Written for 50 Sentences Challenge in Infantrum (the Indonesian Fanfiction Author Forum), Set 4. I actually want to post this after I have at least 10 themes written but then for the past month work's been hectic and then my cat Jynx fell ill two weeks ago. And then yesterday he died ;_;

Anyway for those who are waiting for Days Passing By, I kinda lost my file so I have to rewrite it sorryyyy. I'll finish it, really but yeah, it might take a while, I'm so soooorryyyy I feel so bad I made you guys wait for so long. But the amount of reviews really do motivate me so thank you for that :D

This is AU, eventual Yullen, and I hope you'll enjoy this. There will be more, obviously since this is only 5 themes out of 50 XD

Thanks to Ryu-reikai Akuma for the quickie beta even if she doesn't know who the hell they are XD

Disclaimer: Hoshino Katsura owns them all. And hey, Kanda's back 8D





.part 1.


Pale fingers comb through soft strands of hair as silver eyes scrutinize the mirror for fading color nearing the roots of brown hair. Allen Walker frowns at his own reflection. He would have to dye his hair again, soon.

"Aren't you tired of doing that all the damn time?" a gruff, semi-mocking question is directed at him from behind for the nth time within the last two years, and Allen sees through the mirror the taller figure standing behind him with a raised eyebrow.

"Shut up," he pouts, "I have to—"

"No one ever said you have to change your natural color."

A twitch of the eye. "My natural color is brown."

"Was," Kanda replies easily, unfazed by the glare Allen is sending him via the mirror. "Now it's white. Get over it."

Almost immediately, Allen whips his head to face his sorry excuse of a friend—if Kanda could even be called that—fully meaning to give the jerk a piece of his mind, but f course, Kanda beats him to it.

"I know someone with blue hair," he starts, halting Allen's words from escaping his throat, "Or neon green, for fuck's sake," Kanda shakes his head as if mourning the stupidity of humanity, then looks back up to Allen. "Yours is just old man hair."

Allen's mouth is closing slowly, and then he turns back to the mirror, once again running his fingers through his hair, slowly.

"Right," he tells Kanda's reflection, "And yours is girly—"

"What the fu—"

"And no one says anything," he adds a little louder, a tad firmer.

Allen can see the contemplative frown on Kanda's features, before his so-called childhood friend throws his face to the side with a soft cluck of his tongue. "Tch, of course. My hair isn't anyone else's business."

A small smile stretches Allen's lips. "Of course."

Kanda doesn't look so surprised when Allen shows up with completely white hair the next day.





Allen is used to people staring at him. After all, that 'fancy' scar on his face does stand out against his pale complexion. Now, with his new choice of hair color—it's his natural color, as Kanda keeps on kindly reminding him—he really should have expected the amount of stares he's getting.

Yes, white isn't such a weird hair color, if you are not a boy of sixteen.

Still, Allen refuses to give in to this—shame, pressure—what-fucking-ever, as Kanda would put it—because it is his decision, because this is who he is.

He's only thankful that the stares—and whispers, let's not forget the whispers—would subside whenever Kanda is in the vicinity, because his death glare turns the curious stares away and makes the whispers stop.

"They better fucking get over it," Kanda says, to which Allen responds with a smile.

It is Allen who gets 'over it' after a month or so.





"Eep, cold, cold, cold!" the boy squeaks as the sudden coldness on the top of his head. Looking back over his shoulder, Allen finds Kanda grinning widely, and he pouts. "Will you stop that already?"

Because, really, ever since it started snowing, Kanda had taken a liking to randomly throwing snowballs at him. Especially, at his head. Even more so than ever.

Kanda snorts as he is walking over to where Allen is standing. "What? It suits you," he says before outright pressing a snowball on top of Allen's head, making the boy yelp and swat that hand along with the pile of snow away from his head.

Shaking his head rapidly, Allen then looks up at his annoyingly taller companion and frowns. "Not. Funny. Just because I have white hair now—"

"Like I said. It suits you," Kanda says, and for some elusive reason, Allen's stomach kinds of flutters. But then Kanda just /has/ to add, "Bean sprout."

Allen rolls his eyes. "BaKanda."

And no, he isn't smiling.





In time, wounds might heal, pain will dull, but scars will be there to stay. A reminder of what you have achieved or what you have done—suffered—complete with the shadows of the burning ache which may be fading as time goes by, but never really forgotten. Depending on how you've gotten the scar, or how you've survived it, it would either be a medal or a curse.

For Allen, it's probably both.

Wrinkled, red fingertips trace down the line starting from a pale forehead, over a closed eyelid and lower to a soft cheek which is starting to lose its baby fat.

This scar, this arm—they are a proof of the tragedy happening a long time ago. One which, for the life of him, Allen can't remember, but it shows up from time to time in his subconscious, visiting on restless nights and waking him up with a scream.

Still, Allen can't remember, and he isn't sure he wants to remember.

"But you survived," Kanda had told him one day when they both were young and rebellious. "Think of it as a medal. That scar on your face looks pretty cool, doesn't it?"

"No, it doesn't," Allen had replied then, "It's just a gash over my face."

He remembers Kanda staring at his scar contemplatively, reaching out to trace the scar in curiosity, then, "Then make it cooler," the thirteen-year-old Kanda had told him then.

It was the day that, at 11, Allen had a reversed pentagon tattooed on his forehead, somehow. Blame Kanda's weird sense of coolness at the time.

Still, Allen hasn't regretted it until today.





"Move aside, bean. You're eating up space for someone so damn small."

"Hey! I'm not that small! And this is my bed."


"…what are you doing here anyway?" is whispered.

Rustling sheets, shifting weights, and Allen is faced with Kanda's frown. "Because a certain someone just had to wake up screaming in the dead of night and babble nonsense on the phone?"

Allen's cheeks heat up. "Sorry about that. I don't even remember—but umm. I'm fine now, so—"

"So shut up and sleep. Tiedoll already kicked me out here so I'm not going back now."

"Even if your house is like, next door?" Allen teases, earning him a sulky—sleepy?—glare from his temporary bedmate. Not that it deters him, though, because Allen is smiling now.

"Sleep," Kanda hisses out, messing with the blanket until they are covered chest-high. Allen sing-songs his affirmative and shifts in bed—the small space forcing their shoulders and arms to press together, but Allen doesn't mind.

It's warmer this way anyway.


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