All righty then... Take pity on me, please. This is my first shot at D-Grey Man fanfiction. That coupled with the fact that I wasn't sure from whose perspective this was from until about half-way through made it kind of difficult to write. This whole thing stemmed from a poem I read, by the way. There was one line in it that just burrowed its way into my mind and has refused to come out. Leading to this fic. Shonen-Ai if you look for it. More of a friendship/understanding fiction, really. As always, reviews are loved and cherished, while flames will be used to satisfy my roasted marshmellow jones. And as for the other thing... Do you think that I would be writing fanfiction for something if I owned it?

With love, Jiia


Komui said something beautiful to me the other day.

I know, I know. That whole sentence is a sin against God, and should be banished into the deepest level of hell for all eternity. Never the less, it's true. Strange, but true. Apparently, that 'artist's beret' isn't just for show.

He was distracted, putting a book away on a shelf. That should have been my first sign that something bizarre was about to happen. He had just finished telling me that I was being shipped off to some tiny little village way out in the ass end of nowhere to investigate some sort of strange whatever, and I was just starting to get into the whole long list of reasons why under no circumstances was I going anywhere without a bath and a few good meals behind me.

The conversation went something like this.

"I'm hungry, and tired, and hungry, and dirty, and did I mention hungry?" My stomach helpfully punctuated my sentence with a sorrowful gurgle. "And besides, there's a crack in my anti-akuma weapon that needs to be fixed before I explode or something. That alone should keep me out of the field for at least a week."

"Well, of course there's a crack in it!" Komui snapped, not paying attention to me in the least. "There's a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in."

At the time, I just gaped at him and wondered what sort of crazy drugs Linali had slipped her darling brother this time. I paid the comment no more thought then any of his other random nuggets of wisdom.

It wasn't until tonight, lying here with you in the close darkness of a derelict church, that I realized what exactly our extravagant leader had meant. This place is dark, almost darker than when you close your eyes. It would be perfect blackness, except for the crack. The tiny little crack, running around the walls and the ceiling and threatening to break open and drop the whole thing on us at any moment. In the daylight, it wouldn't even be visible, but now it veritably glows with the whisper of moonlight on the other side. It's a shining line, writing out the fate of the world in a language no one will ever be able to read.

I stare at it for the longest time before it comes to me. You sigh in the silence, and it's as if that tiny sound carries all the answers, and I can only snatch one before it fades away into the still air. I know, suddenly and without warning, that we are the same. You, and me, and poor, misunderstood Komui, and even this old church. We are shells, nothing but hollow orbs floating through this universe. We are images, and nothing more. Empty smiles and deceitful indifference, covering up the riot of emotions we're too afraid to have until they just die away and all we're left with is the masks. We spend so much time trying to make sure the world sees what it should that we forget there was ever anything more.

We live in prisons of our own creation, trapped behind these meaningless faces in the void our souls left behind. We live in the darkness, in the shadows of sorrow and loneliness and despair. It gets so dark inside us, so dark our masks just can't stand it anymore, and they crack and they break and we lash out senselessly, flailing and screaming until it's over and there's nothing left inside but empty. Then we put our masks back together and keep walking, as if nothing happened. As if it will never happen again. And we pretend to be whole, and we pretend to be strong, and we pretend that this endlessness is all we'll ever need.

But we aren't whole. Like fine china, once a fa├žade is cracked, it never goes back together again. There are always the cracks.

And just as the moonlight steals quietly into the church, so to do others begin to steal their way quietly into us. They bring us light and they bring us warmth, and they tell us 'it's all right to be broken, because I'm broken too.' No matter how thick your defences, no matter how high your walls, people somehow always manage to get in. And, just like the glimmer of the moon makes the darkness inside this ruined old building bearable, the light that these others bring you makes the world inside your mind bearable too. It makes it ok.

I look down at you, even though I can barely see you, and I wonder what you're dreaming of. Whether you are encased in light or beset by darkness. Whether you dream of all the sweetness and love this world should have given you and didn't, or the terrible pain that it has given you in its stead.

And then I know you dream of light, because you smile so softly, and for once it is real.

It's alright to be broken. It's alright to be imperfect. It's ok, because without the cracks, the light would never get in, and we would truly be alone.

Sleep well, my friend, and know that you are not alone in the dark. I am here with you, and will always be.