[fic]: catch your fall.
catch your fall, pg-13, lavi & allen.
amat-'verse, so somewhat AU.
Between one breath and the next, Lavi realizes he's dying.
The realization is accompanied by a dull surprise, less because he's dying and more because he didn't think it would hurt so little. He cannot feel his lower body, save for a dull pounding ache in his left thigh, but the ground below him is warm and wet and when he pulls his hand away from his torso his fingertips are stained red, so he knows he's dying. Also, Allen is there, and he's nearly crying-unfailingly cheerful, optimistic Allen, who always sees the good in people and hopes for the best outcome.
"Never thought it'd end up like this," Lavi says, his voice low and rough, choked even to his own ears.
"Lavi-" Allen says, probably to tell Lavi to be quiet, to save his breath, but Lavi shakes his head, pressing his fingertips to Allen's lips and leaving trails of blood in his wake.
"Y'gotta know, beansprout," he says, a faint grin crossing his features. "I'd do this again if I could."
"Lavi," Allen says again, and his voice has changed; where before it was alarm, now it's just deep sadness and love, so much love that Lavi, momentarily, can't even breathe.
"Tryin' t'be your guardian angel," he says, letting his eyes fall briefly closed. "Never was much of a holy man, though. God knows I've tried."
The thing about closing his eyes, though, is that he can't make them open again, so he feels rather than sees the way Allen's shoulders start to shake. That, too, is something he never intended-it hurts more than his wounds do.
"You idiot, Lavi," Allen says, his voice at once despairing and affectionate. "You shouldn't waste yourself-for me…"
"Missin' the point, beansprout," Lavi says, and he can tell he's fading. "There's nothin' else I'd rather die for."
And the last thing he feels is Allen's lips on his forehead, the faint impression of a last, quiet kiss.
He dies-
It is dark in Thanatos' realm, full of oppressive silence and blackness so thick it feels like cobwebs on Lavi's skin. There are twin points of light in the distance, glow flickering-candlelight, he supposes, or St. Elmo's fire, designed to lure him into a trap in this in-between Purgatory of Atia.
Hell. He tests the word, speaks it aloud-a curious sensation, because his voice akes no sound but it is as if the word echoes into eternity.
You're too kind, returns another voice-soundless, again, but present as a thought across Lavi's psyche.
Why the silence?
The dead don't speak.
So it is Thanatos with whom Lavi converses. Interesting. Lavi walks forward, footfalls muffled, and finds himself between two standing candelabras at the entrance to a great hall, vast, towering-but carved of obsidian, the walls damp, colorless.
Where are you?
Here.
From the ether: A shape, formless, tendrils of shadow writhing in the gloom. Two eyes, like twin stars in an endless oblivion-Thanatos, in his own realm, in a form of his choosing. Lavi starts, involuntarily, hand reaching for the place on his hip where Tessei would be holstered-but he is naked, and his Innocence is gone.
So you are the noble young Bookman, Thanatos says, his not-voice full of dry, dark amusement. So willing to sacrifice yourself for the sake of someone you won't admit is your friend.
Lavi is silent, because it's true. He struggles to even pronounce the word, sometimes. To a Bookman, friends are weakness; they represent subjectivity, emotional ties, things that Lavi has been trained since he was six years old to reject. Nothing to say? Thanatos asks, and laughs, low and malicious. And yet you so willingly took the fall.
The shape moves closer, less a step forward than it is a slow, roiling movement of smoke and shadow (pulvis et umbra, Lavi thinks, and wonders if this is what Horace meant). Lavi stays still, silent as the grave-ha, ha-and waits as Thanatos circles, feeling the weight of his gaze as firmly as if it were a physical touch.
Do you truly believe he would do the same for you? Thanatos finally asks, a mocking ring to his tone. Truly, young Bookman?
Yes, Lavi says, immediate and unhesitating.
So much faith in someone you do not trust.
And it occurs to Lavi, in a burning flash of insight, that he does.
He thinks: Of Road's illusions, the last of his memories, and the terrible, wretched realization that without a desperate move, it would be Lavi's blow that struck Allen down. Of the weight of Allen's arms around his shoulders (he could feel it even in his dream) and the faint, ghostlike echo of Allen's question: Lavi, can't you hear my voice? And how somehow, even in the heat and ash and fire of hi ban, Lavi had believed that Allen would save him.
It shakes him to the very core, this realization-shakes the foundations of everything he's believed about himself for the last twelve years. He trusts. He trusts Allen to save him, trusts that Allen would die for him. He would trust Allen with his life-has, in fact, since the moment they huddled together in the gathering dawn, hands on each others' skins and breath hot against each others' throats. Allen saved his life then, and Lavi believes-believes with everything he is, with every ounce f love and hope and fear he possesses, that Allen would save him again and again, if Lavi needed the saving.
Yes, he says again, his voice stronger now. I trust him. I'm a Bookman, but I'm also an Exorcist. I have forty-nine identities but I know who I am, and I trust Allen with everything.
Thanatos laughs again, but there's a note of something else there-pride, maybe. Satisfaction, maybe. A good answer, young Bookman, he says. Your price is paid.
-And is reborn, coughing and alive in the temple of Thanatos.
He's naked, still, and Allen is there, eyes red-rimmed, smile exhausted-but he's there, and he's smiling, and Lavi's throat closes against the surge of words and emotions threatening to escape.
"Welcome back," Allen says, his voice quiet but so affectionate, and God but Allen is so bright he hurts to look at.
"Thanks," Lavi says, remembering: Allen's arms around him, Lavi's blood staining his jacket. The weight of Allen's tears, the faint pressure of his lips against Lavi's forehead. The unshakeable knowledge that finally, finally, Lavi can call Allen a friend without feeling like a liar.
And so he reaches out, naked as he is, reaches out and pulls Allen close, wraps his arms around Allen and says, "I never told ya, beansprout, but I could hear your voice. Then, and now, too. In Thanatos' realm, that's what guided me."
"What," Allen begins, the shock of being embraced by a naked man eclipsed, for the moment, by the force of Lavi's words.
"Just sayin' thanks, is all," Lavi says, because words will never truly express the depth of what he's feeling. And maybe Allen will never understand the lengths to which Lavi would go for him, for this, for the security of knowing he has someone to rely on. Maybe he never will. But that's okay, because just for now, they have each other, and that's enough.
amat-'verse, so somewhat AU.
Between one breath and the next, Lavi realizes he's dying.
The realization is accompanied by a dull surprise, less because he's dying and more because he didn't think it would hurt so little. He cannot feel his lower body, save for a dull pounding ache in his left thigh, but the ground below him is warm and wet and when he pulls his hand away from his torso his fingertips are stained red, so he knows he's dying. Also, Allen is there, and he's nearly crying-unfailingly cheerful, optimistic Allen, who always sees the good in people and hopes for the best outcome.
"Never thought it'd end up like this," Lavi says, his voice low and rough, choked even to his own ears.
"Lavi-" Allen says, probably to tell Lavi to be quiet, to save his breath, but Lavi shakes his head, pressing his fingertips to Allen's lips and leaving trails of blood in his wake.
"Y'gotta know, beansprout," he says, a faint grin crossing his features. "I'd do this again if I could."
"Lavi," Allen says again, and his voice has changed; where before it was alarm, now it's just deep sadness and love, so much love that Lavi, momentarily, can't even breathe.
"Tryin' t'be your guardian angel," he says, letting his eyes fall briefly closed. "Never was much of a holy man, though. God knows I've tried."
The thing about closing his eyes, though, is that he can't make them open again, so he feels rather than sees the way Allen's shoulders start to shake. That, too, is something he never intended-it hurts more than his wounds do.
"You idiot, Lavi," Allen says, his voice at once despairing and affectionate. "You shouldn't waste yourself-for me…"
"Missin' the point, beansprout," Lavi says, and he can tell he's fading. "There's nothin' else I'd rather die for."
And the last thing he feels is Allen's lips on his forehead, the faint impression of a last, quiet kiss.
He dies-
It is dark in Thanatos' realm, full of oppressive silence and blackness so thick it feels like cobwebs on Lavi's skin. There are twin points of light in the distance, glow flickering-candlelight, he supposes, or St. Elmo's fire, designed to lure him into a trap in this in-between Purgatory of Atia.
Hell. He tests the word, speaks it aloud-a curious sensation, because his voice akes no sound but it is as if the word echoes into eternity.
You're too kind, returns another voice-soundless, again, but present as a thought across Lavi's psyche.
Why the silence?
The dead don't speak.
So it is Thanatos with whom Lavi converses. Interesting. Lavi walks forward, footfalls muffled, and finds himself between two standing candelabras at the entrance to a great hall, vast, towering-but carved of obsidian, the walls damp, colorless.
Where are you?
Here.
From the ether: A shape, formless, tendrils of shadow writhing in the gloom. Two eyes, like twin stars in an endless oblivion-Thanatos, in his own realm, in a form of his choosing. Lavi starts, involuntarily, hand reaching for the place on his hip where Tessei would be holstered-but he is naked, and his Innocence is gone.
So you are the noble young Bookman, Thanatos says, his not-voice full of dry, dark amusement. So willing to sacrifice yourself for the sake of someone you won't admit is your friend.
Lavi is silent, because it's true. He struggles to even pronounce the word, sometimes. To a Bookman, friends are weakness; they represent subjectivity, emotional ties, things that Lavi has been trained since he was six years old to reject. Nothing to say? Thanatos asks, and laughs, low and malicious. And yet you so willingly took the fall.
The shape moves closer, less a step forward than it is a slow, roiling movement of smoke and shadow (pulvis et umbra, Lavi thinks, and wonders if this is what Horace meant). Lavi stays still, silent as the grave-ha, ha-and waits as Thanatos circles, feeling the weight of his gaze as firmly as if it were a physical touch.
Do you truly believe he would do the same for you? Thanatos finally asks, a mocking ring to his tone. Truly, young Bookman?
Yes, Lavi says, immediate and unhesitating.
So much faith in someone you do not trust.
And it occurs to Lavi, in a burning flash of insight, that he does.
He thinks: Of Road's illusions, the last of his memories, and the terrible, wretched realization that without a desperate move, it would be Lavi's blow that struck Allen down. Of the weight of Allen's arms around his shoulders (he could feel it even in his dream) and the faint, ghostlike echo of Allen's question: Lavi, can't you hear my voice? And how somehow, even in the heat and ash and fire of hi ban, Lavi had believed that Allen would save him.
It shakes him to the very core, this realization-shakes the foundations of everything he's believed about himself for the last twelve years. He trusts. He trusts Allen to save him, trusts that Allen would die for him. He would trust Allen with his life-has, in fact, since the moment they huddled together in the gathering dawn, hands on each others' skins and breath hot against each others' throats. Allen saved his life then, and Lavi believes-believes with everything he is, with every ounce f love and hope and fear he possesses, that Allen would save him again and again, if Lavi needed the saving.
Yes, he says again, his voice stronger now. I trust him. I'm a Bookman, but I'm also an Exorcist. I have forty-nine identities but I know who I am, and I trust Allen with everything.
Thanatos laughs again, but there's a note of something else there-pride, maybe. Satisfaction, maybe. A good answer, young Bookman, he says. Your price is paid.
-And is reborn, coughing and alive in the temple of Thanatos.
He's naked, still, and Allen is there, eyes red-rimmed, smile exhausted-but he's there, and he's smiling, and Lavi's throat closes against the surge of words and emotions threatening to escape.
"Welcome back," Allen says, his voice quiet but so affectionate, and God but Allen is so bright he hurts to look at.
"Thanks," Lavi says, remembering: Allen's arms around him, Lavi's blood staining his jacket. The weight of Allen's tears, the faint pressure of his lips against Lavi's forehead. The unshakeable knowledge that finally, finally, Lavi can call Allen a friend without feeling like a liar.
And so he reaches out, naked as he is, reaches out and pulls Allen close, wraps his arms around Allen and says, "I never told ya, beansprout, but I could hear your voice. Then, and now, too. In Thanatos' realm, that's what guided me."
"What," Allen begins, the shock of being embraced by a naked man eclipsed, for the moment, by the force of Lavi's words.
"Just sayin' thanks, is all," Lavi says, because words will never truly express the depth of what he's feeling. And maybe Allen will never understand the lengths to which Lavi would go for him, for this, for the security of knowing he has someone to rely on. Maybe he never will. But that's okay, because just for now, they have each other, and that's enough.