A/N: Unbeta'd and written to pass time while chapter 7 of 'A Fairy Tail Ending' is in the works. Mirajane has always been one of my favorites. Feedback is appreciated, as always.
Pouring fast and high. Flashy. Mixing alcohol is an art, a presence.
Mirajane smiles beseechingly to her customers as she grandly maneuvers the glasses. They clink lightly against each other when they meet. She mixes the alcohol with the expertise of one who has done her job for many years. The bartender ignores the catcalls and drunken laughs without a grimace, plastering a professional smile on her face.
The first she pours is the Stardust. Rum. Drops of lemon juice. Mirajane pours an ounce or two of Marie Brizard Parfait Amour into the glass and expertly mixes the drink. The liquid is lazy, sensual; hues of violet and amythest twirling, creating- the drink itself a work of art. She tops it ands appraises it with a professional eye.
It is as purple as her magic, as dark and beckoning as the Takeover itself. The drink is far from her favorite, but it will do. Mirajane ignores the memories that the color brings, the liquid threatening to spill over the sides as she places it in front of the customer. He downs it without a single appreciative glance, and she winces this time. The capricious man has downed her memories. Past is past. Mirajane moves on.
The next drink is a Blue Margarita. Simple enough. Into the glass goes Blue Curacao, Sweet and Sour, Tequila. She stirs, grabbing the salt to dress the rim of the glass. She's missing something… Lime? She takes a slice to place on the edge, wrinkling her nose; in her opinion, the sweet, soothing feel of the drink's color would be much better without any sour citrus to mar it, but things are as they are.
Pale, sapphire eyes. Blood. Short, white hair tainted with crimson, one held dearly, forever lost-
Mirajane does her best not to flinch when her customer acrimoniously thanks her and downs the drink, licking his lips. Those are memories she can't decide whether or not she wants to lose. She grudgingly pulls her eyes away to start the next drink.
Vodka Collins. It is almost laughably easy to mix this drink. Mirajane pours vodka over a tall, ice-filled glass, and fills the remainder of the space with Sweet and Sour. Sprite goes in, as does a cherry. She revels in the sight of the drink- it is one of her favorites.
The color of the drink is solid and stable, like her brother. Bright at the surface and mellow from there to the bottom, Elfman has always been there. Stability, calming. The alcohol does not mix sinuously like most, instead settling deeply and permanently. It resonates. She manages a small smile.
Her fingers slip on the cool glass, and she allows a pinky to linger on the glass before brushing it off. Her small, petite hands are replaced with brawly, hefty ones that are quick to bring the drink to beefy lips. The drink is consumed with a lackadaisical sigh, one that Mirajane does her best to ignore, wondering why she puts so much of her soul into these drinks when they are so easily overlooked.
Unease settles in her stomach, foreboding. The pretty bartender clasps an alcohol bottle in her fist and brings it down from a shelf. Eventually she loses herself in the drinks and the memories they bring- mixing is an art to the woman. The memories they bring, enjoyable or not, are an occupational hazard, and she is used to them.
Her hands move almost subconsciously, always aware of what they are making before she does. Her mind is busy, occupied by the thoughts dredging from depths that she can't decide whether or not to bury.
Here, a Southern Pink Flamingo (Natsu, always Natsu. Extravagant and cocky. She laughs as she stirs).
There, a Blue Sapphire Martini (Gray, icy yet heated. She's fond of this one).
A few teaspoons of Grenadine go into a Bacardi Classic (the liquid is as red as Erza's hair- deep rouge, loyal and constant).
Another of her personal favorites, a Pisco Yellow, is tinged lightly with drops of lime (Lucy, as bright and irradiant as she is marred).
Mirajane halts when she clasps a bottle that has always, always held a soft spot in her heart. She lowers it from the shelf to eye level, wondering why, oh why hadn't she paid attention to whom it was that had called for this drink?
She remembers only the name of the drink. This one is special to her, and for reasons even she has yet to fully comprehend. She grabs a glass. The process begins again.
Ice sloshes into Apple Vodka and Pucker. Green has never been Mirajane's favorite color, and yet this one always manages to beckon to her very essence as she watches the colors settle. Alcohol is bitter- fiery- she reminds herself.
So it's ironic when she adds a fresh green apple and apple juice into the mix. She always finds it ironic. Something sweet amongst the façade of alcohol. The Apple Martini has always been a favorite. The jade of the drops mix with emerald, amatory in its shade. Despotic, yet quixotic. Benevolent.
Her hands are guiding the drink to the patron before she fully registers the action. A moment of guarded hesitation overwhelms Mirajane for a split second- who will be the one to drink away her soul this time, she wonders- before her clear eyes trail up to answer her question. Her body is a step ahead of her, as usual, and she fights the action, anticipation warring with dread.
Anticipation wins her over. It always does.
An honest smile breaks over her face for the first time in a while when she spots a mane of chartreuse in her peripheral vision. She should have known it was him.
She sets the Apple Martini onto the counter- gently, now!-Careful not to spill the contents. Mirajane refuses to break eye contact. He smiles. His long fingers are elegant, closing over hers, clutching their fingers to the glass. The condensation is icy, but she doesn't mind. When Mirajane gives a small shiver, it's not from the cold.
He lifts the glass to her face (they never blink, not even once- it's as if they are in a trance) and gently touches the rim to her mouth for a sip.
Bitter tinges (the festival, the fight, the kinship) are followed by notes of sour (his eyes were cold when they fought, raising bile in her throat) and a heated burn (because a passion is lingering in her chest, the type of yearning one can push aside but never ignore).
She lifts the glass. An aftertaste of something salacious, sweet, is residual on her lips- she licks it off. It melts on her taste buds, glides down her throat with no apparent effort. She enjoys the fleeting moment of taste.
It's her favorite drink. She doesn't doubt that- she has no qualms with it. Mirajane's lips curve on the edge of a laugh.
Fried smiles and raises the glass with an urbane nod- almost as if he is toasting her- and lifts it to his own mouth.
When he sets the glass down, it is half-full. It is half-empty. Possibilities, endless possibilities. He does not consume the drink in a half-hearted gulp, and he does not send her dirty looks or pass over her with his eyes, unaware of her presence.
Fried is different-
(When their lips meet, warm gusts softly breathed into the other's mouth while sanguine fingers are slowly laced over the countertop, their eyes never parting and their souls are bound in that moment, woven and twined into something that is engraved into her soul)
-and Mirajane acknowledges that memories are fleeting.
He is here to stay.