3 sentence fic (february '24)
written for ficwip's monthly 3 sentence fic exercise!
for prompt: a first love & a last look
fandom: d.gray-man
ship: allen/kanda
word count: 289
rating: G
summary: kanda says goodbye
—
Yuu doesn't know when exactly, but it hits him, somewhere between the revelations and the investigating, that there could come a point when he would never see Allen again — at least, not as he has always known him; he might still see his face, but he cannot be sure it will still be him, still be his Allen.
His Allen, he thinks, and thinks about how audacious a claim it is to make, that he wants something different out of the boy everyone seemed to want something of — to play host, to take sides, to save the world, et cetera, et cetera — and yet, he remembers the way he had offered up his story, lightly, opening that door that he — that they had all, really — been knocking on, ever since Allen had first disappeared, opened that door for him, just the same way he had first told him he loved him (confessed a first love, offhandedly, as if he didn't care whether Yuu felt the same way), and he thinks that perhaps he can allow himself this one audacious claim.
He tries to imprint the shape of who Allen is, in his memory, the same way he holds the memory of Alma, the same way he holds the hazy fragments of "that person", memorises the cadences of his speech, the set of his jaw, the shape of his eyes, of the way he laughs, protests, fights him, the dear, warm weight of him in his arms, the sum of who he is so much more than his memory can hold, even as Yuu watches him walk away, across the grass, even as he turns away himself, from his last vision of yet another loss, gold-gilt in the sunlight — farewell.
also on ao3
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Acquiescence
a/n: this is super old, now revamped. i was just thinking about it and thought i’d clean it up and send it back out into the world. i would absolutely not count on me to write any dgm right now; that requires an entire reread since it’s been a while lmaoo.
summary: kanda can’t sleep, so he opts for the back-up plan he swore he’d never use. kanda x gn!reader
cw: light fluff if you squint lol, some skin touching skin. nightmares, comfort. gn!reader, gender neutral pronouns used.
wc: 955.
Kanda shoots up out of the bed. Sweat clings to the back of his neck and edges of his forehead. He sweeps his hair off to one side of his shoulder to try and dry his skin, and then he pulls his knee close and rests his head against it, catching his breath. His heart is loud—embarrassingly so, considering it was just a nightmare. His reality as an exorcist is worse than whatever his brain can conjure up in sleep.
Or maybe, his brain didn’t conjure up false images. Perhaps, it was a memory. It certainly felt…familiar. Or maybe it’s just a reoccurring dream. He doesn’t know.
Kanda sighs, groaning internally. H knows from past experience that he’s either staying up all night, tossing and turning, or jerking away every time he falls too deep asleep.
A thought strikes him then—a voice. Your voice.
Plan B.
—No, fuck that. He’s not doing that. His pride is strong and it’s late in the night. Plan B is simply out of the question, he tells himself.
He lays back down. He’ll just have to tough it out, he thinks.
However, just as he expected, he spends the next thirty minutes shifting and twisting his body in various positions. His body sinks into the sheets in exhaustion, but sleep feels so far out of reach. He has just come back from a three-week long mission; the fatigue has been building, and this is supposed to be his first night where he gets more than four hours of sleep, and yet here he is, eye-bags burning in the dark.
When another minute ticks by without any sign of sleep, he rolls over to face the wall and growls irritably.
Plan B, he hears you say again.
He doesn’t even know why it’s called Plan B. It should be Plan Z, because the next step should be banging his head against the walls until unconsciousness.
With a soft snarl at himself and the universe, Kanda swings his legs over the bed. He grabs a thin shirt form the chair and slips it over his head. The cool air hits him quickly when he opens the door and steps out. The hallway is lit with candles and torches; large and ominous shadows dance along the stone beside him as he steps toward your room.
When he hears a noise, he pauses, tense, but it’s just the machinery and loud groans from the Science Department. Nothing else but the flickering flames moves in the halls, just the way he likes it—the last thing Kanda wants to do is explain why it is he’s outside his room in slippers and sleeping clothes.
He picks up speed, taking a left, then a right, and another left. The memory is strong, even though he’s only been there once.
Soon, before he could talk himself out of it, he’s in front of your door, hand hovering over the wood in hesitation. He tries the handle—it’s unlocked. He doesn’t bothering knocking.
You aren’t awake, but the sound of your door opening, however soft it is, pulls you from your sleep. You shift through sleepy sands, back to reality, and push up on your elbows. Lit gently by the glow of faint flames, Kanda stands in your entrance, hair undone around him, sweat beads along his temple, and eyes glued to the wall right behind you.
“Plan B?” you ask, yawning.
He grunts.
You pull back the blanket and pat the spot beside you. “Come on,” you say.
He should go back, he thinks. He shouldn’t be here. Over a nightmare? A stupid dream? A—
“Hurry up,” you say, interrupting his thoughts.
He swallows his pride and then closes the door behind him. The first step is hard, but the second is easier. Before he knows it, he’s at your beside and sipping in beside you. Your body heat immediately greets him; he pulls his shirt off and throws it on your floor to balance the new warmth. You turn your back to him and face the wall, eyes closing quickly.
He’s suddenly doubting his decision, feeling uncomfortable and unsure and embarrassed. Plan B is stupid. A terrible, awful, idiotic idea. How is this going to help him get any sleep? How are you going to keep the nightmares—the memories—away?
Suddenly, you reach behind yourself and grab his wrist. You pull him closer and lay his arm around you, placing his hand on the peek of your skin below the hem of your shirt.
Kanda’s stiff, but he hears you say, “Relax. Never know until you try.”
“Shut up,” he mutters. He doesn’t need you to tell him that, he thinks irritably, but the annoyance is just hiding the frustration and fluster.
“Relax,” you whisper. He thinks you’ve fallen asleep immediately after, and all he wants to do know is follow you in those peaceful shadows.
Kanda closes his eyes and forces his body to unwind and soften. He tilts his head toward your smooth neck, breathing in your scent of soap and tea. The hand at your stomach slips an inch under your shirt, pressing against your beauty marks and battle scars. He hears you sigh serenely. You reach back and tug on his hair gently; his dark locks spill around the two of you.
He sighs into your skin and finally—finally—falls asleep.
And he dreams.
He dreams of you; he’s sure of it, but he can’t quite remember.
In the morning, though, when you roll over and grin groggily at him, his hair twirled around your fingers like a question and his hand on your waist like the answer, he thinks maybe it was something like this.
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