Theme: Touch

Part Two

A single touch had always seemed to stop him in his tracks. Allen noticed it by accident, but he never resisted abusing that simple fact. Sometimes he would simply pass by him and run his hand across the man's back; watching from the corner of his eye at the man who'd stopped dead in the hallway. The man's fist would curl—as if he was trying to decide what to do—but ultimately, he never retaliated.

Other times, his touch was what brought that man back from a dark place and brought him right back into his arms—where he belonged. Ever since the rain—ever since he never left his side—he'd always believed that he could save him from drowning.

Allen was always the optimist. Every touch, kiss, lick, and huskily whispered nothings were some solid, tangible evidence that Kanda at least had his head above water.

So…what had happened?

What had caused him to sink again? Why did he drown? Figuratively and somewhat literally.

"Are you going to be okay, Allen?" Lenalee's voice came to him quietly. Her feminine instincts had picked up on them—and what they were.

"I don't know," he admitted, staring over the empty room of the man who would no longer be occupying it. Everything was bare, empty, cold…Yet, there was still that lingering sensation of Kanda.

His fingers trailed along the wooden table, until he came to an hourglass. Kanda's only real possession it seemed. It was clean; dust free and cared for extremely well. He didn't want to leave smudges in the glass, but he wanted to touch it. To feel something real that still symbolized Kanda. The glass was cold to the touch and suddenly he felt like it could shatter at any given moment. Shatter, just like his illusion that Kanda wasn't too far gone to be saved.

The edge of paper caught his finger and he recoiled, eyes glancing between the hourglass and the wall—where a small folded sheet was placed. Curiosity made him open it. Curiosity made him read the words printed in a strangely perfect handwriting.

If you're reading this,

I couldn't breathe anymore

I never liked swimming

And the water just closed in

You tried

Stupidly so

Next time you see me,

Feel free to give me a good punch to the face

The paper dropped to the floor and Allen's eyes hazed over, liquid threatening to spill down his cheeks. It wasn't that he couldn't save him; it was just that he simply hadn't touched him enough. He couldn't stop him enough to keep him from this fate.

A fact that haunted him every day of his life. All he could think about was what he could have done. How could he have reached into him and conveyed his feelings any more than he'd tried. He was young and stupid then, but even as he grew and the years stacked, he couldn't figure out how to touch someone's soul. Or at least not Kanda's. Kanda had never been normal to begin with. Perhaps he didn't have a chance at all. The baggage the older man carried in his heart was probably sinking his ship from the very beginning and it was only a matter of time before he was lost to icy waters and an ocean's dismal depth.

It was no real surprise that he would end up in Kanda's room, years after reading the letter. The folded piece of paper that still remained on the floor—covered in a thick layer of dust and yellowed from age. He picked it up and it threatened to simply crumble in his hand.

He thought about it.

Over and over.

What would he actually say to Kanda if he'd had a chance to go back in time and say something to him? He would have tried so much harder. He would have never let that man out of his sight.

"Idiot," he whispered, lying back on the man's dusty bed. How many people would die in this room, he idly wondered. Closing his eyes, he could already name two.

"That makes two of us," a whisper echoed.

There was nothing after he closed his eyes. It was a void. A warm void of white…or black…or everything—he didn't know. It was like he was blind, but he could feel. He could feel comfortably warm air. After an indefinite amount of time, he tried his eyes again. Opening them to a world of strange unreality. It was like a painting, everything drenched in pastel colors and washed out by a transparent feeling world of light.

So this is death. No wonder he was eager to jump to it.

"You're here early, beansprout."

His head snapped to the side and he stared at the man seated next to him in the warm field. Amidst the plethora of estranged colors was a curtain of black around a familiar face. The longing he'd had for those years was coming back all at once. He turned his body—balling up his fist—and he swung with all of his might. A ripple of pleasure shot through his form as his fist connected to the only other form in his vicinity. He turned his head away, not really reveling in the way Kanda was thrown back on his elbows. He was pleased enough just to feel the pressure and the force that he'd punched that man in the face.

"I came to deliver that. That's all. Turns out, it was a one way ticket."

The End

A/N: This was supposed to be infinitely more depressing, but I didn't want to leave on too horrible of a note and my moyashi would kill me. This is now complete. I will post any other one shots separately, or on my Tumblr, where I will wait until I have enough to compile here.

I will be editing all the errors out of this soon.

Thanks for reading and reviewing! I love y'all!