A/N: Oh man. Why haven't I updated ANYTHING. Y'know what, I don't even deserve to waste your guys' time giving some cock-and-bull explanation. So here you go!
Yesterday was National Day on Writing (Colours Our World), so instead of just doing one stupid, bloody prompt like the rest of my English class, I wrote Lucky to all of them. I'm a masochist. Finished writing them all from 9.14 AM to 11.47 PM ~
The pieces alternate between Lavi and Tyki's POV each time, or at least, centralizes on them, to reduce confusion while I can.
Please remember to read and review! Only cool people leave reviews. [:
ALSO ALSO. The last piece, "Burning the midnight oil." Cave of lovers~~! Cave of lovers~~~! First person to tell me where I got that from gets something special! :D

Warnings! : An overload of bullshit, confusion, and death! (Mostly death. I like killing people off, it seems.)

Credits: The characters belong to Katsura Hoshino, and the prompts to DCHS's English department. The writing's all mine, I promise.

Colour Our World

What makes me smile the most in this world is knowing that I am cheating. Not following the rules. I'm cheating my duty, and for that, I get to know you in ways that I never could've with my role to block you from my view. Maybe that's why Gramps always looks so angry when he sees my lips are curled up.

Without writing, I would be mute. True, my script is often rushed and messy in the outcome, and I don't always know what to (say), but still, how else could I convey him messages? Simple things, like 'I missed you,' 'I had a dream about you last night,' or even just 'I love you.' All words I'd be too embarrassed to share aloud. So I say them to a piece of paper, fold my heart into a paper crane, and leave it in his pocket until he can find and read it the next morning. And I never run out of things to say.

He turned the key in the lock and opened to the door. To his horror, he saw an Unholy Knight. Black blood fell from its hands, and a mass of (what could only be called) tentacles seethed wildly about the small quarters. The Knight was down on its knees, its screams pounding through the air, and he was amazed that none of their neighbors had rushed to the supposedly abandoned cottage yet. "Tyki!" He cried the Knight's name, wondering if it was useless to approach the figure to comfort it. He took a cautious step forward, then instantly regretted his stupidity. A tentacle shot out of the mass, and bound itself tightly around his wrist, dragging him a foot forward before he caught himself on the doorknob. A yelp of shocked pain escaped him, as the vine cut into his arm in the effort of pulling him in, and he felt his free hand slip off the doorknob. His body was lurched forward into the teeming chaos, and his head cracked loudly on the floor, causing everything to distort into paled blurs. Then, he was staring up at someone's face—someone in agony. "Tyki… listen to me." Dazed, he lifted his other arm to touch the Knight's face, but that wrist too, was snatched up by a warning vine. "Come back. Come back." He repeated this plea like a prayer. Like a desperate wish, until the Knight had had enough. An angry limb lashed out again, striking his throbbing head, and then he saw horror no more.

There are three children sitting on a log near a stream. One of them looks up at the sky, and says, "It's been a long time since we've been together like this." He is a handsome, dark-skinned fellow of Portuguese descent, and his two companions, a young girl with indigo hair, and a bulky man with a slicked-back crown, nod in agreement. They are the children of Noah, but under their skin, they are anything but innocent to the terrible bloodshed of the world.
The one with the slicked hair chews a lollipop messily, its crunching awkwardly filling the quiet melody of the stream. They may be together, but in reality, they have already gone onto their separate lives. Finally, in a bid to break the tragic emptiness between them, the girl twirls a richly-hued strand of indigo between her fingers, and dares to bring up something they all know but never spoke of. "So, Tyki… How's Lavi doing? The Exorcist lover."
At first, the Portuguese is startled, but he takes it all in stride, smiling unexpectedly. "Good." They lapse into another silence, but this one is different, since they have accepted each others' personal existences. And as Tyki watches a beady-eyed catfish nip curiously at a shard of fallen lollipop, he grins to himself, because really, he's quite glad that she bothered to ask.

You're digging in your garden and find a fist-sized nugget of gold. You're shocked, really, that such a piece is in the Order's vegetable crops, but instead of turning it in, you roll the nugget over in your palm, and hold it up to the greenhouse lights. It reminds you of someone's eyes, and your green one widens in realization. You smile then, and pocket it without a word. Not for the thrill of stealing, and most certainly not for the wealth, but you steal the gold, because you hope it'll tide you through emotionally, until you're allowed to see the real gold next. The gold that the meaningless rock reminded you of in the first place.

Back to square one. I'll admit, this is my fault. If I hadn't pushed the Bookman apprentice to at least take off his shirt, maybe I would be taking him this very evening, instead of having to backtrack and settle for a kiss goodnight. But I doubt that I mind nearly so much… Really, what's a few months' repetition if I exert a little patience for something that's well-worth it? Being sent back to the beginning is almost like being given a second life, and this time around, I intend to savor it tenfold.

"Imagine your life is now a book – write the 'blurb' for it."
I don't really know why I'm writing this, since I'm not supposed to exist on paper in the first place… But I'm bored and Yuu locked me in my room 'cause I got "too rabbitty". (I swear the man has a fetish.) So anyhow. I have a grandpa who abuses me in most every way possible, I kill demons for the Pope, I record wars, and today, I walked in on one of my friends fucking my other friend, who just yesterday, swore he loved her like a sister, and nothing more. Oh incest! Speaking of (fucking, not incest), I should also mention that I fornicate with Noah's embodiment of Pleasure.

"Write about a time when you did something to get noticed."
What the hell is this? Grammar exercises, my ass. I can spell a lot better than I used to; I shouldn't be resigned to Rhode's leftover language books. Fine. A time I did something to get noticed was when I spent the night with Bookman Junior, and he wouldn't pay attention to me. So I pretended I was running a fever, took off my shirts, and did a Portuguese dance so he would agree to shag with me. Yes. That Portuguese dance. Too much information? Try to make me do grammar-shit again, Cyril, you dick.

A new 'get rich quick' scheme I thought of is to, after a shower, go out fully dressed, and kiss him tightly. Just the implication of where I'd been previously, is enough to send him over the edge of self-control on good nights. In the aftermath, we usually manage to end back up where I came from to begin with.
Obviously, my wealth doesn't lie in currency.

Use these words in a story:
The street market was surrounding him, and pressing in on all sides, but in a pleasant, friendly way that felt right to him. An elderly woman at a cart selling Oriental incense advertised her wares in loud, warbled French, and despite the way it made his ears ring painfully, he found himself appreciating her squawks. Every display of distraction and noise only helped to smother his presence, and that of his 'acquaintance'. They alone knew who to look for, and this made the Finder's shouts of anger behind him all the more savory. No one else would know how to find a certain redheaded man in this teeming crowd.
The Portuguese vagabond's grin widened as he heard the Finder's desperate calls stopped by a little boy, who'd evidently begun to try and sell fruit, unwittingly aiding in a forbidden romance. He was just about to proceed down another lane of the market, when a hooded figure crossed in front of him. A torn page was pressed into the palm of his hand, and he spared a moment to flip it open. 'Hey, manslut,' was the short, rude message scrawled there. With a satisfied smirk on his lips, he pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, and promptly turned to follow the cloaked figure away.

The e-mail was never sent, but Lavi wasted only a few breaths cursing his golem's shattered antennae. After all, reflecting on it, this meant that no one could come to his rescue, and… A smug whisper wrapped itself around his chest, turning his blood to ice. "Looks like the little rabbit escaped his hutch, hm?" Lavi turned with trembling knees to look into the predator's eyes. He decided that he didn't need anyone to receive that e-mail.

A minute of failure is another of ecstasy. For every missed blow and every false swing, he earns another second with someone he has fallen for. Because of this, he puts less and less effort into his objective, and only creates a great deal of purple, illusory flashes to convince himself that he really is trying to kill his opponent. For this enemy, he misses intentionally, and pretends to be furious when he is outwitted. On the occasion that he puts forth a decent amount of effort and does have his adversary at his mercy, he steals a kiss instead of blood, and then closes his eyes, so that the boy can run away again 'til next time, to fill in another failure with euphoria.

Behind her, the noise escalated, and Lavi wondered wildly why the hell Lenalee wasn't turning back around to face the Akuma. It wasn't 'til he saw the flutter of a Tease's wings settle on his chest, that his mouth formed a small 'O' of shock. Lenalee screamed.

The fickle finger of Fate is like a superstitious grandmother at a game of Bingo. Maybe writing in the names in this order will ensure a bingo. Maybe making these people die in this order will be the most exciting. I thought I was used to Fate's choices. I hardly cared when humans died, even less than when my Akuma died. Then, Skinn succumbed to Her, and I cried, no matter how involuntarily. But when Eeze died of pneumonia, my chest hurt, and I couldn't concentrate for weeks on anything but his bedridden, child's body, shivering itself until death came. Finally, Lavi fell, and I lost to Fate. Five in a row, Bingo. You win.

My home makes me think of cold nights and snowflakes falling around us. It's somewhere smelling of rich tobacco, burnt sugar, and a hint of Spanish spices. It feels like warmth, all around me, and when I close my eye, I can envision myself there. It's in his arms, of course—the one place I'd ever been allowed to drop everything: Exorcist, Bookman, Human. Where I could become a part of him. But now I guess that means I'm homeless. Because when he said 'good-bye', he meant it. Who else's cold arms would I have in mine now.

Burning the midnight oil, Tyki held the torch to the walls and tried to read what the cave should've been telling him. He still saw nothing there… With a throb of despair, he glanced to the mouth of the cave. The sky was already painted an inky, indigo darkness, and the midnight hour would soon be upon him. He needed to find what Lavi had left him. But what centimeter of the cave had he not upended now? He'd scoured the entire cavern far too long for any clues, and now, the oil in his torch was draining away, as were the minutes of the day. The only possibility was a crack in the back of the cave, but he'd already shone his torch through that, unable to find anything in the crevice besides a rank, stagnant smell.
With a sinking in his heart, Tyki watched the torch finally flicker, and then die out. "Lavi…" His voice was weak with fatigue and defeat, and he threw the dead torch to the ground. It was this merciless, echoing collision which made him look to the cave ceiling for sympathy. And there… the remnants from the midnight oil hung, suspended and illuminated on the stalactites. With a heart pounding in his windpipe, Tyki followed the glowing trail of oil to the painfully small gap in the back of the cave which he had passed off as inaccessible before. But now that the oil lit it up…
He struggled through the gap, driven only by desperation to grope blindly in front of him and shove aside the claustrophobia.
Then, at the other end of the seemingly never-ending pass, he squinted, and saw a slit of inky, blue night; far brighter than the interior of the cave. Fighting his way to reach it, he fell, gasping into the cold air again. A soft voice spoke beside him, sounding like the cure to his hollowed body. "Tyki… You found me."
He turned, hardly daring to believe, but too anxious not to look, in case the voice might disappear. "Lavi. You're alive."