Running in Reverse
At twelve, Erza looks down her nose, snub and freckled and puts her hands on her hips, because this boy is not her comrade and she will never let him be, "You're an idiot," she proclaims in her high, childish voice, and then turns on her heel with a sniff.
Her shoulders ache under the weight of their armor, the armor she refuses to strip.
On the floor, Gray struggles against the weight of defeat, scrambling onto bony scabbed knees and clawing for her ankle.
"Wait! It's not over yet!" he hisses. There a path of blood running from one nostril—it can't be the first time he's had his nose broken, there's always been just the faintest tilt to it.
Erza steps away and lets the door shut on him, on everyone in the guild who's laughing at the dark haired scrap on the floor, in a way that's only part malice.
"Aren't you a little young to be chasing girls, Gray?" one of the older men quips, and Erza can only make out the faintest tap of his running feet and the slam of his collision, the roar of the brawl, before she leaves them all behind.
"C'mon. What're you, scared or something?"
He has that mismatched grin that's so achingly familiar, and when the nostalgia touches her, Erza smiles back, because his smile is only half his own.
She's not sure where the other half lies, and doesn't think about the Tower for the End of the World.
She doesn't think of much anything at all, but keeps facing the days ahead, and runs from those already past.
When he offers her his hand, she takes his wrist, because he might be her comrade, but she's not sure she's ready for a friend.
She's not sure she's ready for anything.
"Scared? Sure, I'm scared you'll screw it up."
"Shut up, I bet you're one of those girls who can't stand spiders."
She crawls into the cave behind him, scuffling, "I'm not the one sleeping to a nightlight."
The fireworks are like the color of dreams, brilliant and burning and fast to die but inexplicably precious. She stands with both her feet in the sand, toes curled, and lets their radiance streak across her eyes.
He's right by her side, squinting in the artificial fire.
He's got a cut along the edge of one high cheek-bone, and there's a bruise like a rotting banana covering his lower torso. Her stomach twists when she glances them, and she sets her lips firmly in regret that he'd had to bleed for her errors.
They're all here on the beach with her; friends from the past and present and the yawning sky above, sparkling.
There are endings in the boat that pushes off and sails away, and she watches them until they've vanished into the dark water and darker sky, with half her face crying.
When he turns to her, crooked smile and clear eyes, her chest eases, bared of its armor. She doesn't much mind—she doesn't really care if he sees.
"Thank you," she tells him, though there's so much more to say, and because he is her comrade—her friend, his smile is half her own.