you can't feel anything (that your heart don't want to feel)
.
.
Into a dark room, he bullied her. The rough hands pushing at her until her back was against a wall was not something Mirajane minded, not when her own were tangling into the downy mess of Laxus' hair and her mouth was leaving a hot trail down the line of his throat, punctured by a bite on the thick muscle of his shoulder.
It was not the first time they sought comfort in each other's bodies like this. Sometimes Laxus conscience wouldn't let him sleep. Sometimes Mirajane would yearn for everyone she's lost. Sometimes they just enjoyed each other, lengthening the celebrations of victories. Tonight, they both bled, one grieving no more than the other. Makarov was dead and after the initial instincts of anger and anguish came the more primal needs for their mouths on each other, the thoughtless clawing of skin, the scorch of skin on skin. Maybe it would hurt more than what decayed in their chests.
Familiar but peculiar, Laxus touched everywhere, and she supposed that with the lights off, it made sense for him to see her body through his hands. There was something in the air tonight not that difficult to name that made such a needy man out of him, Mira thought. The way his hands parted her legs and his mouth found work between them, the way he bit at the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs, the way he licked at what he hurt like an afterthought of an apology. The way he shivered when she pulled him up and wrapped her arms around him, not far off from when one trembled from a violent prelude to tears (but she never heard him do such a thing; even this tiny space of their lives he still acted like he had so much to hide).
Mirajane imparted comfort in ways she knew how: the contrast of her gentle hands against his tense form, the giving plumpness of her lips against the staccato rhythm of his pulse, the initiative of taking him inside her. He found his footing much faster in this intimacy. This, he knew how to deal with, the rough pace that Mira knew how to match. The gaping hole between his ribs, he knew not how to acknowledge. He thought he'd just let himself bleed out. He thought he'd find that bloodthirst forced into dormancy in the very depths of himself. Maybe he'd drink until everything hurt and he couldn't tell which did most.
"Stop thinking," Mira said. The first words spoken since he took her into the next empty room with a door. She spoke with a throat raw from crying and for even just a tiny moment, Laxus was thankful someone carried the same grief he did.
He relented, focusing on the warmth of her. Mirajane was an all-encompassing phenomenon when she wanted to be, overwhelming on the senses which was crucial to sanity in days as dark as this and when a proper mourning wasn't enough.
Both of them finished quickly, sloppy from fatigue and sore all over and on the inside. Still squeezed against body and wall, Mirajane held on to Laxus, one hand on his nape moving in an absent motion. The other palmed his cheek, wiping at tears that weren't there. Laxus settled into her touch, vulnerable now and grateful.
"Thank you, Mira." Was what he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say. I'm sorry for another notch on the list of dead you've buried, I'm glad you loved him as much as I did. The words wouldn't follow; stuck inside of him so it was hard to swallow past a lump in his throat.
But they were words she didn't need to hear anyway. They shared one heart that ached all the same.
note: ok I kinda really hate how this narration happened but I don't really have one writing style to stick with and (zac efron shrugging pose) I have an attitude about fanfic the same as the one I approach life with: who the fuck cares. I can't mcfreaking believe Makarov is dead and Laxus and mira got shitty panels? I mean I'm really most mad about Laxus's part. I want him to go on full out beast mode and wreck shit™. God. Why does fairy tail keep playing me like this.
Title from Broken Strings by Nelly Furtado and James Morrison.