Beginning
In the beginning, he hated the boy. Or, perhaps hated was the wrong word—a bit strong, even for Kanda. It was more or like a subtle loathing or maybe even a silent itch of necessary avoidance that sparked between them. Whatever it was, he couldn't stand being in certain proximity with the white haired anomaly that waltzed into the Black Order and threw everyone into confusion.
His desire to avoid him only seemed to result in being thrown into the very next mission with him and the strange feeling of avoidance only strengthened. He determinedly wanted nothing to do with the falsely pleasant individual who was concerned with everything within his sight despite the greater needs. He saw Allen Walker as a Martyr type and those types had tendencies to die.
When he didn't die and actually managed to overcome his limits, Kanda was surprised. Not that he would outwardly show it, but he felt that spark touch up between them when his sword collided with the newly formed Crowned Clown and he snarled defensively—convinced that he hated the boy more than he'd ever hated him before.
The avoidance became obvious to the point where even Allen could see it. It was like Kanda's newest skills lied in hiding and that settled into an uncomfortable disturbance somewhere in Allen's gut—instinctively knowing he was responsible for some degree of it. Confrontation was never one of his favored approaches, but this was Kanda. He could meet unusual tactic with unusual tactic. Avoidance led to confrontation.
Confrontation let to accusing words and angry fists and somewhere in the flurry of irritation and insults, teeth mashed and tightened fists flattened out into exploring fingertips and desperation.
There's a fine line between love and hate, or so they say.
Sitting up, wrapped in rustled white sheets with a body curled to his left, he begins to wonder exactly where he'd drawn the line and how he'd missed taking care in staying on one side of it. The topic is a touchy one and he hopes he can avoid it better than he avoided Allen Walker.
A/N: It's back, motherfuckers. My writing mojo is back. Prepare.