A/N: Hey all, I'm changing my pseuds from SnowfallBreeze and elmandfir to friendlyneighborhoodfairy. Since I'm apparently hard to find, I wanted to unify the name across all platforms.
Chapter 12: Dragon's Power
Waking up was the most painful thing Laxus had ever done in his twelve brief years of life.
He was in an unfamiliar room. Strangers kept telling him it would be alright. But it was not alright: their voices were shouts in his sensitive ears, a thousand soundless things now audible to him. Smells, sounds, sights; he tasted scents on his tongue, felt tremors of noise upon the air.
The lights were too bright, and when he opened his eyes, he could see everything in horrifying detail, down to the tiny mite struggling to pull itself across the woven threads of his blanket. It was a fever-dream come true.
When he looked out the window, the world leapt toward him in high definition, and Laxus started crying, tears blessedly blurring his vision.
Worst of all, he could feel the pain in extreme detail.
Every stitch and staple in his chest throbbed in its own rhythm, and there was a cold bubble in his chest, weighing him down and pressing on his lungs, and nothing could pop it. It wouldn't go away, just kept weighing him down.
Laxus passed out again almost immediately.
As consciousness returned in bits and pieces, a few minutes here, a groggy half hour there, he became intimately familiar with his body and his injuries, until he knew every twinge by heart.
In those semi-lucid times, he overheard things—conversations down the hall in vivid detail—and pieced together the story.
Makarov had grown worried when he hadn't seen Laxus for a week: Ivan had disappeared with Laxus without taking a job. When a neighbor ran to Fairy Tail saying they heard screaming, that was all it took.
Makarov brought two strong guildmembers with him, and when Ivan fought back, trying to keep them from Laxus, they subdued him in a matter of minutes. During that time, Laxus lay unattended, gaping hole in his chest pumping out blood.
People stressed the grotesqueness over and over, the story growing with each retelling.
When they changed his bandages, Laxus's world consisted entirely of the pain of wounds glued to linen with blood, of incisions made jagged and rewrapped in burning pressure.
The nurse didn't understand this. When Laxus thrashed, he chided Laxus—said he could be brave, said he'd been through worse and that part was over now. But every tearing of healing cells felt like blades gutting him and pulling his organs out. Reminding him of having his chest open, organs bare, like someone could pluck his heart out as he watched.
His screams eventually got the message across.
So they strapped him down.
Every time they had to change the dressings, they immobilized him, and that was a thousand times worse. Laxus could only remember being tied to the laboratory table and tortured.
So he taught himself, in very short order, to stay utterly silent. He learned to immerse himself in the pain and stop caring. His pain did not matter.
Thank gods, they stopped strapping him down.
With the enhanced senses, he kept his eyes closed a lot, and slept a lot, and between the two, he managed not to go insane.
Listening became his pastime. He'd nearly died—people said this in amazed whispers—but Fairy Tail's master had picked him up, grown so large he merely had to take one step, then put him down at the hospital which, thanks to Fairy Tail's history, specialized in magical wounds.
They put him back together again, put his organs where they were supposed to go—mostly: arranged around the lacrima they couldn't get out of his chest. However Ivan wove the magic into Laxus's body, he completed that before Makarov arrived. And that was a huge consolation: Laxus would've hurt himself if they'd undone what his father did. He had to get the power he'd been promised.
They couldn't remove it, but they stopped the hemorrhaging that had resulted when Makarov and his people interrupted Ivan in the act of sewing Laxus up. They saved Laxus's life, but he was hurting too much to have the energy for gratitude.
Beside him, his grandfather was an unstoppable, unapologetic force. Makarov wouldn't accept any answer that wasn't what he wanted. The only emotion he showed beside anxiety was white-faced ire.
Laxus wondered what his grandfather had seen.
Someone said dark scarlet lay pooling and spattered everywhere when Makarov cut the straps and lifted him from the table. Laxus knew from his father how much blood a body could spare before dying, and that sounded like too much.
An exaggeration.
Many times when awareness swam through Laxus's brain, Makarov was by his side. His was the first scent Laxus became attuned to—Laxus could smell him from a long way. Makarov's hand in his, holding tight, anchored Laxus. He couldn't bear to tell his grandfather it hurt his still-overly-sensitive skin: he needed that hand. Needed the reassurance it offered.
Laxus didn't talk. If he opened his mouth, half the time the only sound was a choked whimper.
So he kept listening. He learned from Makarov's heartbeat how the human body changed when falling asleep, when woken suddenly because its grandson cried out in pain, or how it sounded after eating.
The first time Laxus laughed was when his grandfather's gut made an intricate, bubbly, percolating sound. It startled Laxus so much that a single giggle burst out of him like a fledging bird.
Makarov jolted and looked over—Laxus cracked his eyes to see his grandfather with his mouth open. Laxus relaxed into the bed, listening to the hilarious noises of unhappy digestion. These extra senses, it turned out, could be amusing.
Though it seemed to take forever for Laxus to heal, he heard them saying he improved faster than he should for wounds that extensive. That made him proud. He was stronger—could feel it in his body, though he was still in too much pain to use his magic. He could not wait to get better.
On his fourth day, he sat up and ate a meal of mandarin jelly and plain okayu without help. He was moving his arms around (slowly), doing basic things on his own. Makarov watched until Laxus finished eating.
"How are you feeling, Laxus?"
Laxus swallowed a few times, licking his fingers and not looking at him.
"Hurts."
"I'm sorry."
Valiantly as Makarov tried to hide it, Laxus heard the warble in his voice. Laxus didn't say anything more, too afraid of making his grandfather more upset.
During the long silence that followed, Laxus pictured himself with flesh pulled open. Had it scared Makarov? Did he get scared?
"I should've come sooner," his grandfather said. "I'm so, so sorry."
Shrugging, Laxus stared down at his fingers knotted in the comforter. This was all the price of rebirth. He was stronger now. The corner of his mind that had broken under his father's hands—it didn't matter. Laxus could shove aside everything that had happened to him if it meant strength.
Assuming he was stronger. Ivan had promised, but he wasn't as sure as he used to be that Ivan's promises held weight. His father hadn't visited him, and Makarov refused to say his name.
If Laxus was stronger, he ought to be more courageous too. So he took a deep breath.
"Where's Tousan?"
Makarov clenched his armrests.
"Locked up."
"What?" Laxus gasped. "You…imprisoned him?"
His grandfather's repulsed sneer silenced him.
"Yes, I did."
Quiet cut between them. Laxus couldn't believe it. Tousan is locked up. Which meant Laxus needed to get better so they would release Ivan and let things return to normal. No wonder his father hadn't come.
It's not that he doesn't love me.
He was still gaping at his grandfather when a rhythm of rapid strides made Laxus look toward the door. Someone with short legs.
"Someone's visiting?" he asked. Many people walked down that hall, but none were other children.
"Yes," Makarov said. "You have a visitor today. I thought it might help your boredom. Though if you get tired—anything—you can have whatever you need. Silence; sleep; don't hesitate to ask."
Laxus grunted.
At a tentative knock, Makarov said, "Come in."
Even before seeing who it was, Laxus could guess: those footsteps had been precise and he smelled the pleasant tang of some kind of hair product.
Freed peered around the door.
Laxus watched the other boy as Makarov motioned him in and Freed crossed to Laxus's side. Freed's scent was layered and complex, and Laxus instantly set about trying to memorize it, like he had with his grandfather and the nurses and the kind woman he'd found out was his surgeon. People were scents, he was discovering. Each was different.
He could also see every detail of Freed's slightly-windswept hair and cheeks flushed from the cold. Laxus heard the clicking joints as Freed twisted his fingers, and catalogued the unique bump of Freed's heartbeat. He looked paler than normal, and tasted like salt.
"Yo," Laxus said, as Freed sat on a chair. "How are you?"
Freed turned scarlet.
"Fine," he said. "How are you?"
"Fine."
Freed surveyed his bandages.
"I found a new book of lightning spells," Freed said.
Laxus's face twisted into a smile. The expression was so ill-used it felt strange. But it was a genuine smile, and it made Freed light up in return. If Laxus had looked to his other side, he would've been startled and embarrassed by how much emotion swam through his grandfather's expression.
"Any good ones?" Laxus asked.
"More than a few, and they're all new ones we haven't found before."
"Just a few more days, then I can try them out," Laxus said. He would make that statement true. "The magic to grow my ribs back together is working really well."
Freed's eyes went so round they looked like they might fall out of his head. Breath quick, he glanced down at Laxus's chest again.
"Your ribs…got broken?" he asked.
"More like cut into pieces. The hole in my chest was this big," he added proudly, motioning with his hands.
"W-What?" Freed gasped, pale. "A hole?"
"How else do you think the lacrima got put in there?"
At these words, Freed's brow bent and he glanced over at Makarov. Confused, Laxus stared between them.
"I haven't told anyone about your lacrima, Laxus," his grandfather said quietly. "Only the doctor and surgeon know about it."
"Oh." Laxus frowned, turning back to Freed, timid. "I…have a lacrima inside me."
"Wow," Freed whispered in awe. Straightening as if to salute, he said, "I'll keep your secret, Laxus. Promise."
Laxus nodded.
It made sense to keep it secret, he supposed. Aside from Ivan's constant admonitions to never trust anyone, keeping it secret would give him an edge against enemies. Plus it might be useful if nobody in the guild knew he had the same delicate senses as Natsu Dragneel.
"So you have a hole in your chest," Freed said reverently. "That must hurt."
"It does," Laxus said with a proud grin. "So did you bring the book?"
"They wouldn't let me. Claimed it would strain you," Freed said, irritated. "But I brought cards."
"Awesome. Will you play with us, Jiisan?"
"Not right now. I have some people I need to talk to. Freed can keep you company until I get back."
Freed nodded as if this were a solemn duty.
They played games, talked about missions and guildmembers, and Freed (at Laxus's urging) doodled with his magic while they speculated about potential spells. It was the first afternoon Laxus was not bored stiff, nor noticing the pain every other minute. Sensations faded to a manageable degree when he had something to focus on, and he began to understand why Dragneel was always doing something.
But it also tired him out. After nearly three hours, Makarov hadn't returned, and Laxus was yawning every few seconds. Freed finally said, "We can stop."
Laxus, too exhausted to pretend, nodded.
"Do you want to sleep?" Freed asked, rising, picking up the second blanket Laxus had kicked off earlier, and handing it to him.
"What are you going to do?" Laxus asked.
"I said I'd stay, so I'll just sit here quietly." Freed smiled. "I enjoy doing that. It's when I come up with the best spell ideas."
"Okay. Come up with some good ones," Laxus yawned.
"Will do."
Laxus sank into his pillows and cracked an eye just wide enough to see Freed settling in the chair with his feet under him, eyes on the window and the world beyond.
It made Laxus nervous to sleep in front of anyone. But if he had to trust someone right now, it might as well be Freed. Freed would not hurt him.
Laxus got out of the hospital, but things did not return to normal.
Ivan was not released. Laxus moved in with his grandfather. When he returned to the guild, he pulled away from the other children—Wan, Strauss, Alors, even Freed, whom he only saw when they holed up in the library. Laxus receded into himself, too overwhelmed to even try out his new magic for the first week: there was too much else to take in.
His new nose and new sight and new hearing. The world was fucking alive with senses. He gave Dragneel a little credit for being as intelligent as the idiot was—it was hard for Laxus to focus on anything.
Okay, and his body was still recovering: that was the other reason he couldn't try his new magic. Pain still radiated from his chest, but he hid that from everyone.
Isolation was going to be his new normal. His only safety was in lies. That was one of Ivan's more successful lessons.
Laxus missed him.
Expressing what he wanted had always been hard for him, but one evening Laxus finally worked up the words to ask Makarov:
"When can I see him again?"
Standing at the stove, Makarov froze.
"You want to see your father?"
Laxus shied away. "Yes."
Makarov stared at him for a moment.
"Fine," he said.
There was a room in the basement of Fairy Tail that sealed off magic. Sometimes they had to restrain mages before handing them over to the Council's knights, and other times they had to restrain their own. Like now.
Laxus waited outside the door as Makarov went in.
"You'll be nice to him," he heard Makarov growl.
"Finally brought me my son?" Ivan spat.
"Did you hear me? Play nice."
A huff—Laxus could picture his father's eye roll.
"Bring him in, old man."
The door opened.
Laxus shuffled in behind his grandfather, suddenly shy. It had been so long—not in days, for Ivan had taken missions which lasted longer, but in lifetimes. In change.
With Ivan restrained by a metal grate, they had to trek across the room to get close.
"Tousan?" Laxus said tentatively.
"Laxus."
There wasn't the warmth in his father's face that he was hoping for, but he wasn't angry, either. He looked tired: careworn and unkempt. Kneeling by the bars, Ivan looked at him from eye-level.
"Are you okay?" Laxus asked in a tiny voice.
"Do I look okay?" Ivan raised an eyebrow, then shook his head. "Tell me about your new magic. Are your senses working well? How do they feel?"
Laxus looked down at his fingers, clenching them in and out. "Good."
"And your magic power: stronger?"
"Yes."
"You've been able to use the draconic spells?"
"I…don't know," Laxus admitted. "I haven't tried them yet."
"Haven't—? Laxus! What was the whole reason we did this?"
"So I could be strong," Laxus mumbled.
"So you could be strong. What's the point if you're not going to use it?"
"Alright," Makarov said, stepping closer. "This isn't why we're here."
"No, Otousan: stay out of this," Ivan ordered, facing him. "He's my son."
"He's a person, and he belongs to himself."
"That may be," Ivan said airily, "but to every person, other people are merely tools. You would know."
Hissing in surprised anger, Makarov pulled Laxus behind him.
"Tools? Watch your mouth, Ivan. He's a child."
"I'm not a child," Laxus protested. After everything, he still wasn't allowed to speak for himself.
Ivan stood and made a hand gesture at Makarov. Makarov reeled back in shock.
"Let me speak to my son in peace," Ivan said. "He's mine: I created him, fed him, worked hard to keep him clothed and housed. I did, not you. You were never there: I was. He's my son. Let me speak to him."
"Laxus, leave us," Makarov ordered.
Fear scrabbled at Laxus's throat.
"Wait—" he tried, but Makarov pushed him back further, out of reach of the bars. As if he feared Ivan would grab him.
Ivan and Makarov sneered at each other.
"You've hurt your child enough," Makarov said. "He's not yours, Ivan; he never was. If you can't understand that, you don't deserve to be a father."
"Hurt him?" Ivan laughed in disbelief. "That's what you're upset about?"
"Yes!"
"He's standing right there," Ivan said sarcastically. "Clearly, the damage wasn't permanent."
"It doesn't matter: you nearly killed your own child."
They both seemed to have forgotten Laxus, glaring at each other with something worse than hatred. Laxus's breath came in quick, scared bursts. Something was about to break. A tension in the room was stretching thin.
"So what?" Ivan asked.
"So what—?!"
"Yes, so what? He didn't die. You say nearly, but it's a dangerous procedure and it's supposed to make you bleed a little. You know why he didn't suffer any permanent damage? Because I'm good. Better than you ever wanted to acknowledge. And I made him better. Otousan, I took away that weakness he inherited from his mother and made him stronger than any of us. I've made him hardier. He's got perseverance now, and can get things done. I did that. I worked with him—you did not. I helped him past his sickness or allergy or whatever you call it. I made him better and more powerful than he would've ever become on his own."
Makarov's mouth moved but words didn't come.
Laxus watched his father, confused and scared. These words all sounded like declarations of affection, but they were said with such hatred pouring from his face. And Ivan didn't look at Laxus as he said any of it: he was looking at Makarov, said it all to Makarov, did not once give Laxus his attention. Not once.
"I'd do it again," Ivan said, still staring at his own father. "Hear that, Laxus? I'd cut you up all over again. You belong to me and you'll do as I tell you. That's what good sons do, after all, isn't it, Tousan?" he added to Makarov. "Laxus, I love you. I've protected you and taught you how to protect yourself. I have never kept you weak: I have always pushed you to become everything you can. Not like this lazy old fuck."
Makarov was backing them out of the room now, jerking and uneven.
"It's your turn, Laxus," Ivan called. "I want to see you deserve what I've given you. Show me you were worth it. Prove me right!"
"He was already good enough!" Makarov snarled.
"I told you, Otousan, he's my son. I know him far better than you do, and I can tell you: he's tough."
Makarov whirled, coat twisting as he turned his back. Grabbing Laxus's hand in a too-tight grip, he pulled him from the room. At the threshold, Laxus struggled and looked back, holding out a hand, as if he could catch his father, snag him in his palm and rescue him from this hard, cold place.
"I'm sorry—" Laxus gasped.
Ivan's face turned into a familiar glare of anger.
"What have I told you about apologizing? Faggot. Get out there and don't fucking disappoint me. Don't be afraid of power."
Makarov flung the door shut on Ivan's last words, the bang ringing loud in the sudden silence. Laxus gaped at the metal, fighting tears.
"Don't listen to a thing he says," Makarov growled, words too fast, angry eyes focused elsewhere. "He's wrong. Ignore him, Laxus. Be better than him."
"Better…?"
"I should never have brought you here. Don't ever ask for this again."
The command made Laxus's mouth slam shut.
Every day, Laxus remembered his tear-streaked promise to himself in the woods: I will never be weak again.
He was weak though, one more time.
When Makarov took away Ivan's guildmark, it was in front of the entire guild, the shame visible for all to see. And the next day, Ivan was gone. Disappeared, just like Mayu.
When Laxus went to the house and found all Ivan's possessions cleared out, something inside him shattered. Sobs grabbed him and wouldn't let go, and he shut himself in his old room.
He was never coming back. Laxus knew: he'd never see his father again.
With that thought came a strange relieved sense of stability.
Laxus was furious at himself for crying, but even more furious for feeling happy. The thing was, with Ivan gone the pain was over: no more uncertainty; no more wondering when the next hit would land. Ivan had taken Laxus's greatest fear away with his presence.
That was a terrible realization. Ivan had scared him. His own father.
Nobody should be relieved their father was gone. Laxus loved him—had truly loved him, unceasingly, even when it hurt. Ivan had looked after him. When Mayu died, when it was just them, Ivan had held him when he awoke from nightmares. Had taught him to defend himself when others tried to make sport of him. Now without Ivan pushing him, would Laxus get weaker?
He decided that any happiness he felt came from the broken, fucked-up pieces of himself. If he'd been strong enough, there never would've been fear and bruises and disappointment. But he hadn't been good enough.
He hated all the feelings swirling inside him. They hurt. He wanted to stop hurting.
After a long, long time, there was a knock on the front door. A few minutes later, it creaked open.
Laxus already knew whom that smell belonged to. He listened as Freed crept upstairs and knocked on his bedroom door, all his movements soft and quiet.
Wiping his face, Laxus took a moment to answer. He'd overheard his grandfather asking Freed if he would look out for Laxus. Back him up, be there if he needed someone, help him remember he wasn't alone. Freed had answered very seriously: "I will. I promise."
Freed Justine's promises were unbreakable.
Though Laxus was peeved at his grandfather going behind his back, he was grateful for the certainty of someone's loyalty. Grateful someone was here now: it wasn't just the cold, silent house.
Wiping away all evidence of crying, Laxus got up and unlocked his bedroom door. With a jerk of his head, he gave Freed permission to enter, walking back to the window and flopping down.
Freed took a careful seat on the tatami a meter away.
He didn't say anything; didn't try to offer sentiments that wouldn't be true or helpful. Instead he just sat there, and Laxus sat there, and in the silence, calm finally bloomed in Laxus's heart. Closing his eyes, he breathed, and began to feel safe again.
His father was gone. For good. But he still had his strength. He'd tested it, and it was strong. Nor had he gotten sick since the implantation: not even an upset stomach. He had his guildmark, that black-ink symbol of pride. He had his name.
It was time Laxus Dreyar showed the world he was good enough.
Which meant no more tears. He had to lock the emotions away. A little box inside his soul—the place where he kept his mother, and now his father, and everything that made him disgustingly human. Every time he'd lost his mind to fear.
They couldn't hurt him anymore. He was untouchable.
Looking Freed up and down, he asked, "Do you want to team up on a job? Just us, no adults?"
Freed watched Laxus grieve.
It went on for months: Laxus hurting and trying not to show it. Taking it out in anger and shows of strength. Nobody knew Freed was watching, that he understood where the outbursts came from. But Freed saw everything.
He became the one person who didn't react when Laxus unleashed his frustration in violence, because Freed didn't see 'pubescent selfishness:' he saw Laxus's pain. He saw Laxus crying without shedding any tears.
Never tears. Laxus was too closed-off for that.
Freed felt so small before Laxus's electric anger. Unable to comfort him or get past Laxus's walls. He'd promised Makarov to be here—and even more than that, he wanted to be here, cared deeply about Laxus because Laxus was his friend, even if he was difficult.
Still, Laxus did not make caring easy. How could you be friends with a thunderstorm? Freed didn't know the rules. He didn't speak the right language. How could he possibly start a conversation about all the things Laxus never said?
Laxus's self-sufficiency was a wall between them.
But even in all that power, Laxus still needed reliable back-up. Freed was always at his back, filling in the gaps. He'd decided he always would be. There was something beautiful about Laxus he couldn't escape from. Laxus's vicious pursuit of justice; the way he joked when he wasn't putting up an image for others; his creative applications of magic; the absolute loyalty he showed to the few he deemed worthy; the hard-earned reward of his smile.
Freed couldn't explain it. Maybe he was like those crazy people who chased after storms.
The power of all that lightning, ruled by Laxus's repressed pain, would probably kill Freed one day. But Freed loved him anyway. He would never stop loving Laxus.
A/N: Sorry for the insanely long chapter? It's becoming normal for my updates. Oops.
