D. Gray-man, "Practice Makes Broken"
Warnings: Bookman philosophy, explored as it slowly begins to fail a Bookman apprentice. Faux deaths, and the writing and/or angst thereof. Kay ♥ ♥-less people and the people they ♥.
.practice makes broken.
He used to practice. Late at night after the day was over, he'd get out his journal and practice writing out the end of the people around him.
It was easy -- even though the people he laughed and joked around with during the day would be horrified to know it. Maybe they would think he was a freak; maybe they would be disconcerted, seeing their deaths written out on paper, and avoid him in the future.
Lavi had found that it was a good way to keep perspective.
Bookman, he would write. Age older-than-dirt. Died today in a tragic panda attack, perhaps mistaken as a rival male.
Then he'd think about how the world would be better off without them. He couldn't think of any reasons why the world would be better off without Gramps, of course; that was the sign of a good Bookman.
They joined the Exorcists when he was sixteen, and just like Gramps predicted, they were all excited to find two new Innocence-compatible allies. They didn't understand what it meant to be a Bookman; of all of them, maybe only Chief Komui did, with the smile that never quite reached his eyes when he looked at Lavi. Exorcists were eager to test their skills against his hammer, and scientists fell all over themselves to make him nice things. Lavi laughed and joked around with them and did everything he was expected to do.
Of course, not all people were the same -- not all of them were friendly. Some of them were very not friendly. Lavi (contrary the way he was) found this recalcitrance an endless source of amusement, so he spent even more time with those people.
Kanda Yuu, age 16, died today in combat with a level 2 akuma, he wrote in precise script. With his death the world would be a much less glowery, threat-filled place. Lavi grinned and closed his journal.
They were with the Exorcists for much longer than they had ever been with anyone else in the past. He was used to new places, new faces, new names, and those things were fine. It was pointless to get to know people -- their actions, writ in precise and unwavering script in the pages of Bookman's journals, spoke far louder than their intentions and their personalities. What did it matter if Kanda Yuu hurt deep down inside, or if he knew what love was -- the way Lavi had seen written in the near-invisible twist of his features, twitching of his hands, in certain situations -- that he remembered so clearly, every time, to the point where he was almost certain he could tell Kanda's lifestory with as much accuracy as the man himself? If the only actions Kanda left on the pages of history were violence and callousness, that was his only legacy.
Lenalee Li, age 15, he wrote. Died today saving a child from a stampeding water buffalo. It was a little whimsical, but it seemed like something she would do.
And with her death... Lavi tilted his head back and frowned. She was a good girl -- never initiated conflict, always willing to sacrifice for others, usually going out of her way to avoid burdening those around her.
Well, Lavi thought, with her death, there'll be a lot fewer admirers for Komui to menace.
That didn't really seem fair, to condemn her for her brother's actions, but -- she was the cause, wasn't she? Wouldn't the world be more peaceful if she weren't around?
Sorry, Lenalee. I don't make the rules.
He met Allen Walker a month before his second year in the Black Order. The boy seemed nice enough, open to Lavi's friendly overtures and respectful of Bookman (although Lavi thought really the old man could use a little less respect).
Allen Walker, age --he didn't know how old the kid was, actually; he'd have to ask-- probably-too-young-to-be-an-Exorcist. Died today fighting a fucking Noah. Probably he was a bit of an idiot, and the world would be a slightly smarter place without him.
(In all his years of watching, he'd never seen anything that could've predicted what would happen to him as they journeyed together.)
It became more and more difficult to 'practice' the farther from Europe the train carried them, but that didn't bother Lavi at first. After all, his days were getting a lot longer, and it was pretty inconvenient to have to take time out to write morbid lies in a notebook. It was fine, he told himself. He'd been slacking on that for a little while now. It didn't mean anything; he was just too busy. Really it was only practice, anyway.
And if he enjoyed spending time with Allen, that was nothing unusual. Lately he'd been having more fun with his banter, and getting more involved with the people around him.
He didn't begin to wonder until one night, when he laid awake on the train -- sprawled under his blanket on the row of seats and staring across the cabin at Allen. The younger boy was barely visible in the dark, but when the light fell on his slack features, he seemed more like a ghost than a boy.
That was why Lavi thought, Allen Walker, age 15. Died today, from... the plague. The bubonic plague was still sweeping China, the last that he had heard of it.
He searched, but he could not think of any way in which the world would be a better place if Allen Walker died of the plague.
He was not violent. He was not cruel. He was not petty. He was not selfish. He was not even unfriendly. He brought nothing but kindness to others.
"Well," Lavi said to the open air, "try not to catch the plague, okay?" Allen stirred and tugged up his blanket, but remained peacefully asleep.
But of course, there were many things just as dangerous as the plague. In China, it was not a plague, but a treacherous Exorcist and a sly Noah who brought Allen to death's door, leaving Lavi with only a playing card to remember him by. And perhaps the East Asia branch had taken him in, but Lavi knew better than to think that meant he had survived.
"Parasitic types often die if they lose their Innocence," Bookman said, shaking his head. "It is difficult to imagine Walker simply recovering from this loss and walking away again." He did not say it to Lenalee.
There was no guarantee that Allen would survive. Even if he did survive, he could never be an Exorcist again. He would be powerless, easily crushed like so many others swept up in the tide of history. The person Lavi had known would never come back.
"That story needs closure, Lavi," Bookman commanded him.
It was easy for him to say -- he had no heart. But neither did Lavi. He had done this thousands, tens of thousands of times in the last few years. He had practiced for it, time and again.
He sat down with his journal as the ship swayed restlessly back and forth, and he dipped his quill, and he began to write:
Allen Walker, age 15,
Then his hand stopped, apparently of its own volition, and he stared at the paper. He tried to finish the sentence, but his quill hovered over the page unmoving, until an ugly blotch of black ink spread out from the comma.
He had to finish this sentence. A real Bookman would--
No.
He couldn't do it.
Because... the world wouldn't be a better place if Allen died. It would lose something bright -- something beautiful.
Don't be dead, he thought, and cradled his head in his hands. It ached, he ached, everything ached as if he had been bruised from head to toe... Don't be dead, don't be dead, don't be dead.
He thought it over and over again, sending that wish out into the universe like a hushed prayer.
It was just too unfair for him to have... done this to Lavi and then simply vanished, a phantom whose absence made the heart Lavi shouldn't have feel so much heavier. If Lavi knew anything about the world, it was that it wasn't fair -- but some treacherous part of him that would never make it as a Bookman still wished, clinging to the impossible.
He shoved his way out of the cabin, thinking that he would get some air, clear his head, and try again. When he opened the door, Bookman was there, his eyes serious and fixed on Lavi, the huge dark circles around them only increasing their eerie soul-searching stare.
Lavi yelped and clutched at his chest, then managed nervously, "Uh, hey, pandy." He felt unaccountably guilty, like he had done something wrong. A corner of Allen's card dug into his thigh, and he shifted a little to hide it. (Not that he thought that the old man was going to look, as that would be terrifying, but he was inconveniently at around crotch level.)
"Have you written it?" Bookman said expectantly. "Allen Walker's death."
"Oh," Lavi said numbly, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, I-- was getting to that."
There was a silence, just long enough according to Lavi's flawless observational skills to be significant, and then Bookman said, "I see."
He turned and walked away without another word.
Shit, Lavi thought, bitterly, heading up the stairs again to the deck. It had been some sort of test, and he had failed. And Bookman hadn't even had the grace to be disappointed in him -- he had expected it.
Like he had seen it happening all along, and had just... watched.
The way Lavi was just supposed to watch.
A Bookman has no need of a heart, Lavi thought, pulling the card from his pocket and leaning against the railing to study it. He had already learned every crease, every worn edge, etched every millimeter into his perfect memory -- but he felt strange when he looked at it, and that part he was still only just getting used to.
Damn Allen Walker. After ruining him as a Bookman, the least he could do was survive.
.practice makes broken.
He used to practice. Late at night after the day was over, he'd get out his journal and practice writing out the end of the people around him.
It was easy -- even though the people he laughed and joked around with during the day would be horrified to know it. Maybe they would think he was a freak; maybe they would be disconcerted, seeing their deaths written out on paper, and avoid him in the future.
Lavi had found that it was a good way to keep perspective.
Bookman, he would write. Age older-than-dirt. Died today in a tragic panda attack, perhaps mistaken as a rival male.
Then he'd think about how the world would be better off without them. He couldn't think of any reasons why the world would be better off without Gramps, of course; that was the sign of a good Bookman.
They joined the Exorcists when he was sixteen, and just like Gramps predicted, they were all excited to find two new Innocence-compatible allies. They didn't understand what it meant to be a Bookman; of all of them, maybe only Chief Komui did, with the smile that never quite reached his eyes when he looked at Lavi. Exorcists were eager to test their skills against his hammer, and scientists fell all over themselves to make him nice things. Lavi laughed and joked around with them and did everything he was expected to do.
Of course, not all people were the same -- not all of them were friendly. Some of them were very not friendly. Lavi (contrary the way he was) found this recalcitrance an endless source of amusement, so he spent even more time with those people.
Kanda Yuu, age 16, died today in combat with a level 2 akuma, he wrote in precise script. With his death the world would be a much less glowery, threat-filled place. Lavi grinned and closed his journal.
They were with the Exorcists for much longer than they had ever been with anyone else in the past. He was used to new places, new faces, new names, and those things were fine. It was pointless to get to know people -- their actions, writ in precise and unwavering script in the pages of Bookman's journals, spoke far louder than their intentions and their personalities. What did it matter if Kanda Yuu hurt deep down inside, or if he knew what love was -- the way Lavi had seen written in the near-invisible twist of his features, twitching of his hands, in certain situations -- that he remembered so clearly, every time, to the point where he was almost certain he could tell Kanda's lifestory with as much accuracy as the man himself? If the only actions Kanda left on the pages of history were violence and callousness, that was his only legacy.
Lenalee Li, age 15, he wrote. Died today saving a child from a stampeding water buffalo. It was a little whimsical, but it seemed like something she would do.
And with her death... Lavi tilted his head back and frowned. She was a good girl -- never initiated conflict, always willing to sacrifice for others, usually going out of her way to avoid burdening those around her.
Well, Lavi thought, with her death, there'll be a lot fewer admirers for Komui to menace.
That didn't really seem fair, to condemn her for her brother's actions, but -- she was the cause, wasn't she? Wouldn't the world be more peaceful if she weren't around?
Sorry, Lenalee. I don't make the rules.
He met Allen Walker a month before his second year in the Black Order. The boy seemed nice enough, open to Lavi's friendly overtures and respectful of Bookman (although Lavi thought really the old man could use a little less respect).
Allen Walker, age --he didn't know how old the kid was, actually; he'd have to ask-- probably-too-young-to-be-an-Exorcist. Died today fighting a fucking Noah. Probably he was a bit of an idiot, and the world would be a slightly smarter place without him.
(In all his years of watching, he'd never seen anything that could've predicted what would happen to him as they journeyed together.)
It became more and more difficult to 'practice' the farther from Europe the train carried them, but that didn't bother Lavi at first. After all, his days were getting a lot longer, and it was pretty inconvenient to have to take time out to write morbid lies in a notebook. It was fine, he told himself. He'd been slacking on that for a little while now. It didn't mean anything; he was just too busy. Really it was only practice, anyway.
And if he enjoyed spending time with Allen, that was nothing unusual. Lately he'd been having more fun with his banter, and getting more involved with the people around him.
He didn't begin to wonder until one night, when he laid awake on the train -- sprawled under his blanket on the row of seats and staring across the cabin at Allen. The younger boy was barely visible in the dark, but when the light fell on his slack features, he seemed more like a ghost than a boy.
That was why Lavi thought, Allen Walker, age 15. Died today, from... the plague. The bubonic plague was still sweeping China, the last that he had heard of it.
He searched, but he could not think of any way in which the world would be a better place if Allen Walker died of the plague.
He was not violent. He was not cruel. He was not petty. He was not selfish. He was not even unfriendly. He brought nothing but kindness to others.
"Well," Lavi said to the open air, "try not to catch the plague, okay?" Allen stirred and tugged up his blanket, but remained peacefully asleep.
But of course, there were many things just as dangerous as the plague. In China, it was not a plague, but a treacherous Exorcist and a sly Noah who brought Allen to death's door, leaving Lavi with only a playing card to remember him by. And perhaps the East Asia branch had taken him in, but Lavi knew better than to think that meant he had survived.
"Parasitic types often die if they lose their Innocence," Bookman said, shaking his head. "It is difficult to imagine Walker simply recovering from this loss and walking away again." He did not say it to Lenalee.
There was no guarantee that Allen would survive. Even if he did survive, he could never be an Exorcist again. He would be powerless, easily crushed like so many others swept up in the tide of history. The person Lavi had known would never come back.
"That story needs closure, Lavi," Bookman commanded him.
It was easy for him to say -- he had no heart. But neither did Lavi. He had done this thousands, tens of thousands of times in the last few years. He had practiced for it, time and again.
He sat down with his journal as the ship swayed restlessly back and forth, and he dipped his quill, and he began to write:
Allen Walker, age 15,
Then his hand stopped, apparently of its own volition, and he stared at the paper. He tried to finish the sentence, but his quill hovered over the page unmoving, until an ugly blotch of black ink spread out from the comma.
He had to finish this sentence. A real Bookman would--
No.
He couldn't do it.
Because... the world wouldn't be a better place if Allen died. It would lose something bright -- something beautiful.
Don't be dead, he thought, and cradled his head in his hands. It ached, he ached, everything ached as if he had been bruised from head to toe... Don't be dead, don't be dead, don't be dead.
He thought it over and over again, sending that wish out into the universe like a hushed prayer.
It was just too unfair for him to have... done this to Lavi and then simply vanished, a phantom whose absence made the heart Lavi shouldn't have feel so much heavier. If Lavi knew anything about the world, it was that it wasn't fair -- but some treacherous part of him that would never make it as a Bookman still wished, clinging to the impossible.
He shoved his way out of the cabin, thinking that he would get some air, clear his head, and try again. When he opened the door, Bookman was there, his eyes serious and fixed on Lavi, the huge dark circles around them only increasing their eerie soul-searching stare.
Lavi yelped and clutched at his chest, then managed nervously, "Uh, hey, pandy." He felt unaccountably guilty, like he had done something wrong. A corner of Allen's card dug into his thigh, and he shifted a little to hide it. (Not that he thought that the old man was going to look, as that would be terrifying, but he was inconveniently at around crotch level.)
"Have you written it?" Bookman said expectantly. "Allen Walker's death."
"Oh," Lavi said numbly, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, I-- was getting to that."
There was a silence, just long enough according to Lavi's flawless observational skills to be significant, and then Bookman said, "I see."
He turned and walked away without another word.
Shit, Lavi thought, bitterly, heading up the stairs again to the deck. It had been some sort of test, and he had failed. And Bookman hadn't even had the grace to be disappointed in him -- he had expected it.
Like he had seen it happening all along, and had just... watched.
The way Lavi was just supposed to watch.
A Bookman has no need of a heart, Lavi thought, pulling the card from his pocket and leaning against the railing to study it. He had already learned every crease, every worn edge, etched every millimeter into his perfect memory -- but he felt strange when he looked at it, and that part he was still only just getting used to.
Damn Allen Walker. After ruining him as a Bookman, the least he could do was survive.