Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot
Tittle: Where All Broken Things Go
Summary: She doesn't need a heartsmith —broken suits her well.
Genre and Rating: Romance; PG
Word Count: 505
A/N: Kind of a spin off of Into Your Gravity, kinda not. *Shrugs* (*coughs* also mind the tittle)
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Where All Broken Things Go
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In Juvia's most sincere opinion, Gray Surge has an unhealthy inclination for lost causes —he just seems a little too invested in his rescue campaign for stray kittens on side roads and broken-winged little birds fallen from trees, forlorn attempts of heroism with absolutely no rhyme or reason that just end up adding a name or two to his graveyard of wasted efforts.
Inevitably —and most naturally, at that—, he develops a major infatuation with her, a thing she refuses to acknowledge as love, and a part of her wonders how much of it has to be with his obsession of fixing broken things and mending the unsalvageable. The simple thought of that possibility bothers her to no end, almost like an ill-hearted insult or a vile joke made at her expense. She's not some lost three-legged puppy waiting for him to take home, after all.
But the boy simply has an odd fixation with the idea of saving the impossible. Ironically enough, because to her he's quite hopeless himself —a bit too much of a dreamer, head on the clouds and heart on his sleeve open for anyone to take a bit away with them.
She wonders how much of it it's really left for her to take, if she were crazy enough to let him closer, and let him fill the gaps and cracks on her chest with shreds of his own as he so desperately wants to.
Because wouldn't that kill him, too?
Her heart might be crippled, yes. Dysfunctional and arguably inoperative as far as romance is concerned, but she doesn't need a heartsmith —broken suits her well.
She's not the kind of broken fit for filling coffee stained pages of sad poetry as he might think she is. She's a compilation of bad judgment and mistrust, a trainwreck of 3am fights and bar strangers on her bed, and the slow but deathly toxin of after-sex cigarettes. She's a girl who wears her naked skin like an armor, who's been cut to the bone and intimidates with her battle scars. She's the irony of a neon sign flashing keep away, a place no one should attempt to come into yet luring passersby to look her way. It works for her, she wears it well, and she has no intention of putting her heart in jeopardy.
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There isn't much she can say about love (except that it sucks, it's absolutely unfair and totally not worth the pain). To be honest, she kind of stopped believing in it a long, long while ago. It's nothing but a waste of time, a waste of lies, and there are much better things to do than to willingly put yourself into the mental exhaustion and emotional torture that is romance.
So when he comes to her again (and again and again and again), lovesick look on his eyes, tender smile and heart miraculously fixed with band-aids after she bluntly shatters it on the cold ground multiple times, she once again wonders,
Why?
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Why must she fall every time?
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A/N: Gray Surge is literally the place where all broken things go. You're very welcome.
Reviews are extremely appreciated!