Title: Flowers in Ink
Fandom: D. Gray-Man
Characters: Lavi-centric, with mentions of Lenalee, Kanda, Allen, Miranda, and Crowley.
Summary: It came down to this: Lavi had always been able to come up with his own solutions to his problems, and he didn't want them to be forgotten.
A/N: Scrapfic for now. Maybe I'll post it somewhere if I ever stop being so lazy.
The books were stored in dry, brown, dusty-smelling rooms that had somehow always comforted Lavi, made him feel warm. It wasn’t until so much later that he realized how cold they really were, cold like a knife to the heart. He could spend days reading name after name, but there were only events here, no people. History didn’t care whose hand held whose, what warmth felt like.
Lavi could pick some name, any name at random, and be fascinated by that one simple thought: they had been a person, a real person, and no one would ever see that again.... Staring at the old panda’s back, he wondered if anyone else had ever noticed this. History was full of dead souls, tied to tiny ink tombs; no matter how many times the names were read, there could be no hope of resurrection. They were paper and ink, no more; they weren’t even bone, something that could be touched.
And then it occurred to him, just as he was watching Lenalee standing and chatting, one hand on her hip and scratching one of her calves with her foot. He almost ran from the room then, catching only a brief glimpse of the girl turning around and looking concerned, and Yuu muttering, “I told you that Usagi wasn’t all there.”
Now, seated at a small desk in a room cluttered with words, he let the pen move itself across paper, writing page after page after page. Nobody else got it, but no matter. Allen came up at one point to bring him dinner, poking his head in nervously and sneezing from the dust. Yuu frowned even more deeply than usual and announced that Lavi was only wasting his time. What else was there to be expected? Yuu was terse, dour; he had little use for words.
Words could still describe him though, and Lavi wrote it all down: the detachment, the solemn looks, the way he washed his hair with soap and cold water until it almost did look like flowing ink.
And he wrote them all: Allen’s ingenuousness, Lenalee’s smile, Yuu’s impatience and curtness, the tremor in Miranda’s voice, and the way that woman’s name still found itself winding past Crowley’s lips. In the pages’ margins, the ink blots from where he wiped off his pen formed the shapes of footprints, smoke, flowers, the edges of that dazzling smile. Maybe they all needed these words, this ink, after all.
Someday, he thought, some other bookman will read this book, and just for once will feel warm. And he’ll know without a doubt that we have lived... Yes, we have lived....