Warnings: OOCness, English is not my first language, inconsistent tenses, not beta'd, this is a self-indulgent fic, just like everything I've ever written

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

A/N: i finally succeeded in writing a fluffy and plotless drabble. (do we still use the word 'drabble'? or is that so 2009?)

The hands of the man Allen fell in love with were rough and callused, years of handling a sword creating tiny bumps across his palms and fingers. Kanda's hands were rough, but they hold Allen so gently in the night after they make love, and they latch onto him so tightly in the morning, as if afraid of letting go. Anyone who said that Kanda wasn't capable of gentleness has never seen him dress Allen's wounds, or seen him trail his fingers across Allen's scars. Kanda may be brash, but the tenderness of his touches sometimes belie his gruff exterior, especially with the way those fingers thread into his hair, how those fingertips dance on his cheeks, as if Allen was an ancient relic meant to be handled carefully, like he was meant to be revered and held in awe.

Currently, Kanda's right hand was clasping Allen's left. Kanda always preferred holding his left hand, as if to say that he didn't care if it was red and not normal, like he was making a statement to the world. In a way, hand-holding sometimes felt more intimate than kissing and lying together. They can do it anytime and anywhere, and while some might raise their eyebrows, it was both a loud and silent way of saying the person whose hand I'm holding is mine.

Allen remembered that time when Kanda dropped down on one knee and pulled a ring out of his pocket. Allen had said yes, and Kanda purposely slid that ring onto his left ring finger so that he would stop hiding it. Allen wanted that ring on his right hand so he could show it off in broad daylight, but Kanda insisted on his left, because Kanda didn't care and there was nothing to be ashamed of. He loved Allen and everything that came with him, and so Allen didn't feel hyperconscious about his left hand being displayed for all the world to see anymore. After all, there was a ring there, and the sunlight and moonlight glinted ever so beautifully on it.

Sometime later—months, maybe years—another ring will join it, and Allen would be remiss if he hid his left hand.

They were on a train and Allen's eyes were getting heavier. With their hands still clasped, Allen laid his head on Kanda's shoulder, and before he closed his eyes, he caught sight of the ring on Kanda's left hand; of course Kanda had two rings made. Allen wasn't the only one getting engaged if he said yes (and he did). There were also their tiny matching tattoos—very thin red rings around Kanda's left and Allen's right pinkies. They were so thin one might think they were drawn with a pen, and because they were red, Allen's was tattooed on his right pinkie; it wouldn't have been visible on his left. They were nothing eye-catching and were unobtrusive, but the sentiment was there. If they align their pinkies right, their tattoos will look like a red string.

Allen closed his eyes and let the hum of the train and background chatter lull him to sleep. Kanda dropped a kiss to top of his head, and the last thing he felt before falling asleep was the squeeze of the rough and gentle hand of the man he fell in love with.