket with which to cover Kanda's naked body. When the cursed exorcist made as if to drape the blanket over the other boy however, Kanda's arms flexed gently and the swordsman, having now discovered that he was no longer bound in his compromising position, responded violently to the sudden presence of another figure above him.
An abstract part of Allen's mind was grateful that, even in the terrible state he was in, Kanda was still physically capable of defending himself. The rest of him was thoroughly occupied with containing the sword wielder, who was making a concerted effort to cause as much damage as possible to poor Allen.
"Kanda! Kanda, stop! It's me, it's Allen!" the white-haired teen yelled while he prevented one of Kanda's fists from permanently rearranging his delicate features. The older man's struggle continued unabated; Allen's pleading exhortations were no more than noise to Kanda's inwardly-turned mind. Unfortunately, Allen was rapidly losing his advantage: even though he was currently in better physical shape than Kanda, he was trying not to hurt the other man; Kanda had no such reservations and was fighting off the perceived attack with marked singleness of mind.
"Kanda—ngh!" Allen's cried were cut off in a loud choking gurgle because Kanda had finally gained the upper hand by pulling Allen down onto the rumpled, blood-stained bedclothes and, after pinning the slighter teen beneath his bare body, wrapped his strong, calloused hands around Allen's throat. Why does he always go for my throat? Allen wondered vaguely while prizing at the other man's grip. His pale grey eyes stared up into the deep blue, eerily vacant gaze of the swordsman attacking him. Long tendrils of tangled, snarled black hair fell all around them, mixing its dark hues with the popping, far-black light bursting behind Allen's eyes as the parasite bearer began to slide into unconsciousness.
"Allen! Allen, Kanda, are you two alright?" Samuel's powerful voice boomed in the stifling room before escaping through the open window where it combined smoothly with the noise of the storm outside. The Finder pounded on the door of Kanda's room until the thick oaken planks shuddered under his heavy fists. Allen could only assume that the fickle door had locked itself again.
Kanda went stiff and still over Allen, listening without actually hearing the Finder's voice. His grip slackened enough that Allen could suck in a few deep breaths that drove away the sparkling not-light that he had been seeing. Kanda still knelt above him, but paid the cursed teen no attention. He was quivering slightly and the muscles of his powerful thighs, heavily marked by his own blood, flexed and relaxed spasmodically. It was clear that the ravaged swordsman was making a decision, God knows what it actually was, but, regardless, Allen settled on his own plan of action. If he moves again, Allen explained to himself, I'll activate Crown Clown and get a grip on him so he doesn't hurt himself or me anymore. As if he had heard Allen's thoughts, Kanda's stare shifted from the door to Allen's face. The dull complacency in the swordsman's eyes had warped into bestial cunning and glittering, sharp-edged fear. Allen tightened his muscles, preparing himself for invocation. Deeply blue eyes watched his suspiciously. In the background, the Finder's pounding seemed to grow louder and louder.
"Samuel," Allen called, keeping his pale grey eyes fixed on the other exorcist. The pounding stopped.
"Allen! Are you alright? Is Kanda okay?" Samuel shouted, his voice only slightly muffled by the three intervening inches of solid wood.
"I'm fine. Kanda is—Kanda is…anyway, I'm going to try to come unlock the door, so hold on for a second, okay?"
"What's so hard about unlocking a door?" mumbled Samuel in a none-too-flattering tone that was fairly clear about what he thought of Allen's I.Q.. If only you knew, the thought sprang unbidden into Allen's mind.
"Kanda?" Allen's address focused the swordsman's attention all the more closely on him. It was like being under a microscope. "I need you to get up so that I can unlock the door." To emphasize his point, Allen sat up slowly. Kanda refused to be moved from his spot, but he did adjust his position so that Allen wasn't quite so close to him. "No, you need to get off." Despite his best efforts to the contrary, Allen's intense was easing into irritation at the indigo-eyed exorcist's recalcitrance and the guilt the pale teen generated from being angry at Kanda, who had just suffered a violation of the highest order, made him even more irritated. He lowered his white-haired head mulishly and made as if to stand and push Kanda away.
The reaction was instantaneous and lightning-quick; Kanda dove off the bed, his hands, bloodied by the seeping fluid from his wrists, snatching at Mugen. Allen responded just a little too slowly and his great white claw bloomed into existence inches behind Kanda's lithe body. Growling angrily, the pale exorcist shoved himself away from the bed and stood before his raven-haired counterpart. He winced minutely when he surveyed the Japanese man, who stood with his back to the window and with Mugen held tightly in both hands before him so that its razor-fine blade stood between him and his perceived assailant. A thick rivulet of sticky scarlet ran down the inside of one of Kanda's toned thighs, following the contours of his flesh over his knee and down to his ankle where it dripped onto the cold floor beneath his heel.
"Shit," Allen whispered hoarsely.
"Are you two okay in there? I'm going to open the door now!" A woman's concerned voice accompanied a hurried rapping knock and the jangling of a heavily-laden key ring. A few moments passed before Allen registered the voice as Lillian's, at which the door sprang open to reveal a flustered, motherly Lillian and Samuel, who was nearly tearing his hair out with worry.
"Oh! Oh my goodness!" Lillian gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth as her gentle eyes took in the sight of battered Kanda. The Finder paled and went still.
"So now you know," Allen remarked dryly, his voice strained. Kanda's eyes flickered between the three present and his grip on Mugen tightened while the tip of the blade, once held still so firmly, wavered. The swordsman's chest heaved as he panted for air and then, suddenly yet ever-so-slowly, the Innocence blade slipped from his fingers, his frantic eyes rolled back, and he slumped toward the floor. The white-haired exorcist sprang forward to catch his companion, swearing heartily. Maybe I should invest in a bottle of mouthwash, a distant part of his mind noted. Swearing seems to have become habitual lately.
Kanda landed face-down in Allen's arms, so the pale teen rolled him over, only to nearly drop the Japanese man in shock. He was not, as the white-haired exorcist had thought, unconscious. Instead his deep blue eyes were half-lidded and dull, staring back into Allen's own pale-grey gaze with little thought. His black hair lay strewn messily over his fine features and it fluttered gently with every one of his gasping breaths, never quite flapping free as the soft strands stuck fast to the blood that clotted on his split lips. The cursed teen could feel the thready, rapid pulse of Kanda's heart against his arm. For the first time in his life, Allen caught himself thinking of Kanda as pathetic and was struck by the sudden, irrational urge to hide that weakened side of Kanda from the world.
"I'm going to take him to my room for a bath," Allen said softly, deactivating his Innocence claw so that he could more gently lift the other exorcist's abused body.
"I think that would be best," the maid responded faintly, her eyes fixed on the streaks of blood that slicked Kanda's lower half. Allen pulled Kanda closer to his chest protectively and tightened his grip on Kanda's knee and shoulder, the only available handholds as he cradled the taller man bridal-style. The white-haired exorcist nodded absently on his way out. He walked the short distance between their rooms quickly, not even bothering to close the hall doors behind him. He did, however, close the door between his room and his bathroom firmly before he lowered Kanda onto a hastily-spread towel on the marble-tiled floor. When his lacerated back touched the fluffy cotton fabric, the sword wielder moaned softly and twisted in discomfort.
"Samuel?" Allen yelled at the wall that divided Allen's bathroom from Kanda's suite. "Could you bring Mugen in here, please?"
The Finder appeared a few moments later, Mugen in hand. He lowered his clear brown eyes uncomfortably as he deposited the Innocence sword next to Kanda.
"Do—do you need any help?" he asked, shifting from foot to foot awkwardly. Allen gave him a quick once-over, taking in his obvious desire to be somewhere else.
"No, thank you. I think more people would just make Kanda more uneasy," Allen mumbled by way of response and, no sooner than the words left his mouth, the Finder had made his hasty exit. The pale teen felt a sharp pang of fury at the Finder's behavior, but tried to soothe it away by occupying himself with the necessities of a bath. Kanda stirred unhappily at the rushing noise the steaming water made as it poured out of the taps into the deep, cool pool below. Combined with the dismal patter of the unrelenting rain, the water sounded like an ocean was waging a full-scale war on the manor and its inhabitants. It was not until Allen shut off the crystalline font that Kanda subsided to his previous motionless state, his blood already dyeing the pure-white towel on which he laid a glorious crimson.
"Kanda," Allen urged gently. "You need to get in the bath." Hazy, abyssal-blue eyes rolled towards him, their regard dazed and shattered. "Let's get the blood and the…the blood off of you. But you have to help me out and get in the water first." The raven-haired man blinked slowly at his companion, a slow comprehension dawning in the depths of his gleaming orbs.
"Bean Sprout."
Said boy winced at the sound of Kanda's voice. It was hoarse and cracked from screaming and rasped harshly in the swordsman's throat, so unlike his usual deep-throated throbbing growl. Still, he had
acknowledged Allen's presence, which was a step in the right direction. He was calming down, too, drifting away from the violent and unpredictable shifts in his behavior, and for once he was showing an inclination to follow Allen's direction because he was slowly crawling to the edge of the bath.
"I'm not sure where the steps are and the bath is really deep," the cursed teen murmured, extending his red-skinned, cross-marked hand to assist Kanda down into the warm water. Kanda paused at the rim of the pool and leveled a less-than-usually-acerbic gaze on that hand. Allen sweatdropped. Good lord, he wouldn't honestly refuse my help while he's in that kind of condition just because he never takes help from anyone…would he? Finally, hesitantly, Kanda stretched out his bloody-wristed, callo0used limb and allowed Allen to take his hand in a firm clasp.
Allen marveled at Kanda's light weight as the raven-tressed exorcist slipped down into the warm water, nearly his entire mass being supported by the cursed teen. Caked gore drifted off of the swords master's body, dried flakes floating up to the water's surface in a gross mockery of flower petals. The once-pure liquid took on a roseate hue when the crusted blood dissolved. Kanda hissed and writhed in the water, splashing it out of the bath in pink waves. Stinging pain burned at the edges of the swordsman's senses as the warm water scalded the damaged flesh at his wrists, ankles, and between his legs.
"Ah! I'm sorry; it's too hot, isn't it?" Allen yelped apologetically, feeling deeply guilty for exacerbating the injured man's discomfort. The red-skinned, cursed hand groped for the handles of the tap to turn on the flow of cold water and Allen's body followed that hand in and deep and sudden lunge. A sharp jerk on the trailing hand yanked the pale teen to a halt and he whipped his snowy head around, lips already slightly parted in rebuke, to see that the impediment to his action was Kanda.
The moody exorcist stood facing away from Allen in his bloodied bath, one strong, scarred hand clamped down on the parasite-bearer's normal wrist. His shoulders were hunched over and his head was lowered, his face nearly completely hidden in the tangled fringe of his once-sleek hair.
"Kanda—?" Allen began, tugging at his wrist. "I can't cool the water of you don't let me go."
"Leave it." Even with a raspy voice, Kanda could still manage the tones of absolute command.
"But—"
"Leave it." The swordsman's grip tightened painfully around Allen's wrist and Allen gave in swiftly to the other man's demand just so he could keep his hand. Kanda let go when Allen shuffled on his knees back to his original spot and settled himself cross-legged, rubbing his wrist gently with his cursed hand.
The two of them waited in what would have been companionable silence had the situation not been so dire or if the tension had not hung so thickly in the air, strung tight between the two. After a while, Allen, who could no longer bear the heavy atmosphere, broke the uncomfortable silence.
"Would you like some soap?"
Kanda hesitated then nodded once—a short, swift, barely perceptible dip of his head. The pale teen obligingly fumbled through the silver tray of toiletries that he had conveniently abandoned nearby after his own bath, finally digging up the only bar of soap that wasn't heavily-laden with a scent that Kanda would find girly and would surely reject. In the meantime, Kanda had dampened his hair with a few
handfuls of grimy water, an action that he had completed so many times in the past that it was forever remembered by his muscles. Ruby droplets of reconstituted blood slid down from the dark strands, spotting the tanned flesh.
Allen passed him the soap, which was accepted with no comment. The Japanese man rubbed the little oblong bar into a frothy foam. The rich scent of sandalwood filled the steam-thickened air and the pale teen sniffed appreciatively. Once the bubbles spilled over the swordsman's hands, he lifted the soap and scrubbed it roughly through his hair. Allen let out a cry of horror.
"You wash your hair with soap?"
Kanda stared blankly at Allen, who tugged at his own short mane.
"Are you joking? Do you know how much some of us have spent trying to get hair like yours? Linali is going to die."
The cursed teen's overly-theatrical frustration, which he would later admit was untimely and inappropriate given the situation, filtered slowly through Kanda's numbed mind, sinking through his conscience until it hit the impermeable bedrock of Kanda's superiority complex.
"Heh. Heh heh."
Allen froze in mid-tug and peeked through his fringe of bangs at the Japanese swords master. His broad shoulders shuddered occasionally with each dry, cracked laugh. The deep almost-chuckle escalated in pitch and began to border on near-hysterical laughter. While the shorter exorcist was glad to see Kanda move away from the terribly, icy numbness, the deep stillness that he had assumed when he crashed down from the blind animal fear that drove him upon Allen's appearance in his bedroom, Allen was deeply worried by the sudden manic attitude Kanda adopted. He's just jittery, in shock, Allen reassured himself. He'll go back to normal soon.
Sure enough, the strained merriment died down in moments, but the tremors that rocked the swordsman's capable frame did not cease.
Is he—? No way. The only remaining option for Kanda's behavior was nigh incomprehensible to the white-haired young man. It was so beyond the ordinary scope, even the imagined scope of Kanda's actions, that Allen felt obligated to crush that niggling thought into a fine powder to be scattered to the winds of regularity; and yet the unimaginable held a certain irresistible attraction that sent the cursed boy crawling around the lip of the pool so that he could see his companion's face.
Allen could feel the onset of a heart attack brought on by surprise. Kanda stared straight ahead, his dark, cloudy blue eyes blurred with viscous, salty tears that slid slowly down the angled planes of his bruised cheeks, lingering like a lover's caress. Poor Allen was highly uncomfortable with this new development and responded with the first thing that came to mind.
"Do you want me to wash your hair?"
Saline-washed eyes flicked in his direction, then the abused swords master slid through the water to the edge of the bath closest to Allen, where the sword-wielder turned his back to the white-haired boy and
proffered the bubbling soap. Allen accepted the soap gingerly and waffled a bit before depositing it on the marble tiles beside his folded legs.
"I'm, uh, I'm going to use something a little different. Something actually supposed to be used on your hair, okay?"
Kanda nodded once and Allen sifted through a few of the bottles and vials scattered by his earlier search for soap, looking for one that contained shampoo. He uncorked the first one that came to hand and, after briefly considering the best way to proceed, threw caution to the winds and dumped an unnecessarily large amount of the white gel onto the crown of Kanda's head and, so that he couldn't change his mind and back out at the last minute, tossed the glass bottle aside to shatter on the tiles and dug both hands in the thick mass of Kanda's hair.
Both of them stiffened and stilled instantly, not entirely sure either was comfortable with the suggestion now that it was being carried out, but Allen just shrugged and started working at the clumps of dried blood that clung tenaciously to the long black strands of the Japanese man's mane. With a barely-audible sigh Kanda slumped wearily against the edge of the pool. His head sagged on his strong neck until it nearly touched Allen's knees where the pale boy knelt on the edge of the pool.
It was oddly peaceable and Allen was able to momentarily forget that the only reason that Kanda was allowing himself to be touched was because he was seeking some semblance of normalcy in a terrible situation, craving non-violent and non-threatening contact. Kanda's eyelids fluttered sleepily and his body slowly relaxed in the warm water. The sweet smell of the shampoo—Allen realized with some chagrin that, in his haste, he had used a decidedly floral-scented concoction—wafted through the bathroom. The pale pink bubbles formed by Allen's ministrations slipped down over Kanda's shoulders to float on the surface of the water, where Kanda collected them with one hand before lifting the opposite arm out of the water to scrub at it. The cuts on his wrists had reopened in the bath and were streaming blood that stained the golden skin faster than the swordsman could rinse it off.
Seeing this, Allen quickly finished working the filth out of the tips of Kanda's hair, then laid one hand on the Japanese swords master's shoulder. The violated man paused under Allen's hand.
"Rinse you hair, will you?"
Kanda nodded absently and submerged himself. The water and the thick layer of pink bubbles closed over his head, hiding him from view. He was underwater for an increasingly-alarming period of time and it wasn't until Allen had had a sufficient length of time to work himself into a frenzy of worry that he reappeared. The cursed teen blew out a sigh of relief and snatched up the soap.
"Come back over here and keep your wrists away from yourself so you don't get blood on yourself."
Obedient as a child—a state of being that, from Kanda, chilled Allen's blood—the older exorcist glided to the edge once more to stand in front of Allen, his bleeding wrists extended out over the lip of the bath so that the ruby droplets of life-fluid splashed onto the cool marble. Trying hard not to think about what he was doing, Allen re-lathered the soap and gently cleaned the filth from Kanda's face, then his shoulders and arms, lingering at his fingertips and pretending to be removing the ingrained blood from under Kanda's nails when he was really just delaying.
The pale boy continued to fuss about his cleaning, rather hoping that Kanda would snap out of the daze he had fallen into and show some autonomy. But no. The relief of being removed from the room and the situation in which he had been raped, coupled with the mental distance he had put between himself and his body to keep from having to dwell on his own condition, knowing that said body would be safe where it currently was, had combined to make him revert into an almost child-like state, having not yet returned to his normal surly, argumentative, independent self.
With the thought that Kanda was basically a child at the moment held firmly in the forefront of his mind, Allen scrubbed firmly down Kanda's back, then over his hips and up his belly and chest as a parent would. The white-haired boy then blew out a huff of frustration.
"Kanda, I can't reach anything else. You're going to have to do this yourself or sit on the edge of the bath or something so that I can."
Apparently the Japanese man's shocky obedience didn't extend that far because he simply remained standing in the chest-deep, pinkish water. Allen debated with himself about the likelihood that Kanda would suddenly become biddable once more, decided that it would be more likely that a meteor in the shape of a donut would fall from the sky and strike Mount Rushmore, and kicked off his shoes and slid fully-clothed into the water. As the warm water closed around him and stuck insidious fingers in his clothing, Allen did his best not to imagine the assorted fluids that had contributed to the hazy, reddish cast of the bath. Kanda's automatous shell cracked at the edges and his deep-blue eyes, still not entirely there, fixed wanly on his much-smaller bath mate.
"You're alright, easy, I'm not going to hurt you," Allen spewed the clichéd words of comfort as he reached one soap-filled hand in Kanda's direction, fully aware that the one in danger was him. A wild light abruptly flared to violent life in the hazy depths of his companion's eyes and Kanda flinched away. The cursed teen knew that the other man, already so abused and battered, was rapidly reaching the end of his tether and moved more quickly. The sudsy hand descended gently onto the swordsman's shoulder.
"Take it easy, we're almost done," Allen murmured, pointedly ignoring the minute trembling of the muscles under his fingers and squelching the little voice screaming "certain death, certain death, certain death!" in his mind. The soap in his hand glided down Kanda's side to his thigh and the pale boy started to wash the other's long, powerful legs. It took nearly ten minutes; the swords master kept jerking away—never quite actually fleeing, but still voicing his discomfort in a very physical manner. Allen was just stunned that Kanda trusted him enough to suffer his touch so soon after his ordeal, or even ever. True, the parasite-bearer would be favoring his left leg in the morning—morning being some unspecified point in the future—due to the damage sustained from one of Kanda's more violent withdrawals that left a heel-shaped bruise blooming on the pale flesh of Allen's thigh. Still, the process was rather easier that Allen had expected—until he was done with the other man's legs.
"Kanda?" Allen queried cautiously. He wasn't sure how well the other man would take what he was about to do. "The worst of the blood and stuff is, well, I need to get it off of you and you don't seem to be particularly interested in doing it for yourself, so…please don't kill me." And before he could lose his nerve, the exorcist ran his soapy, red-skinned hand over the gentle curve of Kanda's backside and used his fingertips to wash away the gore that stained the Japanese man's anus, blushing furiously all the while with his eyes screwed tightly shut—which was why he never saw the vicious left hook hurtling
toward his face. He only felt the stinging pain and saw the violet and turquoise stars burst behind his eyes as the swordsman's fist collided with his temple with the force of a freight train.
Water sloshed everywhere as Allen fell back, coming up split-seconds later windmilling his arms and spluttering. Kanda's hands clamped over his nose and mouth, driving his head back under the pink surface. That was a bad idea, Allen, observed Inner Allen from his relatively safe perch in a far corner of his mind. You think? Allen raged back, panicked and terrified and, God help him, drowning. The cursed exorcist knew that he could escape, could feel the outpouring rush of energy that heralded Crown Clown's activation, could see the marble bath glow vividly with pale light, and he almost lashed out with Crown Belt. Almost. Just before the long, white ribbons of Innocence could completely materialize, the other exorcist fell away. The white-haired teen broke the glittering surface gasping and heaving for air, his lungs burning from the mixture of oxygen starvation of water, suppressing the manifestation of his Innocence.
Long minutes dragged by as Allen was wracked with paroxysms of coughing and dry heaves as his body struggled to maintain a homeostasis that did not involve copious amounts of fluid filling the lungs. When he was at last able to straighten, he set his pale grey eyes to searching for the unpredictable Japanese exorcist. It didn't take long to locate Kanda, who was as far away as he could possibly be in the bath, his head down and his eyes hidden by the soaking mat of his bangs.
"Kanda?" Allen rasped, rubbing at his chest though the sodden cotton shirt that clung determinedly to it. The black-tressed sword bearer muttered a short phrase that was utterly swallowed up in the sound of the storm still raging above then crossed his arms over his chest and started rocking himself, casting little wavelets in all directions.
"Kanda?" the parasite-bearer repeated worriedly, edging closer. The elder exorcist's words became discernable and took shape in Allen's mind.
"'m sorry, 's my fault, 'm sorry." The swordsman repeated it like a mantra and once more his eyes took on the dead, flat look that Allen had first seen when Kanda was still tethered to his bed.
"No, no, no, no," Allen half-sobbed, closing the distance between them to swiftly clasp Kanda's hands in his own after pulling the damaged appendages away from Kanda's chest. "Listen to me. Listen! It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault!" And the two of them stood there, leaning close like two old, decrepit buildings about to collapse into each other for support and yet never quite touching. The water grew cold unnoticed, until Kanda's hyper-emotional trembling gave way to the shivering of a man trying desperately to regain body heat. Allen cut off his litany and lurched from the tub, water sluicing down from his clothing, and pulled a thick stack of fluffy towels over with one water-wrinkled hand.
A look of quiet sadness settled in on the young exorcist's face. Kanda hadn't moved beyond increasing the frequency and magnitude of his quaking, so Allen hoisted him out of the bath. Kanda crumpled in on himself, a marionette with the strings cut away. The hateful apologetic words poured from Kanda's lips in an immutable tide even now, and Allen could feel potent rage bubble up in his heart while he toweled Kanda dry.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
The words rang in the pale teen's ears, incensing him. Hs teeth ground together.
"It's my fault. It's my fault."
Allen had never wanted to kill someone more than at that moment when all he could think of was how nice it would be to impale the shadowy figure that had invaded Kanda's room and violated him mind, body, and spirit. He could practically smell the rich, acrid mix of blood, urine and bowel that would rise in a thick miasma like gases from a swamp when he gutted Mr. Harrison with the deadly, hooked claws of his Innocence hand. Still, he conceded to himself, it would be just as nice to watch the vivid red arterial blood come pulsing out of the severed stump of the old man's neck. Crown Clown's sword form could do that, too.
"I'm sorry, it's my fault."
Something inside Allen snapped. "Shut up! Shut up!" he screamed hysterically. "It's not your goddamn fault, so just shut up!" Kanda's mutterings faded into silence and the delicate-seeming boy scooped up his older companion, cradling the crazed bundle in his arms while he stormed from the bathroom. Kanda was dumped more-or-less unceremoniously onto the huge bed given to Allen by their host.
"Nobody chooses to be raped, Kanda. You don't have to be sorry. In fact, you can be angry. Furious. I am." Allen punctuated his words by dragging clothing from his suitcase at random, throwing articles of it this way and that haphazardly. He seemingly found what he was looking for because he slammed his suitcase-lid down with rather more force than was strictly necessary. A lone brass screw leapt from its place to roll across the floor. "Here," he added, throwing a small pile of clothing at Kanda. It collided with the Japanese man's face with a muffled flump before dropping into the man's lap. He made no attempt to pull the clothes on, however.
Allen turned back to face the swordsman, another angry exclamation ready to spill forth from his lips, only to deflate at the sight of the other exorcist's helplessness. He blew out a sigh and moved to the side of the bed.
"Hold out your wrists," the pale teen commanded gently and was rewarded by the presentation of two wound-barred wrists that, having not scabbed and clotted properly given their long bath, still dripped serum and blood. Allen opened his First-Aid kit and extracted a salve that, after squinting at the instructions panel industriously, if ineffectually, for some time, he decided likely had antimicrobial properties and, even if it didn't, would likely aid Kanda's healing and set about smearing the thick, white paste onto the wide abrasions. Kanda was silent, though Allen knew that, whatever the salve was, it must have stung like no other. Some part of the cursed exorcist was actually relieved: 'stoic' was practically normal-Kanda's middle name. And Allen would be the first to admit that his bandaging wasn't very pretty, either. It resembled the effect you would get if a couple of Egyptian drunks decided to make a mummy out of a third drunken friend, but it was reasonably tight and would keep the salve from getting everywhere. The white haired teen salved and bandaged the sword-wielder's ankles and the bottom of his left foot, too, and did a slightly better job. He didn't have enough gauze left to wrap the shallow slices on Kanda's chest, belly, and thighs, so the white-haired boy just daubed on what he felt was the appropriate amount of salve and left it.
The parasite-bearer's next move was to chew his bottom lip in thought. The thought didn't take too long to discard, so the plump lip escaped death-by-maceration and the lip's owner handily avoided his own destruction—Allen had concluded that, as evidenced by the recalcitrant swordsman's response in the
bath, trying to salve the worst of the torn parts was out of the question. The bruises as well would have to be left unattended.
Once the basic medical supplies were restored to their place in the cool, impersonal, cross-marked box and the box was shoved to the floor, Allen began the arduous task of dressing the unhelpful and withdrawn exorcist. The loose shirt—the largest one Allen owned—was easy enough given that it was a button-up, but the pale-blue, checkered boxers and the darker blue, striped night pants—also the largest Allen possessed—were a little more difficult. He brushed white hair out of his eyes with his red-skinned hand and thanked his lucky stars that Kanda had a tiny waist, narrow hips, and basically no ass to speak of, else the clothes would never have fit.
At roughly the same time, the cursed boy noticed that he was dripping on the floor and had already left quite a large puddle. It was cold, too. The broken suitcase was revisited, another pair of nightclothes selected, and, after a quick glance at the glazed swordsman and a vague reassurance, Allen ducked into the bathroom to strip, dry, and dress in an incredibly short period of time. Kanda hadn't moved at all when Allen returned, rubbing vigorously at his snowy mane with a towel, so Allen took the liberty of easing him down on the bed and tucked him in like a child.
"I'm going to sleep on the floor right over here," he spoke gently to Kanda, pulling a pillow and spare blanket off the bed. One of Kanda's calloused hands shot out and got a tight grip on Allen's wrist in a movement that was starting to become familiar to the white-haired teen.
"Stay."
At any other time, Kanda would have made the word sound like an arrogant command, but as it was now, the single syllable sounded hurt and lost and frightened. Allen turned back.
"I'll be right here on the floor—"
Kanda shook his head and hid his face behind his bangs, a slight motion he used to only make when he was trying to hide just how angry he was. Allen's resistance folded and the parasite-bearer found himself crawling under the covers on the opposite side of the bed. Kanda rolled to face him, close enough for the pale teen to smell the floral scent left in the Japanese man's hair, but not touching except for the hand that Kanda twisted in the fabric covering Allen's chest.
"Kanda, why—?"
"I know you are Bean Sprout, so I don't have to kill you," came the murmured response. And as Allen pondered that distinctly cryptic remark, Kanda's breathing slowed into the steady pattern of deep sleep. The floral scent was nearly overpowering. Timcampy fluttered up to rest on the pillow next to Kanda's head.
"I don't get it, Tim," Allen yawned as he gave up trying to decipher Kanda's words, his eyes already dropping shut in slumber. Timcampy remained on watch; intricate clockwork had no need for sleep.
Next to the bed, the minute hand of the clock on the nightstand shifted with a soft tock. '6:14' the clock read, already ticking away determinedly at the next minute. 6:14.
Author's note: Confused? Questions? Good. Theoretically, I'll explain everything before the end. I'll try to make some of the explanations obvious.
As a side note, I find rape an incredibly serious topic, so if you think I dealt with it too lightly, feel free to PM me or review with your opinion.
Remember, all the weird things will make sense in the end. And I don't hate Kanda.