Unwanted

Of all his guilt-ridden nightmares – all reoccurring, of course because fuck sleep – he hated the oldest the most. Not really because it was the oldest, there were worse deeds that weighed down his unconscious conscience, but because it was the one that shaped him.

He could usually tell when one was coming. Triggered by certain smells, sounds, fights, dates, or absolutely anytime Salamander brought up his father.

Bastard.

Just the word stirred up enough anger to cause his stomach to fill with acid. It made him want to vomit rage, and he usually took care of the problem by initiating a fight or two. Good thing there were willing opponents, equal in power, now. In the past, before Fairy Tail, they hadn't been fights, they'd been slaughters.

Which also came back to him as nightmares on occasion, but were still better than that other shit.

Since the games … no, since the dragon "festival", his sleep was plagued more and more frequently. Lily was concerned, but said nothing. He couldn't ask for a better partner.

He flexed his shoulders, trying to release some of the stress and tension. It didn't work. Several of the men in the guild had – for some reason he missed, thankfully – put on dresses and were dancing on the stage. Pending nightmare or not, it seemed there were worse things to watch. He nodded to Lily and made his way out of the madness, hoping not to get caught in it.

It was cold out, but he didn't mind. He'd grown up in a mountain cave quite a bit north of Magnolia, and cold wind was something of a comfort to him. Though, he didn't actually like to think of it as being a comfort. Not that he minded hot weather! He'd spent a couple of years on the southern cost after Metalicana betrayed-

Betrayed.

He felt guilty, and he hadn't even said the word aloud. Ever since meeting Salamander face-to-face, he tried not to think it at all, and it had only gotten worse after meeting the sky dragon slayer.

Mother.

How either of them could use those goddamn words...

He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the distinctly depressing line of his mood, but closing them made it easier to catch the whistle of the wind, and his own metallic piercings carried the scent so similar to that of the iron ore found deep in the cave he had once called home.

Home.

Yeah. Tonight was going to be bad. He hated being assaulted by memories of his childhood. It only reminded him of how far he fell after leaving that mountain, that cave, that home.

He couldn't say how long he'd waited, alone, wondering when the great, shining jackass would come back. He remembered being hungry. There had been plenty of iron, but it had been a hot summer, and game had been scarce. Even more than usual. Rabbits and deer not being overfond of wandering into a dragon's territory. It was why he had thought the bastard had gone: To get food.

But days passed, and he never came back.

He remembered the hollowness he had felt when he realized that it wasn't a dinner run. The dragon wouldn't be coming ho- wouldn't be coming back. For years – seven, in fact – he'd managed to convince himself that it was hunger, that feeling. Hunger and fuck-all rage.

He was almost to the point, now, where he could admit the truth of that empty ache, which was centered not in his stomach, not in hunger, but slightly higher in his body, and worlds deeper in his-

Fuck.

Probably better to pull an all-nigher than to face the nightmare that would come if he even attempted sleeping.

Back then, he'd come down the mountain, pockets and bags filled with iron ore and all of the precious metals he could find. Killing the first few mammals he came across, and no few birds; though, birds were an absolute pain in the ass to dress and generally didn't have enough meat to be worth plucking. (He preferred deer; his Iron Dragon Sword wasn't exactly thin, and he didn't make a neat butcher. Deer had more meat, so it was okay if the hide didn't come off cleanly.) That solved the hunger problem, but did very little to dull the rage or that other painful feeling he never gave a name to.

Filling the hollow, sating his rage, pleasure. His goals had been simple ones, and they had carried him far in the world. Eventually he'd been discovered by a man who paid him to destroy. He told himself that he'd never been happier.

Shit, he'd been one hell of a liar. And also a gullible, self-indulgent asshole.

He opened his eyes as he opened his door, and groaned.

Home.

He still couldn't believe he called it that, and had since the second he signed the lease. A month after getting the Fairy Tail stamp. A one-year lease. He had never felt so stupid. And it had been years since he had actually felt so … content. Not even happy, but comfortable. He'd spent the first night in his new apartment bent over his toilet, certain that he was sick. It was the only explanation he had for the rolling feeling in his gut.

He'd forgotten what it felt like, home.

Which is when it really hit him, one memory while standing over the clean, just-rented toilet. It was months, years, ago, but he could still feel it. Like a battering ram to his balls.

One memory. One simple memory. Chuckling while sliding from a great height, landing on his ass on a bed of soft leaves, looking up, and being blinded by a glaring light. Behind the silver shining brightness (home, home, home) there was a low, hissing beat that made him smile. That made him laugh, to echo that light hiss. That reminded him not only had he once known the same sort of home, he'd also known something that might be described as joy.

At that point, he had vomited.

He shook his head, trying to shake things loose, to shake things out. Over seven actual years since he joined the guild, which felt like almost one (stupid fucking timeskip), plus seven years of solitude before that … you'd think he'd have gotten used to all the bullshit. You'd think he would have moved on. He thought he had moved on.

But he hadn't, and that feeling of getting his balls crushed was only getting worse. The little girl and that old healer bitch, who lived in the woods … a mirror of her dragon, only, but it was something. That goddamn fire dragon at the capitol. Uncle. Uncle, for fuck's sake! Knew Salamander's dragon's name. Knew him and spoke of him, as if he were real. Not a memory held by one, but a knowledge held by another. And that wasn't even counting that goddamn ugly protective scarf thing the annoying bastard wore.

He avoided the bed, tossing off clothes as he walked further into his apartment, and locked himself in the bathroom. He turned on the shower as hot as it would go, and stood under it, too drained of energy to bother with soap or shampoo or movement.

It was like when he found out the two of them had cats and he didn't. Why? Why did they have these things, these proofs, these … bloody fucking keepsakes; god he hated the word. Sounded prissy as all shit, but they had something to hold on to, and he had nothing. Nothing but memories and his power. And for years he had cast the memories aside, as poison.

He stood under the water for almost an hour before finally turning it off. He didn't know why he'd gotten in the thing in the first place. The wet heat left his body quickly, but he felt no desire to leave the shower. In fact, he leaned against the wall, pressing his forehead to the tile.

He inhaled, filling his lungs, and then exhaled in a long sigh, trying to rid himself of the oppressive weight. But a sigh wasn't going to cut it. Last year (seven last years ago, fucking timeskip) it hadn't mattered, he hadn't known.

Now he did. And it would take more than a sigh.

"Happy birthday, you giant bastard. I'd say, hope you're safe, but clear as shit that you're not." He snorted, "If you're even still alive. I..."

But he couldn't finish it, couldn't say the words he wanted most to say. Couldn't say he was sorry for thinking he'd disappeared and abandoned him for no good reason. Couldn't say he was sorry for not ever looking, searching, like the others had. Couldn't say... couldn't say... couldn't say how hard it was being alone because his pride forced him to believe it was easy. All he had was himself and he had to think he was capable of doing what needed to be done.

Couldn't say that even now, what felt like seven years and was actually fourteen, he missed him.

"Fucking asshole."

Him? Metalicana? The world? Who knew.

He reached for a towel to wrap around his hair, and another to wrap around his waist. In his bedroom he traded towel for pants, and dried off his hair enough not to sling water at the furniture when he turned his head.

In the kitchen, he sat at the table and began to tinker with some of the scraps he had let pile up. He was tired, but the idea of sleeping and facing that nightmare would keep him awake. There was nothing worse than waking up after he had one.

Nothing worse than waking up after being forced to recall what it felt like to fly while sitting on top of the most fearful and powerful creature in creation, what it felt like to touch that breathing metal after it sat baking in the summer sunlight or the winter frost, how comfortable a metal claw could be when you were worn past exhaustion after running up and down and around a mountain for hours, laughing. Laughing and not alone.

Nothing worse than waking up and realizing he was still a fuckup, and his father was still gone.

Author's Note: So, I had a thought today that basically worked out to, What if Gajeel had the same sort of relationship with his dragon that Natsu and Wendy did, but was too gruff to own up to it. Sure, early on Gajeel doesn't talk about Metalicana with the same vocabulary or softness that Natsu and Wendy do, but his recent "our dragons" comments seem calmer, and – though he didn't say anything – he looked pretty upset by the Third-Gens killing their own dragons. Granted, that could have been "holy shit, they did what? But dragons are so powerful!", but I'm looking at him and wondering if he wasn't saddened and horrified and angered by the fact, just as Natsu was.

Anyhow, this was mushy Gajeel, which I don't think is as OOC as some might. Anyone who can cry over the presence of his best friend, can feel sorrow about the loss of a parent, I think. So, this is that.