a/n; For Static Lull (also for CherryFlavouredChalk if she happens upon this). No actual plot – just an excuse to write some psychedelic slash and tear open this cage of absolutely nothing at all that I've locked myself into.

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Lavi is young and alive and standing with the bright flash of fluorescent lights behind him, his silhouette stretching grotesquely across the floor, and the dancers in ragged fur and tangled feather boas too tight around their throats are laughing with him as they collapse in a heap on the floorboards (woodrot – and they creak under even the anorexic showgirl's weight).

Green e-x-i-t signs crackle on and off above him as he stumbles out to have another cigarette; and beneath his heavy ankle-boots he crushes all manner of insects and shards of cheap wine bottles and beer cans and dirty-white drug-powders ground into the pavement gaps. He's alone here – and now he can stand breathing with the wind burning his face and feel alive.

In there he's little more than a corpse but goddamn it's the most tempting coffin he's ever had the chance to lie in.

Lavi breathes in coils of grey smoke snaking around his nostrils and coughs violently. Crimson spikes of greasy hair fall over his face as he leans back against the black-brick alley wall.

Rats scamper around his feet and nicotine rushes to his thumping head and the streetlights glare above him like the eyes of wrathful gods and for a moment, singing along off-key to the heartbeats of rave blaring all around him, he feels like he's ruling the world.

Allen slips quietly through the door moments later, shudders; and slides down to the gutter and says with as much determination as he can manage, "I am not going back in there." Every word is spelled out with a heavy breath between – Allen is going as white as his hair and maybe even whiter.

Lavi grins at the sky and laughs out a sharp not if you don't want to, i guess.


Allen is this boy – this boy who Lavi maybe has this tiny little fraction of a crush on that makes his heart beat like R&B strained through speakers, who Lavi has known for all of an hour or two but feels like it's been forever and a half and maybe another tenth or so.

He met him in the alleyway having a bit of a system failure and he had laughed because everything was fucking hilarious then, even a white-haired little boy (pretty like a girl pretending to be a boy pretending to a girl) breathing heavy like a plane jet and sobbing til tears streaked down his face like Niagara Falls and screaming that he was going to die, and the boy had laughed with him through his cries.

"Why are you out here?" Lavi had asked the boy who, it turned out, had blood soaking through the front of his slack t-shirt and down his tight dark-denim jeans. "Why is there blood on you?"

The pretty white-haired boy tells him, once he's calmed down a little bit but still in absolute fucking hysterics, that his name is Allen and he plays piano on stage and there's blood on him because he's a filthy fucking faggot.

Lavi tells him, just as an experiment of sorts, that he's a fag too.

And Allen suddenly stops crying and gently whispers, "Oh." So that's good. "I – I have to go now…?"

"Lavi," he tells him. "You can call me Lavi." And the sky starts to cry just as Allen stops. Lavi feels the rain streak down his face and his hair start to fall limp from its stiff spikes and he laughs again. And Allen laughed with him again and they both stood in the rain for a while and breathed in salt and smoke and wished they never had to move again.

(but they went back inside eventually, because neither of them are wish-granting fairy princesses)


Allen sighs and stretches his legs out into the puddles shimmering on the road. Lavi fingers the stub of his cigarette and leans over to drag the boy into his lap – and Allen is willing. He lets his head fall rest on Lavi's bare chest, the older boy's fingers running through the knots in his soaked grey-white hair, and they hear only each other's laboured breathing and dancers in drags starting up another show.

They're probably wondering where their pianist is.

"You never actually told me why you were out here," Lavi smiles secretly to the hollow bone of Allen's ear, "Or why you were crying. Or why there was blood on the clothes that I had to switch with some stranger's – and you weren't bleeding, actually."

"No," Allen says blankly, staring into the stars and seeing a happy ending for whatever tragedy he's been through that he insists on not talking about. "I didn't, did I?"

"You didn't. It's okay, though." Lavi thinks. He thinks of the light red hair sticking to the back of his neck with rainwater and Allen's snow-white locks tangled between his bony fingers and the high heels and miniskirt and tight baby-blue blouse he had slipped Allen into like he was a doll.

"Yeah. It's okay."

They run.

The stars appear one by one and the streetlamps flash briefly on and off as their feet hit the puddles and water splashes up to their ankles and as they clasp each other's sweating hands and run to a place they can maybe both call home (because they only need one reason to fall in love here and that reason is Allen is beautiful and Lavi is more than a little drunk and they both need someone and they both just happened to be there).

Somewhere behind them, they can hear the music loud enough to move the ground beneath the feet, the dancers breaking out in off-key chorus – and something inside of Allen and Lavi (and maybe when he said he was a faggot it wasn't entirely a lie after all) sings with them.

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(awkward author's note oh god i love how i'm so endearingly socially stupid)

a/n: I actually…sort-of like this? Yeah. I like the start and the very end, but the middle part just seemed bleh. Critique would be awesome, so yeah. First time writing for DGM and it's a lot harder than I thought it would be.