disclaimer; disclaimed.
notes1; so, fried or freed? juvia or lluvia? loki or loke? who knows. i just go with whatever looks cooler. (i'm sort of upset that it's loke instead of loki.)
for Ice of the Kitsune's Fire
(what can i say? i work fast. well, when i want to.
i got your reviews, by the way. they were lovely, and they made me smile.)
03; ties that break
fried/mirajane
And really, waiting is overrated.
She thinks that it is highly amusing that a woman like her—a woman surrounded by revulsion and destruction—would wait for the return of someone like Fried.
It is ridiculous, she tells herself. It is ridiculous and pointless and nothing but a child's wistful dreams. How can someone be waiting when, every day, someone is killed? Every gruesome second echoes the sound of someone's last screams—perhaps it was for the greater good, or for far more sinister purposes, but every day, someone's life is snuffed out by another hand.
Slaughter.
It is the life she lived in, breathed in. She sees it in people's grim expressions, she sees it in the blood splatters on the floor she has to clean every night.
She has no right to pause her life for something so trivial when all of her friends face their possible demise every single day.
She thinks that waiting really is such a tedious task. She waits and she lingers, tracing old portraits and singing old rhymes. Sometimes she would dig up an old memory from her mind, and she would recount it to herself in the silence of the empty bar.
Sometimes, she forgets what his voice sounds like, or what his skin feels like. Sometimes, she forgets what he even looks like and is left with only a stunning shade of emerald.
And just when she tells herself she has had enough, he waltzes back into her dreary life, painting it in shades of green. When he steps into the guild on those rare occasions, he pauses and gives the room a once-over and reviews the old faces, the new faces, the stronger faces.
She swears that when he glances at her, he gives her a look so cold that hell could freeze over. She wonders if he is worth her time or even, heavens forbid, her love, but when the guild is almost empty, he steps in with a look of quiet determination with his gaze focusing on her.
She's always a bit too giddy and bit too unreserved in his presence, and, more often than not, she finds herself pouring out her angst under the influence of alcohol. He only gives her a hushed smile reserved only for her, and suddenly, the world doesn't seem so hopeless anymore.
Every day, she reminds herself, someone dies, sure, but a new life is born. New hopes and dreams and wishes are born on a daily basis, and life is beautiful.
The day he leaves is inevitable, and usually, he doesn't even say goodbye. Mirajane is quick to adapt to these kinds of things and greets people as merrily as she always does.
But she's waiting, again, waiting like she always does. But somehow—
She doesn't really mind.
