Not much to say, except that the angst potential of Grayza has entrapped me. I regret nothing.
This is wrong.
This is wrong—but god, his mind goes numb when she wraps her arms around his waist, when she whimpers painfully from the hole in her heart, when her tears stick to his bare chest and they roll down his chest, leaving chilly trails of goosebumps and raised hairs down his flushed skin.
"E-Erza," he stutters, as if he caught the hitch in her saddened breaths.
He stands there, wide-eyed and naïve. He doesn't know how to make her feel better; he never tried. The last time he saw her cry was by a riverbank over ten years ago, and even in the decade that passed since he has been at her side, he still hasn't figured out how to stop her tears.
Is it the time to learn? Is it the time to learn now that—
"He's gone, he's gone," she repeats, like a mantra—but it doesn't calm her down. "He's gone."
So he brings his arms around her, cocoons her from the world.
He vows, in this moment, to help her as she falls and as she tries to stand back up; to protect her from the harsh realities and from the broken dreams; to comfort her through life after a death and through death of a life.
"I never got to kiss him. I never got to tell him that I love him," she confesses.
He closes his eyes, calmly breathing in and out, thinking of what next to do, what was right to do. He feels her shuddering breath against his collarbone, feels her tremble as she tries to keep herself together, feels her tightly clutching him—so hard that there is no chance he is leaving her.
She is hurt. Again. And it has been at least minute since she has been standing here in his arms and he still doesn't know how to heal her broken soul.
So he holds her face in his hands and looks at her, in the same way that he imagined he would hold and cherish her.
This is his first mistake.
"I'm sorry, Erza," he says. "I know he meant everything to you."
Her glassy gaze is too intense for him to maintain eye contact with, so he shifts his point of view to her fiery locks of her hair. Even her hair seems to burn a less passionate red, burning like slow embers desperate to stay alive.
He catches a strand of her hair and lets the scarlet silk run between his forefingers, in the same way that he imagined he would treasure and remember her name.
This is his second mistake.
His fingers reach the ends of her straight-cut tresses and he is left, with his hand hanging in the air, latching onto nothing but the tension-saturated air around them.
He can't bear to look at his twitching fingers—empty, limp, helpless—when she needs his comfort but settles for his unaccommodating nature.
So he looks back at her red-rimmed eyes and he sees his reflection pooling in the crystal tears in them.
He can't bear to look at that either, so he closes his eyes, shutting out the world around them. He leans forward and finds his lips crashing against hers and he doesn't snap back, in the same way that he imagined he would kiss her.
And this is his third and final fall.
She isn't surprised, and she doesn't falter from his arms. She takes a breath in, sucking in air while she adjusts her lips, before she tiptoes forwards and circles the base of his neck with her hands.
She is fire.
The slow burning embers catch a breath of air and they are suddenly alight with newfound energy. There is a new source of passion, a new source of fuel, and she eats him up like a dry forest itching to be set afire.
He doesn't stop her. He doesn't put her out.
He doesn't know who is taking advantage of who. He doesn't know who is feeding who.
But he doesn't want to think. He just wants to feel.
And it is wrong.
Wrong for his hands to circle her waist and pull her close—as if that is what she needs when it's really just what he wants.
Wrong for his lips to travel between her collarbones—as if he would whisper comforting words and bandage her heart with soft kisses.
Wrong for his hips to shelve her thighs and slide between her legs—as if he could make her feel so good that she would forget everything.
It is so wrong.
But when she says his name—cries out his name instead of the other in the throes of her pleasure, in the ache of her heart—he can't help but think that what he's doing is right along.
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