I own nothing. All rights belong to Hiro Mashima.

"The ideal—what is the ideal? A figment. An abstraction. A static abstraction, abstracted from life. It is a fragment of the before or the after. It is a crystallized aspiration, or a crystallized remembrance: crystallized, set, finished. It is a thing set apart, in the great storehouse of eternity, the storehouse of finished things. We do not speak of things crystallized and set apart. We speak of the instant, the immediate self, the very plasm of the self."

-D.H. Lawrence, "The Poetry of the Present"

Levy's feelings towards Gajeel Redfox were a complex, entangled web of thought that she generally avoided. It was best to leave things as they were, to continue on with the business of life. It was best to forget the sweet, mysterious daydreams that threatened to surface every time she looked at Gajeel. She was young, she was smart, and although her mild exterior fooled many people, she was exceptionally ambitious. Why should she worry about Gajeel Redfox? She had to tend to her life as it was now. She couldn't be bothered about the future.

This train of thought left Levy hunched on an upended barrel behind Fairy Tail's bar on a silent, snowy afternoon. It had not always been silent. In fact, three hours earlier, the guild members had been energetically brawling with all the enthusiasm they could possibly muster. The tremendous noise and very present danger of being hit with flying objects led Levy to take refuge behind the bar with her book, where Mira's presence mostly deflected any potential aggression.

She didn't usually mind the brawls—that was Fairy Tail, after all—but Team Shadow Gear had taken on a unique mission, and she needed to research. So absorbed in her books was she that she didn't even notice when snow started falling outside the windows at an alarming rate, when the brawl subsided and people began leaving, or when everyone had left altogether, leaving Levy alone behind the bar. Even the kind-hearted Mira was absent, having gone to tend a sick Lisanna.

Levy squinted harder at the page, reading and processing as fast as she could (with the aid of her glasses). She was running out of time. This whole affair had started with a mission. Team Shadow Gear had set out to a remote village a week ago to address some minor magical mischief that had been occurring. The team had easily cornered a cowering little cat, which the villagers (to Levy's horror and subsequent regret) had promptly killed. The following morning, as Team Shadow Gear were about to leave, the villagers had found a gruesome execution scene, with an ancient runic script written on the wall above the mutilated cattle.

Levy was barely able to recognize the script, it was so obscure. She had left Jet and Droy to defend the village as best they could, and she hurried back to her books to find what on earth this script was. It was slow business, and she had barely been at it for a day when Jet and Droy sent word; a child had been caught in the crossfire of a skirmish and died. Levy had promptly thrown up in the corner and she hadn't slept since. Children were dying because of her own stupid ignorance.

As it was, Levy hadn't slept for approximately 37 hours, hadn't eaten for approximately 15 hours, and hadn't drank anything for approximately 11 hours. She huddled at the guild day and night, poring over her books, cross-referencing with the library, and scribbling notes. It was a mark of Levy's devotion as a bibliophile that none of her guild members noticed anything out of the ordinary. It was almost Christmas time, and the guild was absorbed by preparations. Few were out on missions, and many had fallen prey to the flu that was running around. Nobody had noticed anything out of the ordinary about Levy's behavior—well, nobody except Gajeel Redfox.

Levy scribbled frantically in the margin, perched on her barrel behind the bar. Her mind, so adept at analyzing and summarizing texts, was on the brink of despair. How could I have let this happen? The thought haunted her and lurked, mocking and bitter, behind every corner of rationality. How could I have let this happen? Why couldn't she figure out this text? She was so, so stupid! Levy threw her quill down, tears welling in her eyes.

"Oy, Shrimp." Levy jumped at the sound of Gajeel's voice. "Are you OK?" The iron dragonslayer had appeared at the bar, leaning forward with a concerned expression on his face. Levy glared at him. She didn't need any interruptions, not from anyone.

"Shut up!" Levy snapped. "Leave me alone!" Then she picked up her quill with grim determination and continued scribbling, trying to ignore the latest wash of guilt that had taken up residence in her weary mind. She did not notice Gajeel silently leap over the bar and take up a position behind her, or see his apprehensive eyes rest worriedly on her tense shoulders. Suddenly Levy stopped scribbling abruptly. She had been going about this all wrong. She had been too focused on the unfamiliar characters and vocabulary to notice the syntax. Despite the frequent tense and case changes, it bore a striking similarity to her native language.

"Damn it!" she whispered bitterly, setting about the final translation. "I'm so stupid!" The cat had been the familiar of a relatively peaceful, but very powerful magician that lived in the secluded caves near the village. The villagers merely needed to offer three young white kittens and swear to leave all cats alone from that time, and the magician would leave them in peace. Levy sealed the message in an envelope and rose hurriedly—only to stagger as her legs gave out of their own accord.

"Whoa, easy there." Levy looked up at Gajeel, who was coming in and out of focus above her. "Just rest, Levy."

"No," she gasped, trying in vain to stand. "I have to get this to Jet and Droy."

"Let me do that," said Gajeel, snatching the letter from her hand. "I'll take care of it."

"No…" protested Levy weakly. This was her fault and she needed to take care of it, but her body just wouldn't…cooperate…

Levy's mind stayed awake, even when her body gave in. She dreamt of a mysterious, sweet feeling that stole through her every time she saw Gajeel Redfox. She dreamt of an impossible future, preserved and protected deep in her unconscious. Weakened as her mind was by exhaustion, by fever, by mental strain, the impossible thought was able to slip from its glass cage and wander to the forefront of her consciousness, unhindered by the conventions of speech and tact.

"Gajeel," she murmured. "Gajeel, I'm sorry." One Gajeel Redfox sat by her bed, waiting for Wendy to arrive anxiously, but Levy's delirium elected to disregard that particular presence.

"Gajeel, I never…I didn't mean for her to die. The syntax…and I wanted to hate you, but I just…I couldn't, and now…now I l—"

"What's wrong?" asked Wendy. Gajeel jumped back from Levy's bed, having been caught with one hand suspiciously close to Levy's hair.

"She's sick," he grunted. After Levy had collapsed, he had given the message to a frightened Warren and had him contact Wendy. Under Wendy's care, the small blue-haired mage was soon healed, but her eyes remained shut.

"Why is she still asleep?" asked Gajeel shortly, anxious.

"She's sleeping," said Wendy matter-of-factly. "Her body needs rest, food, and water, and I can't give those to her. You'll look after her, won't you? I have to go to Lisanna." And with that, she was gone and Gajeel was left standing by Levy's side, his feelings running amuck. What had Levy been about to say?

In Levy's mind, the delicate thought pattered softly back to its glass cage, once again confined to her innermost thoughts. Her feelings for Gajeel were fragile, timid. Levy could not reconcile the sweet dream with the harsh, cold air of real life. Not yet, anyway.