the worst thing about you
;;
The worst thing about him is that he never leaves anything behind. No clothes. No scent. No stains or shadows on the bedsheets. No razor on the bathroom shelf, no dirty dishes in the sink, no water rings on the table — nothing, ever. He is immaculate, clean, spotless. He notices everything, tidies it away, and takes it with him before you can open your mouth to whisper words like stop or don't.
He comes and recedes like the tide, telling himself he's left the beach dry, and in the morning you wonder if your saltwater cheeks taste like the ocean.
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You stop him when he tries to give you something to hold on to.
"Don't—" It slips past your lips and you don't know why but you need to say it to him, "Don't leave any marks."
He looks up at you, hazel eyes round, warm, deep and yet void of the turmoil you know lies there, that rages just behind his gaze. He never looks at you like this, never with his lips pursed like that, never with such a quizzical brow — it's as if you're the stars and he's trying to count them. One, two, three, four, the beating of your heart like the ticking of a clock, and the words hang between you like fog, loud and misty—
His warm breath tickles the inside of your thigh. Your back arches and you bite your lip, not breaking eye contact as his teeth find purchase. The whine in the back of your throat hurts.
As fast to let go as he was slow to latch on, he stops biting.
"No marks," he murmurs into the crook of your knee, closing his eyes.
Your flesh stings where he should have left proof. But you ignore the ache, and you nod, and you let him go.
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You tell him about your father. He says he's glad you ran away.
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"Stay," you almost try to say, the warmth of his kiss fading from your lips.
But you squeeze your eyes shut, pretending you aren't awake, and listen to his body as it quietly shuffles around the room. You try to guess what he's picking up, what he's putting on, what he's buttoning up—what he's taking back—and the room is suddenly, very suddenly silent.
You curl up in blankets that smell so strongly of him it brings tears to your eyes, and vow you won't let him lie on the bed next time.
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Next time, he stays the night, and you trade in the seven seas for the parched desert of his arms. You let him bite your neck and leave little kisses, blooming red, let him look at you with eyes like a horizon and you dare—you dare—to wonder. He falls asleep before you do, and leaves you drowning in hope.
"The worst thing about you," you whisper into the sloping gradient of his shoulders, "is that you never leave anything behind."
I'd take you with me if only you'd come, he doesn't whisper back.
I'd let you go, you want to say. I'd let you go.
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In the morning, you ask him to stay.
And he doesn't.
You let him walk out, let the door swing shut behind him—wasn't this what was meant to happen?—but then you're running, fast as water, fast as rain, fast as the tide coming in. You catch him—I'd let you go, you'll never say—and you ask him again. It tumbles out of your mouth, unstoppable, breathy and bold because every single word you say—Jellal, won't you stay?
It's everything he left behind. His clumsy nights. The loud buckle on his belt. The shadow of teeth on you like a brand (no marks, he promised; no marks, you lied). The sheets that can only smell of him or of his absence, it's all there like a ghost behind your eyes, a dream you're done with pushing away.
You tell him, "Stay."
Hazel eyes bright as if you're the stars and he'd count every one; one, two, three, four, the beating of your heart like the ticking of a clock—
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Erza, why does the sea never tire of kissing the shore?