MISERY IS THE EASY WAY OUT OF THE STORM

She comes in like the storm. The familiarly soft tinkle of the bell above the front door is thunder as she passes through. Her spun-sunshine hair is ironically drenched lack-luster by heavy rain and trailing droplets of its own. Her footsteps on the wooden floor echo across the room, but as loud as they are, she already has everybody's rapt attention. She's got all these eyes on her that she completely ignores as she plops loudly onto a bar stool. She orders after a puff of air that's all hot and bothered.

"Beer, flat. And keep a barrel on standby."

He thinks everything about her is too loud. His ears have been on edge already with the sudden storm but another one comes right at him in the form of a small hot blonde number. He instantly regrets covering for Sting on this day of all days. He rolls his eyes as she waves for his attention (like she hasn't had enough of that already).

"Hello? Yoo-hoo~ Paying customer over here!"

She bristles as he plops down the glass he was wiping down with a start. Her spidery senses are whispering into her ear a little tall of hatred and misery coming from this bartender. She narrows her eyes in annoyance as he slowly turns around to face her. She doesn't miss out on the irritated sigh he lets out as he appraises her. Her arms evidently move to defense and cross. Her efforts are put into turning her chocolate eyes into steel. She effectively decides taht won't ignore this atmosphere, she's going to make it her bitch. After all, instant dislike begets itself, tenfold.

"Airbud Light okay with you?"

"The name's a bit redundant but I can swallow it."

"A simple yes would have been enough."

"What can I say, I like to waste my breath."

"Suit yourself."

"I will, thank you."

He passes her the glass slowly because he only knows one thing, the pace agonizes her. He scrutinizes her, and he's done this enough times to be able to will his one good eye to perfectly articulate his doubt and judgement at her character (what little he knows of it anyway). As always, there is a tiny bit of conscience (which is oddly personified by his cat, Frosch) at the back of his head that warns him against this toe-to-toe with this perfect stranger. But there is something in the glint of her warm eyes and puckered lips (all signs that point to trying too hard) that calls out to him. The voice tells him not so delicately, Act like a fucking child with me.

"Since we've got a good half hour before you pass that drink to me, why don't I cut right to the chase. What the fuck is your problem with me?"

She says it with as much brute force she can muster. She was never really good at purposely being mean but previous events, the stupid storm and his equally stupid smug face have forced her hand. She silently seethes as the glass plops before her and he remains stoically silent. One of her rules for living has always been to find the rainbow hidden in everybody's eyes. But the one red eye he lets her see into tells her discretely, There's still a storm raging in here.

"I'm sorry?"

He knows she knows that he heard her just fine and that he won't apologize for anything. He perks up in delight when she visibly stiffens. He thinks, as a light smirk plays at the corners of his lips, she is the image of what a wound up rabid bunny would look like. It is with force that he shuts down the thought that she might look a little cute like that before it starts to poison him. Too late.

"Oh no. Hell no. You are not going to get away with ignorance on this. You don't know who you're messing with."

"I'm sorry?"

"Stop! Stop with the same one word answers that - by mere chance only - seem to fit in the context."

"I'm sorry."

"Wow, bravo! Pat yourself on the back for that one! You think you're some smart piece of shit, don't you? Well I'll have you know that I've kicked ass fleshier and meatier than yours so if I were you, I'd watch that behind and that smart ass mouth!"

"I'm sorry!"

You will not smile at how smart that actually was. She wills herself to be frustrated at it, but can only hollowly express it in a rehearsed groan. She slams both hands on the bar for added emphasis. Despite her efforts, she knows he sees her smiling eyes and must think that she's at least mildly impressed with him. But the little eyefuck they do instead of talk is enough to make her feel uncomfortable. She clamors for anything to change the subject; a sinkhole, a streak of lightning striking down on his arrogant pretty face - anything at all. She settles on his name tag.

"What kind of name is Rogue anyway?"

You do not think she's funny - ha! Funny-looking more like. He searches her face desperately for any discrepancy, any flaw at all that he can isolate and focus his shallow hatred on before it slips away from him; any bit of asymmetry, an eyelash on the cheek, a stray booger on the upper lip - he'll take literally anything. He breathes out a little heavier through the nose, which is basically noiseless (but dangerous) laughter for him. And when he catches her eye, he knows he's screwed beyond redemption. But he can't shake off this tingling feeling that maybe it'd all be worth something in the end.

"The kind that fits shady people working in shady bars talking to other shady people, perfectly."

You cannot acknowledge that cute little thing he did instead of laugh, you just can't. She refuses to embrace the growing feeling the maybe she's attracted to him (and to some lesser extent, he to her). But then she stares a little too deep into the honesty in his eye and humility in the fleeting smile he sends her. She internally melts. The reservoir has broken down and the crash of feelings, goosepimples and an innate impulse to giggle uncontrollably roars at her ears. She has to physically shake herself out of her mind and reacquaint herself to the conversation she started in the first place.

"I don't think you're shady!"

"I think it's shady that you don't think so."

"But really, what is shady beyond the context of trees?"

"Shady is who you become when misery is all you have left."

"We don't have the same dictionary then, because the only thing mine says is something about trees."

"I guess I need to read from your dictionary more often."

He hates himself a little - and her a little more - for how he slides so tragically into conversation with her. He offers her a smile he hasn't given anyone in ages too simply - without putting up enough of a fight. So he takes a random glass (he barely registers the slurred 'Hey!' that follows) and focuses all his energy in wiping off every bit of its imaginary dirt. Because Frosch be damned before he starts falling for the tricks of another blonde bimbo.

"You clam up very easily. Do you not want yourself to be happy?"

She hates herself for not biting down hard enough on her tongue when the words stumble out of her. It is what she thinks, she won't deny that, but the stony atmosphere that follows makes her instantly regret. She curses under her breath for the questions she could never leave unsatisfied. Maybe it's all because she knows she can't answer them on her own and she so desperately craves answers.

"Not really. It's more of, I don't know who I would be if I were happy."

He hates that he gives her an honest answer. But he's mostly confused why he seems to instantly trust her with the deeply fucked up masochism that dominates the narrative of his self-perception. And he'll go on the record (albeit reluctantly), that a part of him is a little excited for what all these impulses strung together and bursting out of him in word farts of truth might lead up to. Everything spins in his head, and he feels that he's been holding out on himself for this moment precisely. Because fuck, she's touching his hand and he's got to put down the glass before he drops it.

"You won't believe me because it's been said too many times, but I understand. Misery is so easy to slip into."

"What do you really know about misery, Sunshine Barbie?"

"I know how to get out of it."

"That's bullshi-"

"It might be. It might be just bullshit in the end, but doesn't a part of you at least ache to try?"

"Frosch be damned - I mean…fuck - not that I mean fuck but…okay, yes."

"Well then, you're in luck because I just so happen to be free for dinner tomorrow at that Italian place next door. We'll start making happy from there. Oh and my name's not Sunshine Barbie by the way, it's Lucy and it's been an absolute pleasure."

WARNING!AUTHOR'S NOTE AHEAD!READ AT THE RISK OF BOREDOM!

First the technicals, I do not own Fairy Tail and (insert all the applicable disclaimer phrases here). Alright, let's get down to it!

Hai. I'm a little shit who never updates and leaves half-baked ideas for the rest of the internet to point and snicker at. So as the ultimate penance, here's a complete set of drabbles. I start off with Rolu (sorry if it wasn't specified on the character list, that four character limit is a bitch). I fell in love with the idea of Lucy as Miss Sunshine and Rogue as Mister Misery, a Postercouple for functioning dysfunction.

But I digress terribly. If you pay attention to this at all please note that I'm not updating or publishing any stories from this account anymore. I don't like how the content I create here make me inwardly cringe and are really just thoughtless writing (that's not fair for you as a reader and me as an aspiring writer). Frankly, this is all for cleansing some bad juju out of me and looking to brighter and bigger things. From a new account (one I haven't a name for yet) I'll explore other fandoms and writing techniques.

At the end of it all, I just hope you enjoy this little drabble whoever you are. If this makes you smile, I'll consider it a victory because by golly gee! you look radiant and glittering when you do, and as a present to the rest of the universe, please find reasons to smile more everyday.

You've reached the end of this note and I can't thank you enough for doing just that, they'll be one more to anticipate at the end of this collection. Tah till then!