Of Summer Day and Night
I
He looked at her like she was his whole world, and if the universe let him he'd have made her just that, but whatever mystical force that runs the world won't listen to his silent pleads.
So he watches and he watches.
Trying to drink in and soak up every detail about her, starting from each strand of her golden blonde hair down to her bare feet, her milk-white toes ruffling between the blades of grass. The man gives a low sigh, letting out an air of both awe and…something else…something sadder…something like the longing of a hopeless man. Because he could climb the hill she's on, no sweat, but he won't, not when the moonlight shines and illuminates her.
One step there and he's a goner.
After all, he is a man of summer day and he is no fool. His whole body depends on the sun and she is the woman of summer night, her whole being depends on the moon; his sworn enemy, his polar opposite, but at the same time, he likes to think of it as his other half.
They are always separated by the light of sun and moon, by the threat of life turned to death. All he gets is a brief view of her atop the hill she frequents, a single sakura tree glowing behind her, however not as radiant, never as radiant as her. But the mere sight of her is all he needs to fall in love with her again and again, day after agonizing day.
And to think, he's never even had a single conversation with the woman.
When the sun sets and the moon rises, when sun and moon share the same sky for five minutes, is his only chance to see her, watch her bring up the shining white celestial object as he unconsciously sets his own, but boy does he take his time.
She raises it. No theatrics needed, though the man of summer day can't say he hasn't thought of the physics of raising a celestial object millions upon millions of light years away; but he has always been rubbish at physics so he chooses to ignore the question. Then she stands there, the wind gushing past her but she pays no heed to the cold, instead she just stares-almost hypnotized by her very creation-with her knitted brows in doubt if she actually made that brilliant silver plate, or maybe in absolute peaceful concentration. She gazes at it, so immersed, so transfixed that she doesn't even realize that she's shimmering herself, even more so than the moon and sun combined. But the man of summer day notices, notices enough for it to actually hurt.
The man of summer day smacks his forehead with a tanned calloused palm at the stupidity and hopelessness he seems to always end up with.
Let's get the facts straight:
He doesn't know her but he loves her. She doesn't know him and she definitely doesn't love him.
Where is the logic in that? He questions his mind, looking through the files of his limited knowledge for a reasonable answer but his search is for naught because love is not logical. Love cannot be reasoned in and out and he knows this. The man knows this, but the aching and heaviness of his heart compels him to try, time and time again.
He ruffles his naturally askew pink hair, the sound blending in as leaves rustle around him in a cold night breeze. He shouldn't expose himself under moonlight for too long or he'll turn to stone, but his heart begins to plead as it always does.
Just one more glance. Just one more look before the time runs dry. And he concedes again-as he always does-to the begging desperate child that is his heart and imprinted the memory of the girl of his dreams, of his affections and of his heart ache in his mind and soul. Now all he wanted was to go home, close his eyes and see her, be with her the only way he can, in the world of his wildest dreams.
"Until next time" He whispers, imagining that she can hear him, that he's been talking to her this whole time. It may seem even more pathetic to an outsider's eye but whatever, he needs the deluded comfort. His gaze stays longingly at her before he disappears into the night, the hood of his cloak covering his salmon hair, protecting him from the light of the moon that is his enemy, but is the very creation of the woman he holds most dear. How the world is cruel like that, but cruelty can be beautiful, is beautiful.
And the man decided long ago that life is cruel, she is cruel.
The woman remains oblivious to all this but as a whisper in the wind drifts through her ears; her head jerks to her left, alarmed and curious, but all she catches is a blur of what she assumes is a pink cherry blossom and a shadow fading away from a cluster of trees. She stares after it, her heart weirdly calls out to the shadow, urges it whatever it is -to turn around and come back to her, but her confusion and ignorance makes her think nothing more of it.
She gives off a light shrug and goes back to staring up at her baby, her creation up in the sky where she put it, the stars encircling it like the moon's a magnet and the stars are helpless paper clips.
She flashes a satisfied smirk at her work; every night she does this, loves this and it's never the same.
Like a snowflake, the place and artistry of the moon is unique, catering to Lucy's crave for constant change. The moon is a little to the left today, and its maker decided to leave the rest of the sky cloudless, the stars taking the stage with the crescent moon, peppering the sky tonight than in contrast to the last.
No one really appreciates it when I let the clouds roam. Of course not! Because nobody knows a seventeen year old girl brings out the moon every summer night! The blonde haired girl lets out a breath at her self-chastisement before turning on her heel and climbing down the hill with a skip to her every step, barely batting an eyelash at her conscience. How she loves the night, both before she decorates it and after. Though the sun is warm, bright and beautiful, there was just something about the night sky that struck a cord with the girl who has raised up the moon for as long as she can remember.
Something hauntingly beautiful and serene in the moon lit light-add in the fact that she can't stay under the sun for too long or she'll turn to stone in the mix-makes it crystal clear to her and everyone else that the night was special to her, her love even. And she wants so much for that to be enough, but there that constant twinge in the pit of her stomach that tells her something's missing, something important but all the same, something completely beyond explanation.
Why do I feel like this? What is this nagging feeling twisting at the back of my heart? These questions were typical of her as she balanced on the stone-cut ledge of the canal that led to her house, but the universe seems to like ignoring the questions she whispers to the wind on the peak of her hill (as she took to claiming it).
She breathed out a sigh, the second sigh of the day-err, night that makes her frown. She's usually a cheerful person, despite not leaving the house most of the days of summer. Although there is this feeling that overflows inside her at least once a day, the feeling of a certain random forlornness. Her friends say it's just a bout of loneliness that she -along with everyone else, they reiterated more than once- is bound to get because she has lived alone since her parents died when she was very young.
However, in a way she can't begin to explain, she knows she is not alone in this -whatever this is because no one really went about explaining this whole rising the moon shit to her. And that gut feeling gives the blonde woman some comfort, some hope.
For she was no fool either. She knows that if she raises the moon, then there is someone in this big bad lonely world that raises the sun. Someone who is just like her. And she was going to find out who.
Footnotes
I will not play too roughly with the Fairy Tail characters and bring them all back in one piece, so don't worry about copyrights.
Thought I'd try at a Fairy Tail AU. Only thing that can be rest assured of this fic is that it'll be magic-y like the original, the rest is top secret.