A/N- You know, I'm really not sure why I'm doing this. I guess I just want to have a dump spot for my Laxana drabbles. These ideas either aren't good enough to warrant an entire story, or they're too short (like this chapter. I would LOVE to write this as a story, but I'm not sure how to make it longer without ruining the effect. If you've got suggestions, TELL ME, PLEASE).

But they were ideas that I really liked.

Most of these will be inspired by posts by imagineyourotp, which is a blog on Tumblr.

Disclaimer- As if I own Fairy Tail. Laxana would be canon.

Laxus opened his eyes with a groan, rolling over and looking at the alarm clock. It was making the horrible beeping noise that Cana had always insisted was the only noise annoying enough to get her out of bed.

He slammed his hand down on the top – not hard enough to break it, but hard enough to jiggle the table at his beside.

With another groan, he pulled himself out of bed, not bothering to grab a shirt from the closet, from the floor… not even from the back of the chair, where Cana always liked to put his shirts when she peeled them off of him slowly.

In just his pants, he stumbled down the stairs, wondering why he was awake at this ungodly hour. Then, he remembered. Cana liked to get up early, but if she didn't get coffee ASAP, she would be pissy all day.

Although why that meant he had to get up every day, hours before he wanted to crawl out of bed, and make a drink he didn't even like… that, he was never going to understand.

He stumbled into the kitchen, past the table that was only used for morning coffee, and turned on the coffee pot that he had gotten ready the night before.

He turned slowly back to the kitchen table, and sighed, slowly picking up the thirty six full mugs sitting there. Only Cana would own thirty six mugs, and not be willing to let him use any of them. Only Cana would own thirty six mugs at all, really. But she was Cana, and that was why he loved her.

He placed all thirty six of Cana's mugs on the counter next to his one mug, and he washed them all while he waited for the coffee to brew.

When it was finished, he grabbed his mug, and Cana's favorite mug – the one he had gotten her that said 'World's Sexiest Card Mage' – and poured them both full of black coffee, just the way she liked it.

He crossed to the table, and carefully put her mug down right where she liked it – at the seat at the head of the table – and then he crossed to the window.

He stood in the window in the purple sweatpants she had bought him as a joke, and drank the coffee he didn't like at an hour he didn't even want to be out of bed. And he waited.

When the tears once again fell, he wasn't surprised.

This was the second cycle of mugs. Seventy two.

Seventy two mornings.

Seventy two cups of coffee.

Seventy two moments where he could pretend.

Seventy two denials.

Seventy two days since Cana had died.

And yet, he still got out of bed at an ungodly hour, still stumbled down the stairs into the kitchen, still poured her a mug of coffee.

Because if by some miracle that sweet, idiotic girl walked back through the door… he wanted her to see the mug of coffee that was waiting for her.