..: half :..

Kanda isn't one for academics.

Truthfully, he hates math. Hates numbers. Hates those goddamn dizzying equations and functions; finds the mere idea of volume, square roots and whatever the fuck else idiotic. The simplistic stuff he'll require in his life? He can put up with that. Everything else just seems like nonsense to him.

Thus, Lavi is nonsense.

Lavi is forty nine.

Kanda remembers percent-- remembers how, how fifty is half of a hundred, and if you have anything above fifty percent of something, nobody can have more than you.

Fifty is equal-footing.

Fifty is half-way.

And maybe the Junior Bookman won't ever actually have one hundred identities in his lifetime, but the idea of the end of forty nine, the end of Lavi, feels like a bridge that, once crossed, will be torn asunder and leave an uncrossable rift behind.

The idea of fifty makes Kanda think of half.

Halfway to becoming a Bookman.

And forty nine? Forty nine leaves hope, maybe, just maybe, a small shred of humanity. Forty nine gives the feeling that he could, Lavi could, fall short of Bookman. Lavi could spare himself-- spare this persona. Let it live and thrive.

Of course, the idiotic apprentice will still look the same, he supposes. The same red, red hair, kelly-green eye, and those lips, warm, warm, always insatiable lips that sported that lazy, all-knowing grin whenever the redhead was so sure of himself. Lavi was that annoying humming, ink-stained fingertips and warm, warm arms, arms around his neck, his waist, his middle, but the others aren't going to be.

Forty nine falls short.

But fifty, fifty one, and fifty two won't.

fin . . .