(no subject)
Fic: Two of Swords
Fandom: D. Gray-Man
Genre: Introspection-ish? o.0
Characters: Lavi, Kanda
Rating: G
Spoilers: None as far as I can tell…
Summary: It’s a different sort of game. Lavi and Kanda discuss philosophy and avoid themselves.
Notes: A short and weird bunny that wanted out while I try to find a ladder out of the epic plothole I’ve dug for myself elsewhere. This is probably also why I shouldn’t try writing closer to pairing-ish things…o.0
**
He wakes in the middle of the night; old instinct really, the moon is not where it should be. There’s a hole, a shadow folded in front of it, a shadow that shifts ever so slightly when he lifts his head before settling again as if it had never moved.
“Yuu?” he manages sleepily, body and mind still drunk in the sweet darkness of rest, and he rolls over on his side to face the silhouette perched in the alcove window of the inn. “What’s wrong?”
He thinks Kanda isn’t going to answer for a moment because Kanda usually doesn’t, that’s why Lavi asks anyways; and he waits patiently to see if Kanda moves to stand or remains seated before he decides on what to do. The comfortable weight of the bedding is pulling him down once more even as the chill of the night air on his face is slowly making him more alert, and there’s a moment of irrelevant clarity where he wonders if he’s just dreaming as he falls asleep again. Then Kanda’s disembodied voice melts across the room with what’s left of the moonshine, and Lavi sways and jerks himself back to full awareness from where he’s propped himself up in the bed on one arm.
“I awoke with death,” Kanda says simply, without lifting his head from where it’s resting on the hands he has folded over a bent knee. His other knee is curled flat on the wide windowsill, the light from the window dappling the dark material of Kanda’s pants like silent water, and Lavi knows, knows it’s not the rush that comes when it misses by the singed hair over an ear, knows it’s not the odd balance of perspective they shift through every time they kill, when they watch others kill, when they watch others fall, knows it is not the logic of removed detachment of understanding that this was what they faced every day as they went through the motions of an Exorcist.
It was the simple understanding of what was, of what any living creature faced in any given moment outside and in greater control, deeper and more profound in hidden presence, inexorable, rhythm and pattern and design.
And he knew what it felt like to wake with that understanding of purpose exposed in your core before it sinks away and is obscured by pettier details, to wake with that feeling of melancholy acceptance as it builds over the years, each successor waiting patiently as you’d forgotten it; and you knew more and less in those moments than ever of what it meant to be you.
Bookmen did not talk about it, even as it ran subconsciously between the lines of their logs. Kanda did not talk about it, even as Mugen sang it voiceless in stopped air. They do not talk about it, even as Kanda shifts so hazy light spills over his shoulder, and his eyes, now visible, meet Lavi’s own.
“Does staring at me help?” Lavi asks instead, lacing his voice with a hint of clinical amusement as the observer became the observed, and the tone causes Kanda’s head to snap up, a flash of teeth glinting white in the moonlight.
“I know what you do,” he answers, short as ever, and this time it’s Lavi’s mouth dropping open to exhale a tiny choked laugh, the solemnity he’d been trying to dispel crushed into the ground under Kanda’s boot at the thought that the existence of Bookmen could possibly be anchor and comfort when their role was only to record. Kanda holds his stare, fangs still bared, and Lavi drowns in silver-black and the rush of adrenaline that comes from knowing that he’s pressing too close to a line he wants to meet for reasons his mind has learned to avoid.
“Come here,” Lavi says suddenly, lifting the covers, and he sees the lines of Kanda’s silhouette stiffen as Kanda’s chin lifts in that wary, stubborn way of his, the shrill of the same tension tightening Lavi’s nerves. He knows that Kanda’s wondering, wondering why he’s doing this, and truth, he doesn’t know, but there is something in Kanda so like and unlike him that he wants to draw it in closer even as he knows he’s toying with ruin. Kanda sees something he doesn’t, even as Kanda’s set his own life and death and every interaction in simple lines on the flat slate he calls the future, and Lavi wants that, wants to tastefeelburnthrobbreak inthroughwith the hidden intensity of that melodyartlinefightdance, wants to press against it and see if the reflection changes, like some twisted mirror where he’s not sure if he wants the glass to hold or not, because it's the closest color neutral he can get to his heart even as he denies it. He meets Kanda’s gaze defiantly, because he understands, they both do, what is empty inside both of them, and Kanda’s eyes narrow and lift before he unfurls himself gracefully from the window, wings and beast, and pads towards Lavi’s bed.
“So you’re forgiving me for last time?” Lavi murmurs when Kanda slides in under the covers, bringing the nip of the night with him as his bones settle familiarly against Lavi’s own.
“That was a challenge, rabbit-brat,” Kanda hisses as he drops his head against Lavi’s shoulder and Lavi’s arm moves to loosely circle his waist. “And I do believe I won’t mind bringing you down.”
Fandom: D. Gray-Man
Genre: Introspection-ish? o.0
Characters: Lavi, Kanda
Rating: G
Spoilers: None as far as I can tell…
Summary: It’s a different sort of game. Lavi and Kanda discuss philosophy and avoid themselves.
Notes: A short and weird bunny that wanted out while I try to find a ladder out of the epic plothole I’ve dug for myself elsewhere. This is probably also why I shouldn’t try writing closer to pairing-ish things…o.0
**
He wakes in the middle of the night; old instinct really, the moon is not where it should be. There’s a hole, a shadow folded in front of it, a shadow that shifts ever so slightly when he lifts his head before settling again as if it had never moved.
“Yuu?” he manages sleepily, body and mind still drunk in the sweet darkness of rest, and he rolls over on his side to face the silhouette perched in the alcove window of the inn. “What’s wrong?”
He thinks Kanda isn’t going to answer for a moment because Kanda usually doesn’t, that’s why Lavi asks anyways; and he waits patiently to see if Kanda moves to stand or remains seated before he decides on what to do. The comfortable weight of the bedding is pulling him down once more even as the chill of the night air on his face is slowly making him more alert, and there’s a moment of irrelevant clarity where he wonders if he’s just dreaming as he falls asleep again. Then Kanda’s disembodied voice melts across the room with what’s left of the moonshine, and Lavi sways and jerks himself back to full awareness from where he’s propped himself up in the bed on one arm.
“I awoke with death,” Kanda says simply, without lifting his head from where it’s resting on the hands he has folded over a bent knee. His other knee is curled flat on the wide windowsill, the light from the window dappling the dark material of Kanda’s pants like silent water, and Lavi knows, knows it’s not the rush that comes when it misses by the singed hair over an ear, knows it’s not the odd balance of perspective they shift through every time they kill, when they watch others kill, when they watch others fall, knows it is not the logic of removed detachment of understanding that this was what they faced every day as they went through the motions of an Exorcist.
It was the simple understanding of what was, of what any living creature faced in any given moment outside and in greater control, deeper and more profound in hidden presence, inexorable, rhythm and pattern and design.
And he knew what it felt like to wake with that understanding of purpose exposed in your core before it sinks away and is obscured by pettier details, to wake with that feeling of melancholy acceptance as it builds over the years, each successor waiting patiently as you’d forgotten it; and you knew more and less in those moments than ever of what it meant to be you.
Bookmen did not talk about it, even as it ran subconsciously between the lines of their logs. Kanda did not talk about it, even as Mugen sang it voiceless in stopped air. They do not talk about it, even as Kanda shifts so hazy light spills over his shoulder, and his eyes, now visible, meet Lavi’s own.
“Does staring at me help?” Lavi asks instead, lacing his voice with a hint of clinical amusement as the observer became the observed, and the tone causes Kanda’s head to snap up, a flash of teeth glinting white in the moonlight.
“I know what you do,” he answers, short as ever, and this time it’s Lavi’s mouth dropping open to exhale a tiny choked laugh, the solemnity he’d been trying to dispel crushed into the ground under Kanda’s boot at the thought that the existence of Bookmen could possibly be anchor and comfort when their role was only to record. Kanda holds his stare, fangs still bared, and Lavi drowns in silver-black and the rush of adrenaline that comes from knowing that he’s pressing too close to a line he wants to meet for reasons his mind has learned to avoid.
“Come here,” Lavi says suddenly, lifting the covers, and he sees the lines of Kanda’s silhouette stiffen as Kanda’s chin lifts in that wary, stubborn way of his, the shrill of the same tension tightening Lavi’s nerves. He knows that Kanda’s wondering, wondering why he’s doing this, and truth, he doesn’t know, but there is something in Kanda so like and unlike him that he wants to draw it in closer even as he knows he’s toying with ruin. Kanda sees something he doesn’t, even as Kanda’s set his own life and death and every interaction in simple lines on the flat slate he calls the future, and Lavi wants that, wants to tastefeelburnthrobbreak inthroughwith the hidden intensity of that melodyartlinefightdance, wants to press against it and see if the reflection changes, like some twisted mirror where he’s not sure if he wants the glass to hold or not, because it's the closest color neutral he can get to his heart even as he denies it. He meets Kanda’s gaze defiantly, because he understands, they both do, what is empty inside both of them, and Kanda’s eyes narrow and lift before he unfurls himself gracefully from the window, wings and beast, and pads towards Lavi’s bed.
“So you’re forgiving me for last time?” Lavi murmurs when Kanda slides in under the covers, bringing the nip of the night with him as his bones settle familiarly against Lavi’s own.
“That was a challenge, rabbit-brat,” Kanda hisses as he drops his head against Lavi’s shoulder and Lavi’s arm moves to loosely circle his waist. “And I do believe I won’t mind bringing you down.”