Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Summary: He thinks she's made of air.
Lyrics: Lego House by Ed Sheeran
A/N: Chapter 2 was a piece of my heart. Here I present you with a scrap of my soul. And may you please be careful with it.
There's hidden meanings all over this fic; you are welcome to read between the lines, because you might be deceived by the self-denial and self-delusion from both parties. Love is strange thing, sometimes it's there and sometimes it's not. Sometimes you love effortlessly, sometimes you find yourself choking to breathe.
Because we've all been broken at some point, and regardless if you have to pick yourself together or have someone else pick up the shreds, be certain that somebody will be there to find the missing pieces.
I apologize for the terrible, horrible lack of creativity in the sentence format of this chapter in particular, but in my defense it's kinda intentional and kinda not.
—I'm gonna pick up the pieces, and build a lego house
when things go wrong we can knock it down—
Choking Air
.
He thinks she's made of air.
She came into his life like a swirling tornado: lifting him off the ground, ripping trees from their roots and tearing up ceilings from the well-structured buildings in his world. Beautiful and chaotic, she left a path of destruction as she made her way and walked past him without a second glance.
He's left alone in the dark, carried away by the wrath of her wreckage; scared, dazzled and mesmerized by this natural disaster.
As the world he came to know is diminished to debris, he stands in the middle of those ruins with the conviction that he will never be the same after she rampage over his life —She brought in lightning and heavy rain, dark clouds and raging wind into his once peaceful climate, and he's certain that the sun will never ever shine again if she's not there to help him chase the storm away.
Stumbling back on his feet, he tries to reconstruct something from the shattered remains of his life, but every brick he puts together, every piece of land he seeds has her name carved on it —it irrevocably belongs to her. As subtle as a hurricane, she rocked and took over his world, spiraled him off track and doomed him to restless mornings and sleepless nights of endless longing.
Oh, how she ruined him.
He finds himself cutting his own chest open and ripping his heart out as a peace offering, a desperate attempt to mild the throbbing pain that threatens to swallow him whole. But despite him wearing his beating heart on his sleeve, she remains unfazed by his devotion.
It really isn't fair.
It's not fair at all, how he just never stood a chance against this weather —the way he has no control or choice over his emotions.
He follows her recklessly like the rain follows the wind —she's just as evasive and hard to grasp— and no matter how hard he tries to hold on to her, she always finds a way to slip through his fingers.
He's a storm chaser, caught in the eye of the storm.
But how to tame a hurricane?
She's the oxygen he's struggling to breathe, and every time she turns away from him, he's left breathless and gasping —choking— his lungs burning for air.
He's long past being angry and frustrated and trying to get over her —if there ever was anything more than a laughable attempt to do so— he's learned not to fight the impossible because there's no way you can result victorious on a battle against yourself.
And even if he did so, even if he stabbed his own heart until it bled out of any emotion, what would be left of him?
She's the air that lights his fire, and without her, he's reduced to nothingness —a kind of hollow that cannot be measured in size or depth, a numbness that sticks to every pore on his skin and refuses to fade away.
He swears that she glows in the dark —incandescent as the sun itself— and just like the dumbest moth of the pack, he's drawn to follow her light and set himself on fire.
—He just wishes that was enough to keep her warm—
.
.
But God, he loves every single little thing about her.
He loves that her eyes resemble the azure of a cloudless summer day when she laughs, but turn into midnight blue when anger frames her features. He loves the way her ridiculously thick eyelashes flutter when she rolls her eyes at him with exasperation, the little crease that forms between her brows when a scowl twists her look, and the condescending tone of her voice —the witty and sassy (and sometimes hurtful) remarks she makes about him.
He loves when she wrinkles her nose disapprovingly and when her brows arch up in a skeptical, sarcastic manner. He loves that she likes to chew her lower lip raw when she's nervous, that she only curls one corner of her lips when she smirks and that her laugh is more of a snort turned into a giggle —he loves how that sound sends is heart bursting in a bubble of joy, and he doesn't mind being goofy or straightforwardly ridiculous to coax that sweet sound out of her.
He loves that she says she doesn't like to share her things, but has no problem stuffing his mouth with her food to shut him up when he's being overly talkative.
He loves that she pets a gold fish for the sake of being emotionally detached, but will call every day to check if it has been properly fed when she's out on her missions.
He loves her silhouette when she stands barefooted by the window, the strands of blue she leaves on the bathtub after she washes her hair, the mess of her clothes scattered on his bedroom floor and the scent that lingers between his bed sheets when she's gone.
He loves that she makes him a terrible person and a better man at the same time —she makes him greedy, selfish and jealous, and she makes him caring, patient and generous.
And he finds it amusing that she contradicts herself in every way possible —she tries to be tough when she's so vulnerable and she pretends to be ruthless and cold when he knows her to be kind and sweet— she has mastered the art of lying to herself so well that he's almost convinced when she says she doesn't know how to love.
Because she does, doesn't she? Ain't it love what makes her pupils darken when their eyes meet? Isn't it the reason why her breath hitches in her throat when his lips touch her skin? Doesn't it show in the way she kisses him, the way she gives herself to him?
He can tell, right? He can't really be that oblivious to the difference between love and lust (or so he thinks).
.
.
Her laugh is dry and humorless when she tells him she's broken beyond repair, and no amount of cotton candy he tries to smear over her would ever fix that. She thinks he's sugar coating her, seeing her for someone she's not.
Little does she know that he's chipping chunks of his own heart to fill the missing pieces in hers.
And maybe that's a stupid, crazy thing to do. Maybe he's sailing on a sinking ship and he's gone way too far in his attempt to mend the holes on it.
.
Natsu says this thing he has for her is an unhealthy obsession he should get rid of ASAP.
Lucy says his desperation is becoming borderline creepy.
She says she's honestly seen more spine in jellyfish.
Maybe it's true. Maybe he's all that —an obsessive, creepy, spineless lunatic whose world revolves around her.
Or maybe he's just helplessly, crazy in love.
—and if you're broken I'll mend ya
and keep you sheltered from the storm that's raging on—
A/N: Okay I am SO SORRY that this chapter is so ridiculously cheesy, sappy and over the top *squirms uncomfortably* it's just how I feel okay?
If you missed my Author's Note update for last chapter, may I remind you that this is no longer a dumpster for my WIPs –this is a multi-chap, yay! So this is going to be potentially 5 chapters long.
Thanks a bunch to the people who reviewed, OMG I'm so grateful for you guys, you motivate me to keep writing because it's no secret that this pairing is next to nonexistent in the fandom :(
So there, down here is a review box and if you happen to submit one you will have my eternal gratitude! ^^