Warnings: trigger warnings? Panic attacks.
Summary: AU. On October 3rd, Kanda Yuu wakes up next to a man he hasn't seen since seven years ago. LaviYuu, hint of Allena. Trigger warnings.
Fuck, it hurt.
Kanda groans inaudibly as his consciousness filters in, nose catching the stench of alcohol, sweat and sex. His body aches—in that particular way, and he has no desire to move out of wherever he is, because it is actually comfortable, or maybe he's just too tired. But sunlight is blaring down at his eyes and he cannot avoid it no matter how he buries his face in whichever direction. Eventually he seeks to move his hands at least. The first grope causes him to be aware of how very warm whatever he's touching seems to be, and then he realises it's a body.
It takes a few more seconds to realise that someone is holding his waist. Blearily he cracks his eye open, wincing at the burst of brightness, to see who the hell fucked him last night. It isn't an odd case—he's done this a couple of times, never at his place, and he is always quick to leave in the morning no matter how bad his hangover is.
This time it's a redhead—again, not unusual—and Kanda closes his eyes for a few more indulgent seconds before he wriggles his way out. The arm around his waist tightens when he makes the first movement, and the owner sounds a groan. He pries open the grip without much care, ignoring the dull ache at the back of his head, and sits at the bed edge.
The first thing he notices are the finger marks on his bare thighs. There are other more marks, and Kanda is sure he gave it as much as he got, but he hopes there is nothing on his neck or else he'd have to kill the son of a bitch—Tiedoll would freak the fuck out if the older saw them…or fuss over non-existent mosquitos in his apartment.
He casts a bleary glance around for his clothes and finds them at the doorway. It takes a bit of effort to pull them back on, absentmindedly nudging the other clothes that doesn't belong to him with his foot. He's buttoning up the last of his shirt when he toes upon a black eyepatch.
He hasn't met anyone who wore an eyepatch since—
"Leaving so soon?"
Kanda struggles to breathe—he doesn't know if he was exhaling or inhaling at that point, but it doesn't make a difference.
Hey Yuu, leaving so soon?
Instantly his stomach churns, but he ignores it, focusing on getting his hands to button that fucking last button right, because the minute tremble in his fingers are threatening to render his actions useless.
What are the chances, right? That this guy wears an eyepatch and sounds the same as La— he cuts off the thought ruthlessly. He wanted to be fucked to forget about that shit, not to be reminded of it.
"I have breakfast in the kitchen if you're hungry—" the other goes on with a scratchy voice, and fuck, that accent— "or painkillers, if your head is killing you like mine is."
"…I have work," Kanda bits out, still refusing to turn around.
"On a Saturday? We could go another round."
"Well, I can give you a ride if you're so insistent," the reply is fast. "Not that your riding skills are anything to—"
"Do you always have to talk this much?" Kanda snaps, cocking his head to the side to glare at the person responsible.
He knows he shouldn't have done it but he did—he's never one to reign his impulses when he gets irritated. And no matter how many times he thinks back to this, it's the point of second regret.
The redhead's hair slightly longer than he remembers. It's mussed, ends sticking up. His features are more mature—of course, seven years tended to do that to some people, pity about the personality—and glint in his one eye is sharper. And the other eye where an eyepatch always placed—something he had wanted to know but was too afraid to ask—now all in its visible glory, a jagged scar stretching across a sewn eyelid. His physique is broader, more muscled—fuck, Kanda vaguely remembers the hard body pressed up tight against him last night—but everything else is the same—the colour of his emerald eye, the cheesy innocent grin, the red of his hair.
He still finds himself struggling to breathe, even after all these years.
It's Lavi. It's definitely Lavi, because there's no way to erase any memory of seven years ago, no matter how hard he has—and still am, trying.
It suddenly feels like he's drowning on air. The breath in his throat gets completely stuck. His hands go ice cold. Numbly, he tries to swallow but his muscles don't want to comply. But his face barely gives anything away, just a slight widening of his eyes and the inaudible mouth part where he attempts to suck in some air—but he's not breathing, not breathing—
The redhead cocks his head slightly, ends of his hair tickling his shoulder.
"My offers still stand—"
Kanda forces himself to turn his gaze away pointedly, clenching his fists tight. Only then does he dare to shut his eyes, controlling the next few words he needs to say.
He can do this. He can do this. He has to do this.
"N-neither," Kanda forces out. He can nearly taste the bile on his tongue, and he will if he spends one more minute lingering. "I need to go."
His legs carry him out of the room, straight for the front door.
Lavi calls—Lavi, Lavi, fuck, Lavi—
"Hey, at least give me your name and number, beautiful!"
He doesn't recognise me, Kanda thinks vaguely. He doesn't—
But it doesn't make a difference. He's out onto the main road before he remembers to breathe. He puts as much distance as he can as he coughs violently into his palm, shooting paranoid glances behind him. It is only after he crosses a few blocks and rounds a corner that he stops and leans against a railing of a bus top. His head is throbbing. The air is chill, season seeping into autumn, and it helps slightly to clear the mud in his head.
Clenching a loose grip over his abdomen, he takes a shaky glance at the map at the bus stop.
It's then that he takes a good look at his surroundings, and back at the building which he had hastily escaped from. The high rise flat of apartments stands stark in contrast to the other houses in the area. How is it that Lavi—motherfucking Lavi—had been living so close to where he was at Canary Wharf?
And to think all these years of running away just brought him closer than ever before.
It barely takes him eight minutes to get home to his apartment by bus. It feels like it takes longer for his trembling hands to search his pockets for his key—thank god his wallet and keys were in his pockets, he didn't want to think of the alternative—and even longer for him to slot it successfully into the key hole.
He grimaces and shuts his eyes as he feels his gag reflex kicking in, never mind that his stomach is empty, empty, empty—it's by familiarity that he stumbles into his bathroom blindly and clutches the tap of his sink when he lurches forward to retch, the disgusting throaty noises drumming through his ears.
His fringe gets into his eyes, and he grips it back forcefully. His headache decides to imitate the sensation of a bullet through his brain at this point, and his knees nearly buckle. Hair strands slip through, but at least the back of his hair is short so that he doesn't have to bother holding the whole length back like he would have six years ago. Nothing except spittle comes out as he's predicted, but it doesn't stop his stomach for churning again and forcing another dry retch.
It's okay, he tells himself. It's okay. It's okay. It's okay. He just needs to breathe. One in. One out. One in. One out.
It's okay. It's not the same as seven years ago when he made the decision to do what he did. There's a reason why he left that ridiculous redhead, and if he could, he would do it again. He just met Lavi by chance. A simple one night stand. It's fine. Lavi doesn't recognise who he is with his short hair. Or maybe Lavi's forgotten about him, which by right should be the best outcome, but somehow it makes his gut sour more and he coughs out more spit.
It's okay, he repeats to himself.
It's okay if Lavi fucked him, and he doesn't remember a thing.