Black And White (Are All I See)

Rogue and Sting have known it was coming for years, ever since they heard about it from Astrapi, and they've felt it ever since they heard the news about their honorary siblings. They ignore it, not because of fear but because of contentment. They've been friends practically since they were born, and they've been through everything together. Nothing can tear them apart as friends, and they don't really need much more than that. The feeling of dullness from their mating instincts has long since died down. They never really needed to accept it like Laxus did, nor did they know deep down like Natsu did. They're best friends and that's all they've ever wanted to be. They're thirteen, barely into adolescence, and they would still prefer a good friend over a lover and really, what more do they need?

They go on as they always have gone, never really acknowledging the bond between them and vaguely keeping in mind that Astrapi had said that mating didn't necessarily have to be romantic. They suppose that it might change in later years, but they're content to move along as they always have: side by side and facing everything as a single unit.

A year passes and nothing changes between them, then another year and another and suddenly it's been six years since the disappearance of their honorary siblings. It's still painful, almost moreso than the disappearance of their draconic parents. Fairy Tail, as they quickly find out, is in complete shambles but they can't give out their help publically, and they won't interfere unless they're directly asked. They respect their siblings' former guildmates too much for that. So, they listen and live and do jobs and hear about Blue Pegasus' assistance of Fairy Tail, and they continue to hear that the missing Fairy Tail members will probably never return. It's a hard thing to accept.

Everything changes that sixth year.

It begins with Rogue finding himself staring at Sting just a bit too long. They're sitting together by the river as they're prone to do, laying in the sunshine next to each other. Sting has his head resting in Rogue's lap, ice-blue eyes closed to the bright light. They're a study in contrast, pale blond hair spread across black cloth, short, tight vest and loose billowing robes, reserved, mellow countenance and bright cheer. They don't speak, just enjoy the relative silence and savor their solitude away from the rest of their guild members.

Rogue looks down, studying the angles in Sting's face, the stubborness of his chin compared to the soft fullness of his lip, the gentle fan of pale eyelashes on pale skin, the faint line of the scar by his eyes. He's seen the blonde's face a million times, but he feels as though he's never seen it before and he can't study the slope of his forehead, the gentle crease of his eyes, the smooth turn of his nose, or the sharpness of the bones enough. He wants to memorize every line and shadow of blonde, and then memorize it again and again.

Blue meets his gaze and he studies that too, the draconic pupil surrounded by a pinprick of ice blue filled with a million different shades of light blue he has no name for. They're calm, for once, a serenity rarely seen softening the blue and drooping his lids slightly. With a start, Rogue realizes that Sting is staring straight back at him, a question in his gaze.

"Rogue? You're thinking something," says the blonde quietly, sleepily.

"I'm memorizing," replies Rogue, and he can say that openly because it's Sting. He gets a faint smile for that before the blue is hidden yet again.

"I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to memorize when I'm right here in front of you."

"We thought that with the others. Long ago, back on Draconia, we thought we'd never part and now they're all gone." There's not much emotion in Rogue's voice as he says it, just a slight melancholy that only Sting or the others would be able to detect. Blue blinks open again, and the blonde shifts so he's sitting up and meeting Rogue's red gaze evenly.

"We are never going to be apart. Ever," he says seriously, conviction in every sound.

"You can't promise that."

"I will never let it happen. I can't lose you. No matter what, we're never going to be farther a city apart."

"You can't control everything though," Rogue protests.

"We are never going to be apart. Ever," repeats Sting firmly, and somehow Rogue believes him.

"Okay," he says simply. Sting lays back down but keeps his gaze firmly fixed on Rogue's face.

"What are you doing?" asks Rogue.

"Memorizing."

It also begins with Sting finding himself staring at Rogue for far too long. He wakes up in the middle of the night to an empty room with a jolt of panic. Rogue is nowhere to be seen, but Frosch is sleeping soundly at the foot of an empty bed.

Sting slips out of the room quietly, careful not to disturb Lector, and immediately heads for the river where he's fairly sure Rogue can be found. He stops a few feet away at the sight of his friend lit by starlight and moonlight, pale skin even paler washed in silver-white, but also almost glowing. He's still mostly part-shadow, despite the full moon and the array of stars above, a dark form on a dark ground. His too-long hair is back from his face for once, and Sting can see the angles of his friend's face, a sight he used to see all the time but now a rare gift.

He looks beautiful in that moment, and slightly ethereal. Sting's breath catches in his throat and stops altogether as he looks at the ghostly form of his best friend. At night, in the shadows and half-shadows, that is Rogue's domain and god does it suit him.

Sting's not sure how long he spends staring at the sight layed out before him, but his observations are broken by a glint of red meeting his gaze and pale lips forming words.

"How long have you been standing there?" asks Rogue. Sting blinks slightly, broken out of his revery.

"Not long," he lies. "I figured you'd be out here when you weren't in the room."

"Did I wake you?"

"No," Sting lies again. "Want some company?" Rogue shakes his head and stands.

"I was about to go back in."

"Why were you up in the first place?" Red eyes study his face yet again. It's been happening more and more often in the few days that have passed since the moment by the river.

"Memories. Thoughts. Fears," is the simply answer. "Why were you up?" Sting pauses for a second, not quite sure why he had woken up.

"Because you weren't there," he finally settles on. There's understanding in the familiar red gaze and they walk back inside together.

Rogue is scared. He and Sting had agreed not to change anything between them because of the bond, but he finds himself unable to tear his gaze away from the blonde. Something in his chest pulls whenever he watches the way his friend laughs or smiles or relaxes or moves or just exists, vibrant and full of vitality. He's always been content to be the silent shadow at the blonde's side, a constant, easily forgotten companion, and he finds himself wanting to stand away in the sidelines and study every single minute detail of Sting.

It terrifies him. He wants to remain in that familiar world of friendship, where they're the only ones in the world and the other is all that matters, but at the same time he doesn't want that anymore. He wants to be the one who takes up all of Sting's time, even though he already does, but he wants to fulfill all aspects of Sting's life, mean everything to the blonde the same way Sting does to him. It's selfish and awkward and unfamiliar and thrilling and terrifying and he almost-but-not-quite hates it.

He sits and watches and admires and all the while he fears Sting's hatred, fears Sting finding out. He slips out of their room late at night to admire the wavering reflection of clouds and stars and midnight blue in the river that's just barely calm enough to have recognizable images. There something beautiful in the way it shatteres everything in the night sky with its simply rushing motion, and there's something soothing about the constant rush of water filling his ears and the cool night air pressing against sleep-warm skin.

He knows that Sting watches him while he sits there. Ever aware of the blonde's presene, Rogue can feel the gentle weight of that ice-blue gaze scanning him and his face again and again, can see the faint glimpse of silver-washed gold out of the corner of his eye and smell the clear scent of ice and distant mountains that always surrounds the blonde mingling in with Crocus's every-present floral scents. In those silent, fragile moments so easily broken by the slightest twitch of hand, Rogue can almost pretend that Sting feels the same way as him. Then his gaze shifts minutely or he barely moves or his breathing is off and the idea is as shattered as the sky in the water.

Sting is falling for Rogue and he knows it. It's a thrilling feeling of falling and floating, excitement and calm, fear and safety, unfamiliarity and comfort. It creeps up on him while he knows it's inevitably coming and it's an odd, distant sensation that terrifies him. He wants to run away and never look at Rogue again to keep from spewing out confessions he doubts would be received very well but he can never leave Rogue, not ever. Not only has he promised, but the mere thought of not knowing where Rogue is, even if it's just what part of the city he's in, is enough to send Sting straight into a panic attack that makes him instinctively search for Rogue, whether by touch or by sight or smell or hearing.

It grants him a surprised look that also has some level of understanding, he knows, because Rogue does it too. They have always been together and they have to always be together. To part unwillingly, without knowing where the other is is incomprehensible and completely unacceptable. Sting supposes it's the dragon in him that snarls silently that Rogue is his, and his alone, and no one else can have him. It's an oddly possessive thought that both scares Sting and feels right.

No matter what, though, he cannot ever tell Rogue. Even the vaguest possibility of losing Rogue is completely unacceptable and Sting is sure that to tell his dark-haired other half of the drastic change in feelings towards the idea of being romantically together is to lose him. So he waits. He watches and stares and admires and his heart aches with the sudden amount of love he realizes he holds for Rogue, and not the familial kind.

Sting is a social person. He's always been the more outgoing between him and Rogue, often the spokesperson for both of them, the one who always wants to meet new people and see new places. Rogue has always been the type to be content with the friends he has in the place he's in. That, of course, never held true for Regen Town, but it did for Draconia and it does for Crocus. Sting's socialness, however, has always been tempered by the one fact that has always held true for both him and Rogue: there is no room for anyone else. That fact was completely scrapped on Draconia, but with Cobra in prison and the rest of the Dragon Slayers gone (gone not dead), the exception is no longer applicable. Past their honorary siblings, Sting and Rogue will never have friends other than each other. It's a fact of their lives, and it has always tempered Sting's propensity for socialness.

With Rogue beside him, which Rogue always is, the idea of having any other friends is inconceivable. Sting cannot imagine a world where Rogue is not beside him, and he cannot imagine a world where Rogue is not the only one beside him, their honorary siblings continuing to be the only exceptions. Even when Rogue is not beside him, which is very, very rare, he, along with the rest of the Dragon Slayers, is the only one in the world who is important.

With his newfound feelings for the Shadow Dragon Slayer, people are dull and boring in comparison to the quiet humor of Rogue, the soft melancholy of Rogue, the reserved yet incredibly open to those who know him personality of Rogue. They've always paled in comparison to his dark haired companion, but it seems even more pronounced a difference and Sting never wants to talk with anyone but Rogue, his honorary siblings, and the dragons again. All but two of those options are out of the question now, and one of them is a hassle. That leaves Rogue, as always. Sting never wants to talk with anyone but Rogue again, and he wants to be the one to sit back in the shadows and memorize every detail of Rogue again and again, every day.

Somehow such passionate, wholehearted devotion and love and emotion feels as though something's not right. Sting is fairly sure that most relationships don't involve such self-imposed isolation for the couple. He and Rogue are each other's world. The entirety of it. Nothing exists past them and their honorary siblings and, on Draconia, the dragons. It's overwhelming and far too intense for it to be healthy, and they're far too co-dependent to be healthy. Still, it feels right to be like that.

Sting doubts it will ever change.

Sting and Rogue are out in Crocus as they're prone to be. They walk side by side, talking in quiet voices, easily picking out their words despite the rumble of the crowd. They're not really going anywhere in specific, just enjoying the sweet scent of flowers that constantly permeate the air. It always brings back memories of the old woman and her verdant garden providing the only color in their dreary hometown.

A woman is standing on the side of the street, carrying a basket of the most vibrantly colored roses they've ever seen. The blossoms are palm-sized, colored deep scarlet, gentle pink, flawless white, petals velvety and soft-looking. Sting is drawn to them by their scent first, subtly leading Rogue through the streets until they stand before the vendor. Sting is the one to walk up to her.

"Do you grow those yourself?" he asks. She looks up at him and smiles.

"Yes, I have a garden on the edge of the city. But to answer your real question, I have magic with plants, as you've probably guessed. Do you want one?" Sting looks at the array of colors she holds in her arms. There are a few black roses that Sting is fairly sure isn't a natural color, but he thinks they fit Rogue. He lifts one delicately and inhales the sweet scent. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Rogue looking around a bit impatiently. He turns back to the woman and shows her the rose.

"Death?" she asks, brow furrowed. "You and that black-haired boy look happy together."

"Rogue? We're not – we're just friends," he quickly replies.

"Oh, you just looked so close, I thought–" she begins, trailing off as she looks behind him. He turns, and Rogue is standing there staring curiously at the basket of roses.

"These… these smell like the old woman's garden." He brushes a finger against a petal gently. He turns and catches sight of the black rose in Sting's hand. "Who is that for?" he asks. Sting quickly turns to the woman and hands her some jewels.

"I thought so too," he says before thrusting the rose at Rogue. The Shadow Dragon Slayer takes it between careful fingers and inhales deeply, looking at Sting with soft, warm eyes that the blonde can almost pretend are those of someone looking at the love of their life.

"Thank you," he says softly as they walk off together, Rogue twirling the thornless stem between his fingers as thought in deep thought.

As they walk back to their apartment, Rogue considers the velvety black rose in his hand. A lover's gift in his color from his best friend. He's reading too much into it, he's sure, but he can't ignore what little he remembers of flower symbolism. The woman had taught them about it, long ago, but now all he retains are half-remembered fragments and a few full phrases – "Zinnia is for mourning" "Crocus- youthful gladness." "Daffodil- it's one of my favorite spring flowers. New beginnings, one of the first flowers of..."

Rogue stumbles across a full memory, one he can recall clearly. It had struck a chord in him at the time, eating hot blueberry pie while the rain pattering the window provided background to the old woman's lesson.

*Flashback*

"Roses- overrated in my opinion. I never needed flowery words to know whether my husband cared, and he knew it. An agapanthus was enough of a love letter for me, maybe bunched in with alyssums and baby's breath, and it was far better than the biggest diamond ring in the world. Still, roses are important," begins the woman, spreading out an array of flowers she's organizing into bouquets while Sting and Ryos enjoy feeling of hot pie going down their throats. She runs a flower shop,they find out, but she works from home.

"Why?" asks Sting through a mouthful of crust.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," she admonishes. "Roses have become the classic symbol for affection – don't ask me why. I just know their meanings. People do strange things, you two. Remember that." She pauses at that strange comment to hold the end of a string in her mouth.

"They've come up with a whole system, in fact. One rose- 'I love you,' love at first sight, 'I still love you,' 'all my deepest affections are on you,' 'you are the one for me.' Two roses- mutual affection, 'let us be together.' Three- 'I love you,' shared love, a one-month anniversary gift, 'you and me and our love for company.' I could go on and on about the various meanings for the colors of roses, the number of roses, the type of rose. There are twenty-six different numbers of roses that symbolize something specific, and one of those numbers is a thousand and one. It's silly to stick to just one flower, but roses have become that flower. There are so many others that could say the same thing, or even say more." Sting and Ryos finish their pieces of pie while the woman swiftly ties together a bundle of flowers in a complicated-looking bow.

"Miss? Why do most people only use roses?" asks Sting, careful to swallow first this time. She looks at him with an odd expression on her face.

"In my experience, people don't like to change and they don't like to accept what's difficult. They're static. Now, don't let the ramblings of an old woman affect you, but most of the people I've met won't take the time to learn symbolism. It's so much easier to buy a rose, not choose a random flower or carefully decide on what ones to buy, so people take the easy way out. I've met customers who come up to me and ask what kind of flowers to buy their wife for an anniversary and come back the next year to ask the same thing, again and again." Something in Sting and Ryos' faces make the woman shake herself a bit and smile warmly at them.

"I'm just a cynical old woman, though. Don't you worry about what I say, make your own decisions about the nature of people." They're quick to ignore that odd moment, as young children are prone to do, distracted by the food before them and the woman's gentle voice as she starts talking about the arrangements she's doing.

*End Flashback*

"One rose- I love you," murmers Rogue absentmindedly as rose petals tickle his nose. Sting glances up sharply.

"What?" he asks, something like panic coloring his voice.

"Just remembering," says Rogue. "What was that lady talking to you about?"

"Oh, she was just surprised at the color choice." Sting is hiding something. There's hesitation in his voice that Rogue recognizes.

"Why?"

"Black roses mean the death of a relationship. She- she apparently thought we're together." Rogue can feel a blush staining his cheeks as he says,

"Oh." He looks sidelong at Sting and in an odd, sudden burst of confidence, he opens his mouth again. "Do you want to be?" Blood roars in his ears and he's shaking, but his voice is steadier than he thought it would be. Sting stops suddenly and forcefully turns Rogue to face him.

"Do you?" asks the blonde, ice-blue eyes boring into his intently. Rogue can't speak, can barely breathe, and can't believe he's instigated this conversation. He nods mutely, face burning, and tries to look away, or down, or anywhere but Sting's blue eyes. He can't.

He face is scanned intently, the black rose plucked from his hand, and then Sting is kissing him. Rogue can feel his eyes widen, his mouth open, and it runs continuously through his mind that he's kissing Sting. His arms wind around his oldest, closest friend; his hands bury in soft, white-blonde hair.

"I love you." It slips out against a soft mouth unintentionally and he freezes until the words are returned, barely mouthed against his own lips. They part, black rose forgotten on the street as they walk back home.

The sun is a little brighter, Rogue thinks, but not quite as bright as Sting. He smiles slightly and slips his hand into the blonde's.

A/N: I got the meanings for flowers and the meanings for different numbers of roses from , , , and a book called The Language of Flowers. The chapter title is from Lateralus by Tool. I didn't really know where to go with this chapter, but I think I figured it out as I went on. I kind of wanted to post this on Valentine's Day, but I ended up getting really busy with other stuff so here's a belated Valentine's Day chapter for you. Sorry this took a bit to get out. Thank you and, as always, read and review!