Cross never thought that someday he wouldn't be able to link the coat to him. To Allen, that is.
Allen now looked too different. Not because of the Order's uniform, but because of the way that any clothing would look good on that slender body.
The long-sleeved shirt. The vest. The trousers. The ribbon.
Longer legs and longer arms that could enlace him anytime. Yet the same wide eyes, but they had already seen so much that they could no longer see the things as they used to be. And Cross really did hope for that. Because the way that he looks at Allen now is different from when the boy used to have the check coat on.
He wants Allen to look differently at him, too. Even though he didn't change much himself, the feelings developed. He hopes that when their eyes meet, Allen will notice it, and take it like he would not, had he been wearing check: like a man and not a brat.
Whenever Cross' eyes rest upon the white-haired youth, his insides burn with passion. He sees all colours in gradients dancing within the flames. A vision that the black and white of that old coat would never show him. Much less in gradients.
He wants to touch. To drink him, to devour him. Allen belongs to him. From the moment he stripped off the check coat he became Cross'.
And Cross became Allen's because even though he threw the chess away, he had longer given Cross the checkmate.