School is over. For the next three months. Ah, bliss, I forgot what you felt like; ah, free time, I forgot what you looked like. Now, if only I could convince my parents that writing is a productive thing that warrants me doing nothing all day. I don't think they'll believe me.

Forgive my usage of 1800's insults. I love historical fiction way too much.

OH! Please tell me if you caught where I switched tenses. I know I did. But I can't find it and it's driving me crazy and I hate publishing something not-perfect...but...yeah. Just tell me so I can get my perfectionism out of the way, ok? Thank you.

I don't own Fairy Tail.

~MM~

Kaby pulled at his tie, loosening the knot around his neck and trying to remind himself to feel settled, feel settled, feel settled. He was supposed to live in the house – supposed to own it and be used to giving orders and getting exactly what he wanted – but as he waited for the Fairy Tail mages to come collect their payment, all he could think about was the next house payment he wasn't going to be able to make because of this mission; because of his father's arrogant pride – stone and steel all built into the words he put down with a pen. The words that were his weapon and the most unyielding thing about him.

Not for the first time, he cursed his father for being such a stubborn man. He hadn't needed to write that book. What sort of father let their pride get in the way of his family for three years? What kind of father came home to cut of his own arm before leaving again without so much as a "You've grown." or an "I've missed you."? Kaby would have settled for a simple apology – would have done more than settled. Had his father apologized, there would never have been such an insistent need to find and destroy the thing that tore his family apart.

That book. That book, that book, that book. What kind of power should words and pages have over person? What made that dastardly Duke Everloo want my father's writing so bad? Why did my dad ever agree to write for the sick, twisted bounder?

And so Kaby fidgeted and crossed one ankle over the other knee, then the other ankle over the former's knee; back and forth until his wife snapped him a look through her laugh lines that told him if he didn't stop fidgeting, she was going to stop being quite so understanding about his need to incinerate this abomination of his father's, using all their money to do it. So Kaby made a conscious effort to stop moving. He placed his elbows against the padded armrests of the throne-like chair that dominated the sitting room. He twitched his toes in his shined, polished, and very much borrowed shoes instead of bouncing his knees, and he fixed his eyes on the clock above the door to keep himself from darting his gaze from the door to the fireplace, then back to the door, then to the other side of the room, then to his wife, then to his shoes, and then – well, he tried to stop thinking about the it because it was making his eyes itch.

When the clock strikes three-twenty-seven in the afternoon, the Fairy Tail mages stride in with all the arrogance and lazy self-motivation Kaby had come to expect of those with magical capabilities. He can't help but think, though, that there's something a little bit different than when he met them the first time. During their first visit, the pink-haired boy had taken the lead, boisterous and with a presence so incredibly present that he was impossible to ignore. There'd been vitality about him, a lust for life with every breath, like the world was waiting for him and he wasn't going to ever wait for the world. His eyes had devoured everything around him, taking in the everything and nothing and knowing, just knowing – like it was a fact and there was nothing to be ashamed of or humble about – that he was so much more real that anything around him. So alive compared to the routine that others worked themselves into. Salamander had burned up the air, leaching it of its importance and dragging it onto himself because that was just how he was and who he was and when he was himself he was so massive to be around.

It was so overwhelming that Kaby hadn't even noticed the quieter mage following at his heels, stepping on the backs of his sandals to draw that living thing to her, to look at her. When Kaby did notice her, that little scrap of a thing with eyes too wide and lips too quick to smile, soft and shimmering and entirely untouched by Salamander's domineering spirit and burning life, he'd been mystified and thought why didn't I notice her? because she was every bit as present as her counterpart, just...smoother. The world molded to her, fit her like a glove, and protected her; like it was saying this is something precious to me and filling in all the cracks around her, lifting her feet from the ground so that she couldn't be tripped. Kaby had the distinct impression that without the fire mage at her side, the one that drew her eyes and in turn pulled his gaze and somehow, she would forget herself while looking up at the sky, tracking constellations no one else could see during the day. Kaby got the feeling that they were always looking at one another. Not maybe knowing, but looking, noticing, realizing.

His father had been intrigued by people like them; old souls, he'd called them. People with time lines buried in their eyes and different worlds mapped into the palms of their hands. People who always met that other person no matter where they ended up – no matter the circumstance – and they weren't really soul mates, because something like that didn't exist, but they were people who were as close to them as possible. Bonded people, he'd called them. Finding and searching people.

Kaby wondered how long they'd been searching for one another to keep looking at each other like that.

When they walked in at three-twenty-seven in the afternoon, this time with the overbearing ubiety of the fire mage slightly dampened down and tamed – held off the nape of the girl that walked before him – the air convulsed and shuddered, laughing as it sparked off the girl's eyes and shined in her wake, the boy couldn't take his eyes off her. Kaby had to wonder if it was his father's influence, the blood in his body turned to ink and looking for words to write, that had him feeling inspired by the pair. It's like she's the sky, full of blue and white and light, and he's seeing the sky for the first time, her face framed by sun-fire, caressing the edges of her skin and saying 'she is perfect' while he just agrees; a dragon trying to take gold from the clouds and knowing it will never stay underground.

And it grows less obvious as they're around Kaby more. Their eyes move past one another, no really seeing, not really staying, but passing. Their bodies don't always angle towards one another, the Celestial Mage moves on her own and presents her ideas, the Fire Mage drags his feet and sniffs around every now and again, eyes catching on the glimmering objects around the room. It's all so practiced, and all so natural, and it just works, because whether they know it or not, both of them are just so aware.

Their eyes pass, and then their shoulders relax. It's imperceptible. Something Kaby doesn't even know why he notices, but he does, and when they relax he finds himself fidgeting less, tapping his toes less, and thinking I don't belong here less. It was comfortable, the way their eyes darted past each other, both knowing better than to hold a glance too long, but not really caring if the other caught their irises moving past them. The Celestial Mage moved about, showing him what she found in the book titled Daybreak and infuriating him, but she doesn't move outside a radius of her partner. He's the center, and she's the moon. She's stuck in orbit while he follows her whims, emotions turning like the tide as he moves on his own around the room. Half of the time, the brightness that catches his eye is her; shining in her self-righteousness and confidence. It's all so new and not-so practiced, but still natural. Kaby almost forgets what he was there for in the first place, but he's reminded all the same when the pages of his father's detested book come to life, rearranging and respelling and correcting grammar to form a book of letters addressed to him.

The book is brought to life by the girl's words and when the light shines on her face, Kaby is left staring, because how had he not noticed her? Her aura was every bit as big as her partner's, encompassing the room and causing the air to sigh in glee, because she was so there. Salamander's presence was dwarfed by hers and Kaby couldn't help but wonder what was so impressive about a boy who ate life like he ate dinner when there was a girl who was loved by life like she was life itself.

She's beyond importance, the words whisper by his ears, floating in the air, she's beyond his lust for life. As he is now, he won't be able to take her in. He won't notice her, running past the world like he has been.

Kaby wondered at that as his gaze traced over the stardust moats traveling the air, spinning around the blonde before returning to the book, kicking her hair up and making her eyes glow like the sky on fire. Salamander's eyes followed the river of words, too, a childish awe filling his face as he pokes and prods and stares. Kaby knew the exact moment he drifted upriver to where his partner was, because his eyes went a bit wider and his jaw went a bit slack and the grin died from his face. There's nothing childish about his awe when he whispered a word under his breath.

Amazing, he said. Then he grinned and threw his arms into the air, his eyes bursting like a million sets of fireworks, taking in everything that his partner figured out before screaming the word out louder the second time.

Amazing, he said again. Kaby knew that his saying that had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that words were floating in the air and everything to do with the woman who made it all happen.

~MM~

I'm doing my best to try and make these longer. But none of them will probably ever exceed five pages – even that's asking for a lot. I'll continue to try and drag them out a bit, but I don't want to ruin the story by doing that, so I'll apologize now for their awkward lengths.

OH YEAH. Ok, so guys, I wrote another story called the eighth day and would appreciate it a lot if you would go give it a once over and tell me what you think. I experimented a little bit with it – it also connects with my other one-shot hurts the soul like apathy which I think I warned you all about. Go read them if you have the time? Pretty please? My pouting muse thanks you.

R&R, please and thank you~!