Disclaimer - no money made outta this, no characters owned by me. No religious offense intended, however small it may be in visibility.
Whenever she walks in his dreams, he shuts his eyes tight.
And maybe he has become the sad stereotype of a broken-hearted lover, but for Erza Scarlet, it's worth it.
His tears are worth her long hair slapping the air in front of your face like a toddler's feeble attempt at violence whenever she turns around in her fierceness. The scarlet so significant to her presence -enough to have him crumbling like a pile of messily arranged emotions.
His breathlessness is worth the creamy skin visible through her intricately designed weapon suits.
His blood is worth her every second spent in hope.
Sometimes he smiles in satisfaction at the idea of his death, if only it lets Erza live a life she never got.
When his body crashes on the ground, he doesn't stand - it would defy his character to submit in front of a weaker opponent. And yet, he does it.
Blood sprays out his lips and assembles in a darkly ugly pattern against the cement of the prison floor.
Jellal grits his teeth as a knee collides with his back, immediately exerting the kind of pressure which intends to drill. Fuck. The geezer will surely damage his backbone if he doesn't retaliate.
And yet...
He looks up, at her photo, plastered like a poster on the dark wall.
Only a few steps away from his weakened body are the prison bars.
And he knows, he fucking knows, that he's a lot stronger than the fucking coward who attacks him when he's drugged, even in the state he finds himself in, but he doesn't say anything.
A sudden scream wrenches through his throat as skinny fingers fist his blue hair, pulling his face away from the ground - and then, a moment later, even when he knows the next move, has gone through the routine several times now, it's the kind of pain he'd categorise in the worst as his face is pushed down again, quickly, so fucking quickly with such goddamn force, chin clicking with his teeth, his blood dribbling down like trails of water from creaks.
"Remember, Freak," Close, so close, enough to smell the rot of teeth and the potential existence of bacteria's heaven on a yellow tongue - Jellal does not puke, and he's surprised at his own achievement. "Remember what you exchanged, and for what. Remember the girl."
As if.
As if he could ever forget the girl.
Not remembering her is an impossibility.
Forgetting her would require him to erase his own existence, annihilate all his senses, and find power to crush moon into powder.
If only he could forget her.
(But Jellal has not made a life out of glowlights. He's made it out of the reflection in metal of guns, in dark streets with queues of carcasses at his feet. He has made it out of sitting in one corner with food thrown at the ground and orders to lick them. He's made it out of the surge of agony in revenge coursing through his blood. He's made it out of her smiles, her happiness. He's made it out of painful street fights, and then the wash of relief with his head in her lap. The brightest part of his life is made out of her. His life is her.)
An unattainable feat higher than the moon.
Nails dig in his sides; he says nothing.
Let the world never know Jellal Fernandes refused to fight, that he decided to remain motionless as nameless men took turns to avenge petty mistakes in the past.
Let the world never know Jellal Fernandes never died in the collapse of the Tower of Heaven; the most wanted terrorist lying low, for weaknesses shall never be announced the way glory must be - he had learned this the hard way.
But his weakness was in Erza's smile whenever she wore pretty pink dresses at the age of fourteen.
They were so poor. So, so poor - and stealing had been the only option.
Jellal knew his only talent laid in theft.
But things never worked out the way they were meant to, they never had.
Losing Erza still was the biggest shock of his life.
And three years ago, when his eyes devoured the sight of the girl he had lost in his blindness of power...
But time was short. Half an hour was left in the collapse of the Tower. He'd looked at Ultear with such desperation; he should have known he was sold right then.
Erza was dragged away without being given a reason.
The wires they had connected to explode the energy in the middle of the hall never experienced the current.
Ultear handed him over to Zeref with the smoothness practiced only by a trained traitor.
He's turned around and is forced to take a punch in his eyes. It takes all his power to not defend himself.
For if he fights back, they'll punish her.
(Once he'd broken the nose of a burly man twisting his arm, and they'd shown him the picture of Erza on her latest case, with a broken arm. Of course, she was unaware. To her, being a detective was all that was to her identity. That she was a key component of the highest level of terrorism fiascos, she was unaware of this -and that was the only fairy tale bliss in their lives.)
No, he couldn't take anymore chances.
So when they drag him by the leg towards the feet of cloaked men, and spit on him, and tell him to say words he doesn't fathom, he complies.
When they ask him to call faceless men the new God, he calls them God.
When they demand he kiss toes made out of copper in surrender. He eats the rotten flesh they give him. He drinks the obviously filthy water. He never utters a word of compalin whenever they lower him down on ice slabs and strap his body and carve tattoos on his skin -redness so bizarre on his face, but polar opposite of her beautiful hair.
When they tell him he must never breathe a word of old rituals or religions or dreams or people or pain or needs or fever or nightmares, that he must remember the girl-
He remembers the girl.
(Because not remembering the girl is an impossibility.)
A/N: yes... so. I wrote this. This is a thing. Maybe.
Idk. Haha. Not sure what I mean to say... uhm. *coughs* if reviewing is your thing, please do it.