Kanda sleeps through most of the trip, just like he has been sleeping through the dreary days at Lavi's little flat in London. He is awake enough to stumble from train to ferry to train again but not much else, even when an unexpected wind picks up across the English Channel and sways them in their seats. Lavi tells Kanda's ear the French name for it, watching the grey waves break against the sides of the boat. He realizes Kanda has no reason to know French and wonders how much of it he will have to teach him. Kanda says nothing. He hasn't really said anything since he showed up on Lavi's doorstep a month ago in the middle of a spring storm.

The skies clear as they make their way south, a beautiful bright blue that seems almost unreal compared to the dull shade of those above London. Lavi props his chin up on his hand to watch the countryside go by, fields of grain dotted by cheerful red poppies, acres of nothing but sunflowers, the occasional crumbling stone ruin. Maybe, he thinks, the word delicate in his mind, and feels his shoulders relax minutely. Some of the color is back in Kanda's cheeks.

The train pulls into the station with a great squealing exhalation, tufts of steam rising and dissipating in the warm air. Lavi shifts in his seat, jostling Kanda's head where it is pressing into his shoulder. When he says Kanda's name this time Kanda's eyes open fully, darting up and around and finally settling on the little brown building that serves as the train station.

"Where are we?" Kanda asks gruffly as Lavi takes down their bags.

"Somewhere in Auvergne," Lavi says. Kanda accepts the suitcase he is handed without further comment.

Allen is waiting for them next to a gleaming black carriage, impeccably dressed in frock coat and tie. Lavi sees Kanda frown and absently smooth the front of his own travel-rumpled shirt.

"I'm sorry," Allen says, speaking too quickly. It is now that Lavi notices he is paler than he has any right to be in this sun-soaked French countryside. "It's going to be at least another hour in the carriage before we reach the—the villa, and I know you've been traveling for—"

"Allen," Lavi interrupts. He sets his bags on the ground and Allen looks queerly stricken. All people build walls, some stronger than others, and when Lavi places his palm against this one it crumbles underneath his fingers.

Allen draws a shuddering breath where he's enfolded himself in Lavi's waiting arms. "I've missed you terribly," he whispers. Lavi sighs, trying not to feel how prominent Allen's ribs are. They expand and contract like a set of sharp parentheses, bounding something that Lavi isn't quite sure how to read yet. Life as afterthought.

And I you, Lavi thinks.

Kanda's name crosses Allen's lips on the next breath and Allen seems to draw strength from it, straightening up and blinking. He holds his hand out and Kanda grasps it after the barest hesitation.

"Welcome to France," Allen says, as if that is all there was to say.