|C.C. (tsuntsuntsun) wrote in kaylovesanal,|
@ 2009-08-28 10:04:00
Birthdays are srs bznz! Birthdays demand srs D.Gray-man fic.
The old century had come and gone, with no whimper or bang, but with exaltation and worldwide celebration.
And there may have been countless people counting their blessings for having survived to 1900, but there were definitely a handful of people, children grown into adults, youths formerly known as "Exorcists" that did that very thing on New Years Day.
Bookman would have liked to say he wasn't one of them. But as he watched the clock tick from eleven fifty-nine to midnight, he breathed a sigh of relief.
That morning, he walked the streets of Paris, quietly watching the people running around like ants, busily heading to and from their hills, thoughts only on the immediate. Blissfully unaware that they had almost not survived to see "tomorrow".
Some part of the young man understood that, and he felt no animosity where there might have once been volumes. He wove among the throngs, snowflakes falling on his uncovered head, showing bright amid the red hair before they melted. His breath made clouds on the air as he approached the hotel. He'd passed it more times than anyone else could probably count, but had never gone inside until this morning. The concierge greeted him in perfect French and received a response in kind; he was meeting a guest in room number five-fifteen. No need to make arrangements. Bookman eschewed the gilt, pully-operated elevator for the stairs and the quiet of his own footsteps.
And yet his heart still beat faster, not with exhaustion from the climb, but anticipation.
More gilt in the numbers affixed to each door. He found the room he sought, and knocked once. Just as the note instructed. After exactly ten seconds, he knocked again, twice.
The lock on the door immediately turned, then the door opened.
Bookman stepped into the room as the occupant moved back, letting the door swing closed behind him. "Pretty nice place you've got here."
His companion continued to towel his hair, but a laugh emerged from beneath the fabric. "I do believe I've earned it, just this once."
The voice had deepened just a little, but the accent was still the same. Bookman forced himself not to smile. "But think of all the starving children that could have been fed with the cost of this room."
No laugh this time, just the towel sliding off longish, wavy, white hair. Allen Walker turned and glared at him with familiar silver-colored eyes. The scar running down the left side of his face had just started to fade. "I'm not a saint, Lavi."
"No, you're not." Two green eyes looked Allen over; the white button-down shirt hung open, showing the massive scar on his torso, pinkish-white amid the darker skin tone. "Never been a fan of goody-two-shoes, myself."
Allen -- who was far too old for such things -- stuck his tongue out at the redhead. Bookman laughed for the first time in months. "So, what's the occasion?"
"New Years' Day."
Allen rolled his eyes. "Are you just this insufferable with me?"
The redhead smirked, finally stepping closer; close enough to run one hand down the younger man's now-immobile left arm. "You mean I can be like this with other people?"
A brilliantly cheerful smile met his question. "Try it and I'll hunt you down." For the briefest of seconds, Bookman swore Allen's eyes changed from grey to gold, an ashen cast coming over his skin. Then, when he blinked, everything seemed back to normal.
Bookman felt a genuine smile pull at his mouth as he moved his hand from Allen's arm to tangle in the loose, still-damp hair. "Gotcha."