a/n: This is for NellaxIval, or Nella, as I like to refer to her because it is the only part that never changes in her rather mercurial username. XD It is an extremely belated prize for winning a place in Sarahfreak and our contest that took place last summer (eh heh heh -smacks hand-). A thousand thank yous, dear, for being so patient. :) I hope you like this (it's been so long you probably don't even like Laven any more, jk XD) I hope, above all else, that you like this, as I would never ever have written Laven if it hadn't been for you.

To everyone else, please enjoy and I pray that it does not betray my currently tepid feelings towards the fandom or the couple! XD

-bows-

-S

It tastes like calories and cholesterol and whatever else other people worry about, whatever else turns other people into rabbits who only feel safe nibbling salad; it tastes like fried food. The air, the night. But as he follows nothing in particular and leaves behind other people packed together shoulder to shoulder the airborne meal is finished, slowly and delicately as all meals should be finished, but finished all the same. This makes him frown a bit. It tastes like it might rain, maybe, but mostly like burning oil behind paper orbs. The air, the night. It tastes like being alone in the dark, the air, that night.

It smells like every vendor from the Asian main continent showed up to yell the praise of their fare to Heaven and Hell and it smells like money in other people's pockets; they will sell to denizens of either, both, or neither extreme. It smells like other people sweating, shoulder to shoulder. But as he wonders away down some dirt that may be an accident and may be a path, it smells more like everything here smells like underneath the many scents designed to hide it. It smells like hard, quiet work and he appreciates it, almost says so to the sleeping workers. But maybe they aren't asleep, maybe he'd passed some today, rubbed shoulder to shoulder with some. It smells like rain, probably, and dirt and still water and hard, quiet flowers working to stay alive. The war is over and he can smell that too.

It sounds like other people, to put it bluntly. He is quiet, listening to other people singing, other people shoving through other people, shoulder to shoulder. It sounds very close and very far away at the same time. Outside the shacks and tents it sounds like crickets, unseen but very close. It also sounds like frogs on the edge of still water, waiting to jump or preparing to sit longer, forever maybe. It sounds like a roll of thunder is on the sky's tongue. It sounds strange because it does not sound like danger. It sounds safe.

It feels comfortably crowded walking shoulder to shoulder with other people, as if one day he will be like them. It feels warm and it feels moist and heavy. It feels like un-threatened happiness and this makes him feel proud. It feels un-threatened beyond the crowds and food and carnival games too but it is not happiness. It is quiet. It is un-threatened air, un-threatened night. It feels as though all the water in the world is being sucked up to the sky so it can come down again, cleaner, and start over in the new world because it really does feel like a new world. But he does not know if he feels like it will be a better world for him. It feels like being alone in the dark, the air, that night. And he feels fear because he knows he is not.

Allen sees the festival, the other people rejoicing, and counts his comrades among them over and over again. He sees his fingers coming up for each person and he sees them always one person short. He sees nothing but the exit, glowing with delicate paper lanterns, as he sees the finger folded that should be erect. He sees the dark and then into it as he sees dirt that may be an accident and may be a path and his feet following it. He sees massive pods where rice is growing and massive pools where lotus spread across the surface to fool people into walking out into nothing. He sees a clear-ish moon and thinks it might rain maybe. Then he sees the bridge and steps onto the wood, slowly and delicately like all bridges should be stepped onto, prepared to ruin someone's quiet.

"Hey."

"Good evening." He sees his reflection but tries not to look anywhere else.

"What're you doing out here? I can't imagine you're full yet."

"You're leaving, aren't you." He stares straight at his reflection and sees the tenseness of his shoulders. He sees no reason to ask when he knows already.

"It's time."

"You can't wait. You can't see if things might change." He sees the water ripple from a break in the surface. He sees the rain.

"Things always change, but my job doesn't. It's not a thing. It's me, and I'm done here. It's time."

"You couldn't have said good-bye?"

He looks up and sees the younger Bookman studying him sideways. He stares straight at his reflection in the single eye and sees himself trying to be angry, but mostly trying not to cry.

He sees Lavi turn to face him, looking down. He sees him smile and it is very close and very far away at the same time.

Lavi ruffs gray hair like he's done before and laughs on an exhale, "You're still a kid, aren't you? I'll miss you, okay? But it's still time and I'm not saying good-bye."

"You're not other people."

Lavi shakes his head, bitter under the many feelings designed to hide it. "None of us is other people. None of us will be." Lavi looks up at the sky and sees the rain coming down at him, trying to pin him there.

Allen sees him smile a simple and true smile. He smiles too and watches the reflection he avoided before as it becomes less and less visible. "I'm not a kid… And if you won't say good-bye one last time that must mean you're not leaving. You could have just said so, you little kid."

"Hey. I'll always be older so don't get cocky."

Allen breathes a laugh. "Okay."

He lets his head fall into a nest of his arms on the bridge wall and still sees the reflection. "I'm going to close my eyes in a minute."

Lavi nods and Allen sees it in water.

"Okay." Lavi thinks he understands but older isn't always wiser.

Allen sees the inside of his lids and grabs the younger Bookman but holds the older Lavi.

"It doesn't matter how I see you for the last time, you won't look the same when we meet again, but you'll feel the same," it feels warm and moist and heavy, head to chest, "you'll sound the same," the beating of the heart is very close and very far away at the same time, "you'll smell the same," it smells like hard, quiet work and he appreciates it, "you'll taste…"

Allen sees the festival the other people rejoicing, and counts his comrades among them once.

He smiles.

He had just been using one too many fingers. Lavi was not, and would never be, other people.