You Found Me

…

DREAMS AND BLOOD
Chapter One

…

"Girl," Kanda's eye twitched at the sound of the drunken voice as his gender, once again, was proved obviously hard to guess. The fact that he had no breast and a cock obviously didn't mean anything to the world.

"You ain't allowed in my fuckin' hallway without payment." The man slurred, staggering towards the samurai, obviously so drunk that he was incapable of standing properly on his feet. Kanda's eyes twitched, his expression warped into an ugly mask of fury as he stared unblinkingly at the jerk off who dared to call him a lady.

"Oh? And since when the fuck did this hellhole start lettin' students buy the hallways, dip shit?" He seethed irritably, knuckles clenched, ready to take a good swing at the football jocks.

One of the drunks staggered towards Kanda confusedly, looking behind the pissed teens shoulder. His eyes narrowed, before he smirked, and shook his head.

"W—whas up with that, gurl?" Another of the jocks asked, his slur worse than his friends. "You bringin tha' other gurl there for backup? Cuz either way, ya gotta pay the fi-ine."

Kanda looked behind him with a scowl to see what the hell the drunken moron was talking about. He watched as an oblivious teen approaced the scene, a white crop of hair clear on his head, slightly lengthened to approve the theory that he could be a girl, though, in Kanda's view, was obviously not. His eyes were downcast and his eyelashes were clearly long, dark, and overly-feminine. What the fuck? Why was a fuckin' fag coming towards them?

Kanda watched in annoyance as the labeled "fag" approached the scene, stopping for only a moment to glance at the pissed Kanda and three jocks, before continuing through the hallway at a normal pace. One of the drunks lumbered after him, and, upon hearing the footsteps approach, he spun and caught the wrist of his hand before it could successfully land on his shoulder.

"Yes?" He asked listlessly, gray-blue irises staring unblinking into the man's dark, dilated eyes. The man attempted to lash out with his other arm to strike the sixteen-year-old, only to have it caught midway with ease. The teen's lips were now pressed into a fine line as he twisted one of the drunk's wrists and kneed him in a rather sensitive area. He moaned and fell to the ground, clutching at his injured point, obviously in pain.

"Don't touch me," he murmured monotonously, and turned, stepping over the man on the ground, who was weeping loudly, a string of profanities flying from his mouth.

Pathetic.

…

Kanda scowled and slammed the door open with far too much force, causing it to angrily rebound and hit his forehead. Growling in annoyance, he entered the double bedded dorm room and kicked the face-bruising door so that it would smash shut with unnecessary force.

Thoroughly irritated that the short, white-haired homo had beat him to kicking the drunks asses in the hallway, he grabbed his most precious possession—a sword he had named "Mugen"—and swung it at the bed opposite of his. Scowling unhappily as it cut too deeply into the wood, and therefore managed to get stuck, he pulled in irritation. Staggering backwards after losing his grip, the sword stubbornly stuck into the bed post. He glared at the object as if it would obediently un-lodge itself from the wood—his efforts, regrettably, were to no avail.

Putting one hand on the sharp edge of the sword and keeping the other on its handle, he pulled at both ends of the blade and ignored the stinging pain as a cut formed on his palm. Pulling at the sword in a long, continuous effort, it budged no more than a centimeter… a slight improvement, at least, but not enough to satisfy Kanda.

Pain shot up the teens arm as the wound grew gradually deeper, cutting through nerves and ligaments. Blood flowed freely, red droplets flowing onto the white sheets of the vacant bed—Kanda's soon-to-be-roommates bed. Unsatisfied as the blade budged a mere inch or two, Kanda pushed up angrily, trying to ignore the growing pain—

"I hope that's your bed you're cutting up," a voice announced in monotone, and Kanda spun in surprise to spot the white-haired boy from the hall leaning casually on the door-frame. His eyes narrowed suspiciously and he sneered.

"Get out of my room, Moyashi." The boy gazed at him calmly, obviously unaffected by the rude tone or impolite nickname. His expression was blank and unwavering, his eyes slowly trailing to the elder boy's hand.

"Nice to meet you," He responded, though his voice didn't indicate that he thought so himself. "I'm your roommate, Allen Walker."

Kanda grunted, his eye twitching slightly as his vision became spotted with black dots due to his severely bleeding hand.

"Che," he bit out, shooting Allen a nasty look and flipping him the finger before turning to walk to his bed, leaving his sword implanted in the other bedpost. He sat on his bed, then grunted, "It's your bed, moron."

Leaning against the wall for support, Kanda blinked several times, trying to clear his vision as he wrapped the white bed-sheet around his hand tightly in order to stop the bleeding. He faintly heard a reply, though the voice seemed miles away, and saw a blur of white out of the corner of his eye. Kanda promptly slumped in the corner as his vision fogged again and his head pounded—then, he fainted.

So much for getting the damned sword unstuck, he thought hazily, as his mind slowing drifting into the horrid nightmares that dreamland had to offer.

…

Allen stared blankly as his roommate passed out against the wall, before letting out an annoyed sigh. Moving over to his bedpost, he stared at the bloody sword implanted into the wood. Grabbing the hilt, he gave a slight tug, and watched as it budged a few inched. Pulling again, he grunted as the sword un-lodged itself, and swept out towards the fifteen-year-olds face.

Dodging it swiftly, he pulled a piece of cloth from the pocket of his leather jeans and wiped the metallic substance from the blade. His sensitive nose twitched at the familiar metallic scent that filled the room and now covered the silk handkerchief—blood. The mere thought of it brought a foul taste to his mouth.

Brushing off the irrational loathing that he felt towards his roommate for doing such a stupid thing to his hand, he approached the bed and grabbed a long black case beside the still body, quickly sheathing the foul smelling object and laying it on the floor. His nose twitched again, for the smell was much stronger the closer he got to other teen.

Shooting the blue-haired samurai a short glare, he grabbed him by the wrist and pulled his hand towards him. Unwrapping it from the sticky sheet, Allen almost gagged—the smell was intoxicating, now. He watched in slight amazement as the wound began to heal itself, slowly but surely closing. That, of course, didn't mean it couldn't get infected. Allen's hand twitched as he pulled three small square packets containing peroxide from his back pocket, along with a small Band-Aid—hey, you never know when you'd fall and scrape your knee!

Tossing the useless Band-Aid aside, he ripped the first packet of peroxide open, removing the small cloth, and wiping down the bloody hand. He looked up at the samurai's face as it twisted in pain and brushed away any feelings of sympathy. The boy had done it to himself.

After thoroughly cleaning the wound, he grabbed the stained white sheet and turned it until he found a piece of clean white. Roughly pulling, he heard a ripping sound as he tore long, thin strips of the fabric. Once satisfied by the length, he grabbed Kanda's hand—gentler, this time—and wrapped the strips around the still-healing wound as tightly as possible.

Tying the make-shift bandage off, Allen grabbed the ruined sheet and empty packets of peroxide, before exiting the room with a click of the door.

…

Blood fell in soft, isolated drops onto the white shower floor, each kissing the tile as they made their way towards the spinning drain. Several washed away in the blink of an eye, caught by steamy water. Allen's body was trembled, the slight smell confusing him as he cracked open his right eye.

He quickly looked over his nude body for the source of the red flow; his deformed arm. A large gash had opened back up at some point during the shower, crimson spilling out from it, almost unnoticeable on the similarly-colored skin. His throat constricted painfully at the sight.

He inhaled. The air plastered musty copper into the back of his throat, choking him—the water wasn't heavy enough—he was sure he was being strangled by bloody ghosts within his lungs, inside his mouth, all over his skin.

He hated this—this constant blood suddenly reappearing in his life. First on his roommate, now on himself. Why couldn't it all just dissipate?

He knew it wasn't really there—but still, he could feel it. It was thick in his throat and his lungs burned—bleeding someone else's blood, hot rivulets searing along soft skin. It was undeniably strange.

The feeling of small, wet fingers against wounds. When had his fingers become that of a child's?

He looked away from the wound and followed the hand, looking forward—Impossible. It was him, standing there, in front of him. He was shorter and had more childish features—blood stained his red and green Christmas pajamas and his hair slowly melted from brown to a pure white. His eyes were pleading, as he grasped the arm of the real Allen. And then he was being pulled away.

It was happening so quickly, one minute he was there, the next being jerked back to reality by some unseen force—

"Oi, Moyashi!" Allen's eyes snapped open to find a blurry hand heading towards him. His body flinched away from it on reflex, him mind screamed at him in confusion—what just happened?

He shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts. It had been a dream.

He willed his body to stop trembling as he noticed Kanda staring down at him with secretly curious eyes, and glared at the sneering man, secretly grateful to have been sprung from the nightmare.

"Yes?" His voice cracked and he prayed it would go unnoticed by the tall feminine teen. From the slight arch of his brow, he knew it hadn't.

"Go take a fuckin' shower and stop your moaning. You reek," His tone was purposefully rude; he turned his head away from the traumatized Allen—he had made noises? But... he never had dreams... and he sure as hell never made noises on the off occasion that he did.

...Probably.

He clenched his fist and untangled the white sheet from his sweaty limbs—sure enough, he emitted a rather strong odor, only partially covered by his deodorant.

His feet hit the wooden floor, sending tingling waves up his still-asleep left leg. Promptly ignoring it, he avoided Kanda's eyes as he walked towards the bathroom on the opposite side of the room, stopping for only a moment to pull a towel from the dresser at his bed's side.

"Moyashi," Allen stopped at the doorway and turned in recognition at the Japanese name Kanda had dubbed him as, finally meeting the other teen's eyes. He'd had enough time to pull together his mask on the short walk, so it was no longer an issue.

"Yes?" Kanda glared as the frosty gray-blue eyes stared at him emptily. Looking away, his eyes trailed down to his bandaged arm, eyebrows furrowing.

"Never mind," the man growled, annoyed, confused and overly tired.

Allen stared at him for a moment more before turning away before uttering one of the first unnecessary things he'd said in years.

"I can't sleep with the smell of blood in the room."

Kanda's eyes shot up towards the bathroom doorway to find it empty, the door swiftly swinging shut, the sound of a lock clicking into place. Shaking his head in annoyance, he grabbed his laptop bag, tossing it over his shoulder as he exited the room.