Pick and Choose, a fairy tail fanfic

It's been a long time. Um.

Theoretical 'what if.' University (because they're 19) AU, Jellal never went crazy, Simon isn't dead. They grew up together as childhood friends. Just wanted to explore the complications that would arise from all these crazy romantic inclinations. Also, what would Erza be like if she wasn't forced to grow up so young?

Not as cool, obviously.

Pick and Choose

Erza stares out the window, and each drop of rain that pelts against the glass reminds her that the walk home will be long, wet and arduous. The rest of her class shifts uncomfortably at the prospect of being released, and the usual enthusiasm for language is lacking as they repeat the new vocabulary their professor dictates.

The monotony almost sends her to sleep, the steady phonetics of Japanese, dull, and murmured with the voices of many, thudding in time with her heartbeat, inactive, slow, her pen tapping lightly against the lined pages of her notebook. She wants to go home, but the walk to the bus stop is long in the rain. She hasn't brought an umbrella. Her ankle boots hold her an extra two inches off the ground, and their grip is lacking. She's almost slipped over a hundred times already.

Her lecturer glances dully out the window as she closes down the powerpoint presentation on her computer. The mix of kanji and hiragana that crowds the screen fades and turns to black, and her book of lecture notes and dictation sentences slams shut with a thud that echoes throughout the sullen room. Everyone begins to pack up their books, and Erza does the same, turning on her phone and flipping it open.

2 Messages

Simon: You finish up at 7:30...

Jellal: My break starts...

Open?

She presses no, grabs her bulging bag, and heads for the door. She bows to her teacher and mutters arigatou before she leaves. Professor Milkovich bows back and says goodbye, and Erza pushes her shoulder against the door.

As she walks through the corridor, following the fading voices of her classmates and debating whether or not it is worth getting her iPod out, she has a similar feeling to driving, and passing under a bridge in a storm. She's safe for the moment, everything is as good as silent, there is respite from the rain, but soon she'll have to hear it again – that consistently uneven pitter patter, loud and obnoxious – and there's nothing she can do to avoid it. She will be forced into the storm.

Erza pulls a red sweater-vest from her bag and puts it on over her white blouse.

She exits the language building and stares dolefully at the rain from the veranda. Before her, across the courtyard and down the stairs, people are ducking into little on-campus coffee houses and running about with their bags over their heads. She can see the speckled darkness on the thighs of the runners, stained by the rainfall, and the more unfortunate suffer sprays of mud all up the backs of their jeans. Some are hugging laptops to their chests, and the lucky ones are carrying umbrellas that struggle under the downpour. Erza takes a minute to adjust the strap bruising her shoulder and steps out onto the wet concrete, using her left hand to shield her face.

She runs.

It's a scientific fact that running gets you wetter, but she does it anyway. Her legs move to burn off energy long dormant in her boring Monday schedule; classes, classes, study, more classes. She almost slips but regains her balance as she darts around the main science building and through a gaggle of people protesting feline rights. She bumps into a girl who drops her keys and a guy who has no shirt. She doesn't know them, and she keeps going.

Ahead of her is a bridge formed by a walkway between two buildings. She heads for it, aching for shelter even though she knows she can't stay there. She presses her back against the wall, safe and dry but still kidding herself. She has to go through this tunnel. She can't hide away forever.

A guy in a vest comes running from the science block to take cover under the walkway with her. She looks him over once, and he stares at her curiously and offers a grin she does not return. He has pink hair. She's heard him more than she's seen him around. He's loud, but she doesn't know his name. He says something about summer, but she isn't listening. She makes a point to get her iPod out, placing her Heart Kreuz earphones in her ears. The guy frowns at her and whips out his phone. She can hear him speaking to someone, asking to be picked up. He's speaking to his father. He looks distressed. She moves on.

She's almost at the buses when she feels a hand around her shoulders. She starts and is laughed at. It's Jellal, soaked to the bone and grinning, eyes almost completely covered by his fringe. Erza puts on a smile and takes the little winged earphones from her ears.

"Hey," she says, and he squeezes her arm.

"You look sad," he says, concern dimming his expression. "Bad day? The rain?"

She gives him a tired smile and nods. "Rain and classes," she tells him. "Nothing special. Just a Monday."

"Mondays can be special!" he says, with what sounds like promise. She looks past him to the bus that's just pulled up, and the university students that are getting on ahead of her. She should get on with them. But Jellal is right there, and it's so rare for their schedules to work that she should take the chance to talk to him, this boy, this childhood friend of hers that she's admired since as long as she can remember. She tries not to think of how bedraggled she must look.

How is it that he looks so good soaking wet?

He looks over his shoulder at the newly-arrived bus and the tendons in his neck flex attractively, his skin slick and the royal blue of his hair smooth against his nape. She can't help but stare at it, and she's suddenly all too conscious of the strong fingers around her arm. Erza isn't small, but he's always been bigger than her.

"That's my bus," she says lamely. He gives her a guilty look.

"Sorry. I can leave?"

"No," she sighs, leaning her head forward to clunk against his jaw. "Don't do that."

She doesn't have to see his face to know that he's smirking.

"I only wanted to come in for a bit. We don't get to see each other often. I walked."

Erza's mood dips a little more south. "No kidding," she says. Jellal's car is comfortable and stylish. European, with heated seats. His father is part of the Fiore council, and as a result he's very well off. Erza would have relished a drive home – especially now that she would have to wait in the rain for the next bus. She peeks at the departing vehicle from the corner of her eye. Almost forty tired uni students look back at her from the other side of faintly tinted windows. Erza's wet and Jellal's wet. His clothes are damp, and the heat of his skin creates an ugly, lukewarm feeling. Even still, she wants to stay with him.

"When's the next bus come?" he asks. She fumbles for her wallet with pruny fingers, pulling out a timetable. "Half an hour," she tells him, and she goes to sit undercover on a bench. Jellal follows her with his hands in his front pocket, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He doesn't sit but stands instead, leaning against the bus stop wall, head cocked to the side and looking at her. It gives her goosebumps, and she looks away.

"What's up?"

"Nothing."

"You're not acting like you," he tells her, irritated that she tries to lie. "Tell me what's up."

"I'm tired," she replies after a pause. "I'm tired and I'm happy to see you, but it's late, and I want to go home."

He walks to stand in front of her, reaching down to tuck stray, bedraggled hair behind her ear. He lets his fingers linger against the corner of her eye, drags them down her cheek and back up again, smiling a small smile and saying that it was okay. Mondays were lame. It's been a long year, a long month, a long day and she'll be fine, because he's there. She has to keep herself from leaning into it. When it comes to Jellal she's used to keeping him at arm's length. They're friends, and she adores him, and she's much too scared to do anything to change that. On her own she's confident, proud. She can hide behind as many demeanours as she wants. But Jellal spoils her and makes fun of her, completely unafraid. He's her childhood friend. They used to bathe together. She can't hide a single thing from him.

Nor he from her.

She knows exactly how he feels.

Jellal steps closer, gently guiding her forward to rest her head against his naval as he strokes her hair absent-mindedly. A mood is stirring, and the rain, which has momentarily relaxed, begins to bucket down with determination. The whole situation makes Erza all the more tired. She takes a long, deep breath to steel herself and accept that getting home, really, is going to be a bigger inconvenience than it already had been.

With that breath, though, she takes in the smell of him; wet but clean, he smells faintly of some kind of berry, the tang mingling with the scent of cotton and the faint remnants of that morning's deodorant. And under that is just him. It's familiar, and for a minute she stops feeling soaked and miserable. He's her shelter.

But it's thoughts like this that have jeopardised her relationships lately. She shuts her eyes, water beading on her eyelashes, and she takes a breath through her mouth this time, because she knows that this peace won't last after she speaks.

"Have you talked to Simon yet?"

At first he ignores the question. His stomach tightens, so she knows he's heard it, but he does not reply. He doesn't want to talk about things like that. Obsessed with freedom, Jellal immaturely – or, perhaps maturely – avoids the things he does not like. But Erza can't stand them fighting.

"Answer me," she says, and he steps away.

He looks at her a moment, water dripping off his fringe to slide down his nose, straight and unblemished, where it lingers and falls, dissolving into the fabric of his hoodie. Then he turns to look at the rain, pelting at the ground with a vengeance, and he steps out into it.

It sleets at a sharp angle, and it must feel like ice needles against his skin as he gives her one more pointed look and pulls his hoodie up, over his head, raising his face to the sky and standing there in silence as she sits and watches him, unable to recall her train of thought with the sight of his body before her. It's lightly tanned, sculpted, tight and strong and defined. His Adam's apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, and the scarlet tattoo down his face shines from under the contrasting colour of his hair. He turns to her and says, "Come here."

"You're being stupid," she says, blushing, but he just holds a hand out to her and waits like he knows she'll come.

And she does.

Of course she does.

His right hand goes to her left hip and he guides her close. He holds her, abdomen pressing against hers, and he angles his head and stares at her steadily. It makes her want to look away, and some part of her registers that things aren't going to go the way she wants.

"You should get out of those wet clothes," he says, and she goes to hit his chest. He catches her, though, and he lets loose this no-nonsense look as he says, "Erza. Come on."

And she even considers it for a moment. Then she steps away.

"People will see!" she scowls. "Girls don't get to walk around doing that sort of thing."

"You can do what you want," he shrugs, "it's a free country," and the rise and fall of his collarbones is breathtaking. She uses the adrenaline and channels it into discipline. Her eyes narrow and she pulls away.

"Don't change the subject," she snaps, running a hand through her hair to clear her face. "Answer my question."

"What question?"

"Simon," she scowls. "Why aren't you two talking anymore?"

Jellal gives her the disdainful look that she sees him give others often, that she's seen him give to more and more of his friends lately. He looks at her like she doesn't get it. Like she doesn't get him. Like it's glaringly obvious and she's scum for not knowing what they won't tell her.

And on some level she deserves it, because she has her suspicions. She just doesn't want to believe that she's the reason the rift between her two closest friends exists at all.

"If you have to ask," he says, "you don't deserve to know." As if that is enough to satisfy her, he suddenly grins and dips his head forwards, rubbing their noses together. "But who cares about that loser, anyway! How are you getting home? I could skip work and drive you, if you wanted?"

"Don't do that," she says, chiding him with a frown, letting the loser comment slide for the moment. "Your boss will get angry."

"My boss is my father's bitch," Jellal snorts. "I won't get fired."

"Your father will get angry."

"Why is it you're always worrying about guys other than me?" he murmurs, and in a moment that plays out in slow motion before her his lids droop low over dark green eyes, his hands reach out to close gently but firmly around her upper arms, and he presses his lips to hers in a kiss that stops her heart and changes her world completely.

She's aware of everything. Her eyes are open, his hair is tangled in her lashes, his lips are soft, the inside of his mouth is hot and damp. His hands are slipping against her arms, she can feel his nails against her skin. She doesn't know where to move or what to do, and in the four seconds they're connected she tries to think about what would happen as a result of his boldness. She can think of a hundred things - difficulties, benefits, pros and cons - but Simon is the real thing she worries about. How would he feel? What would he do? Would doing this hurt him?

And so she pushes Jellal away.

She glares at him, hurt, offended, guilty, awkward, all the things she seems to be around the two of them – Jellal and Simon - even if she tries so hard to be different. She's still that awkward princess with two gallant knights who care for her, even if she wants everyone to think she's strong, a queen. Jellal tries to kiss her again and she goes to break away, even as his grip becomes tighter. She struggles and their lips make contact, there is rain in her throat and in her eyes, suddenly there is no feeling of shelter, she's been forced into the storm after the temporary respite he'd given her, and she's suddenly so desperate to get him away that she breaks free and slaps him, hard, across his left cheek.

And he stops.

He goes deadly silent, deadly still, and it's eerie for someone whose whole attitude is usually – to her – so benevolent. If he's now the storm, she is now smack bam stuck in the eye, and for the first time in nineteen years, he scares her.

She starts to mutter out an apology but he's staring right through her face. She breaks off mid-phrase. They stare at each other, and students, having finished classes, begin to head towards the bus stop. Erza hears people talking about them. About him. The breadth of his back and the definition of his shoulder blades. The white, branded waistband just visible above his jeans that hugs his jutting hips. She says his name and his expression snaps from carefully neutral to fierce and he says, "Fine. I get it," as he lets her go ungently, and turns on his heel.

He takes off, holding his shirt and hoodie and she tries to follow but slips in the rain, her ankle twisting beneath her. He hesitates for a moment but keeps running, weaving between people and heading off up the road, disappearing into the surrounding trees. Erza manages to stand up again, shakes off the pain of her ankle, runs, remembers her bag on the seat, returns for it, and sprints as fast as she can off after him.

He is wearing boots, and he has the advantage over the stick, twig and bramble obstacles amongst the trees. The small host of vegetation is cut through by a dirty-white concrete path which leads to Magnolia Oval, where the local football team Fairy Tail plays. If Jellal were to head off in a different direction he would meet face to face with the freeway, so he runs off the beaten track but in a similar direction. If he crosses the oval, and takes a right along the beach path, he'll make it back to the office his father arranged for him to work in.

But Erza knows where that is.

He can't see well through the rain – it pours hard even amongst the trees – but he can hear her calling for him. He isn't interested in explaining himself. He shouldn't have to. She's the girl he's given his best friend for, and he knows he's overreacting; typically, this isn't like him, but the reality of his rejection, the certainty in his mind that things really wouldn't be the same now drives him forwards. Unused to getting what he wants he thinks they deserve each other, Simon and Erza. Jellal's never lacked for female companionship, after all.

But what does she see in him?

Jellal knows Simon better than most. He knows he's clever, strong, dependable, sturdy and sensible, with a wicked dry sense of humour. He will do anything for Erza. He's taller than Jellal, stronger, too, when it comes to brute strength. But he's...

Frustrated, Jellal stops in his tracks, skidding a little and halting himself by grabbing on to the trunk of a tree. He growls and punches it, cocks his head like a hunted animal before remembering what his father – as much as he hates the old man – has told him for the vast majority of his life. Turn the tables. Go on the attack. Don't be the prey be the predator,and he waits there by that tree to catch his breath.

When Erza comes past he grabs her and swings her around, pinning her to the tree. The look in her eyes is exhilarating for one part of him, her heavy breathing exciting for another. The rain isn't so bad now but there are birds above them in the leaves, knocking the foliage aside as they flit and watch the couple. Erza tells him to let go and just talk to her, but Jellal wants an answer to one question, so he tells her to choose.

"Me or him?" he asks, discarding the clammy cloth he's kept rolled around his forearm. "Choose. Now."

"Why are you being like this?" she demands, defiant and upset. Her ankle hurts and there are twigs in her hair. Sticky barbs cling to her red woollen vest, now soaked and entirely uncomfortable. Her tights have mud on them. Her skirt – made for show and not for action – is twisted so that the zipper up the side cuts down the front of her thigh. Her hair is repulsive. She knows she must look awful but there's more important things to worry about.

"Choose," Jellal repeats stubbornly, answering a question with an order. "Now. This has been going on too long. I'm sick of it."

"So am I!"

"You can't keep stringing us -" He curses himself – "can't keep stringing me along like this. You should already know, but I'm going to tell you." He pauses and licks his lips. The rain lets up almost completely for a minute, so much so that Erza feels the faintest touch of warmth hit her from between the branches. She's only looking him in the eye because she's terrified to move. She doesn't want to hear what's coming, but she has to, because he's her friend. That's what friends do.

Jellal takes a deep breath, and it's almost shaky. It's like suddenly he's this real person in front of her, an equal and not a hero on a pedestal. She'd crushed on him in the early years of their friendship, and ever since subconsciously she's seen him as something unattainable, some wondrous force of life, untamed, wild, taking her on adventures and making her laugh, showing her new things, places, people and sparing no expense. Once upon a time she would have been happy to hear the words, "Erza Scarlet. I love you."

But now she can only stare at him with her mouth partly open, frozen with shock as he searches her face desperately for something that says, "I love you too." And she sees him panic, now, because he can't find it. The rain starts again, harder than ever, and it breaks the miserable silence that follows his statement as if they are being watched by some otherworldly being with a real sense for drama.

Then he smiles, and she thinks for a minute that she's back under cover again, that everything will be okay, but he shakes his head and sighs and she realises that he's laughing at himself. Not for how stupid he's being, but for how stupid he thinks he is for thinking that she'd feel the same.

"Fine. Alright," he says eventually. "I've done all that I can do. We crossed a line here this evening, didn't we?"

She nods dumbly, and listening to him speak is like riding a train you know will crash.

"We're friends," she chokes out. He winces, still smiling ruefully.

"Because that's what I wanted to hear," he sighs, flippant. "Well, it doesn't matter. I know how you feel. I thought that maybe... But I guess not."

"I'm sorry," she whispers, wishing she were stronger. "I want us to be like normal. With Simon, too. We've been friends for almost two decades, we can't let it fall apart because of something so -"

"What?"

"Trivial," she scowls. "Something so trivial."

He blinks, and birds above them start calling out as the rain slows to a spit.

"So that's what you think of us?"

"No -"

"Simon and I are fighting for something we believe in."

"That's not what I -"

"I thought I would be with you forever, Erza," he says softly, searching her face like it was new to him. "But I guess not." He wipes the hair from off his forehead with one hand, and she can see the full length of his tattoo. He looks to his left, where Magnolia Oval can be seen between a gap in the trees. It's half flooded, submerged, nobody would be playing on it that weekend.

"Jellal, don't -"

"I've got to get to work... Erza?"

"Y-Yeah?"

"Don't follow me."

And he leaves her there in tears.

xxxxx

By the time Simon's rickety old car pulls up to the gloomy, deserted bus stop, she has cried herself out.

She's sure she's come down with a cold. She sniffs and sneezes, and her clothes are wet and lukewarm against her skin, woollen vest heavy and itchy and dense. She's stupid for sitting there just wearing it.

Flies and gnats emerging from under cover dart at and around her face. She can't stand the humidity. She wants to go home, see Rob, make herself something warm to eat. She wants to get in the shower and wash today away, this dreadful, despicable Monday that was never going to go well. She hadn't wanted to call Simon, but the buses had stopped, and others had commitments.

He hadn't been bothered, of course.

He'd come straight away.

She knows that the feeling she has - that he hates her - is silly and delusional. But she feels guilty when she looks at him, grinning from an unwound window, his scraggly beanie clinging to the mussy feature that is his brown hair. She feels guilty because his best friend kissed her only an hour or two ago, and maybe she should have tried harder to push him away. She promised herself whilst reading the romance books she does that if she was in the position of the heroine, she would never hurt her friends with something as awful as a love triangle.

And yet.

Simon frowns at the expression on her face and turns off the ignition, his brake grinding in its box like the hunk of junk it is. He shoves the door open and gets to his feet, tall, giantesque, and perfect for hugging, she thinks, as he envelops her in arms as wide around as her thighs. He tells her to take off her vest – "That thing can't be comfortable, Erza, come on," and takes off his own khaki jacket. Without looking at the pink and black lace beneath her see-through white blouse, he drapes it around her, untucking her hair from the collar and grinning lopsidedly, one eyebrow cocked as if to say, "What did you think you were doing, you silly girl?"

She doesn't want to say anything important, but she can also see he's worried. She'll tell him everything later, but for now she comments on the castle-edged beard he's styled around his jaw – a new addition, he tells her, laughing. He says he thinks it suits him and she agrees. "At least it makes you look more mature," she grins half heartedly, and he returns in a flash with, "Like you're one to talk," he says, cheeky. "Drowned rat is so last year."

And she laughs for real.

And she realises that being with Simon feels like she's home. There's no impending doom. She doesn't have to go out into the rain or the storm. There's no feeling that she has to move on, that she won't be safe. She ponders the meaning of all of this as she walks to his car, stretches, settles and kicks off her sodden boots in the passenger seat.

"I love you, Simon," she says tiredly, platonically. "So don't ever change."