Summary: Natsu finds a tree. Nashi finds Natsu. And then…
Couple Author's Notes:
First and foremost: Chapter 3 took forever for me to publish. Oops.
I genuinely expected zero people to read this, so when it actually got some hits, and I even got kudos, comments, reviews, and favorites (Thanks so much! You have no idea how much you guys helped!) I had an, "oh, shit" moment where I realized I actually care about making this story halfway decent. A lot of the work I did went to outlining and research (even though most of the research will be blatantly ignored lol). I hope it will pay off and allow me to publish chapters more frequently, but I have also been busy.
NOW. onto notes that are actually important to the story:
Initially, Layla's earthbound last name was "Turner." It was supposed to be her last foster family's surname. However, I edited and changed it to O'Neil because I realized that made more sense. Sorry for any confusion. I went back and edited a couple other details, too, but nothing too big.
For anyone waiting for smut/lemons, I'm going to try to label chapters with lemons (at least on AO3). We'll see how that goes. Nothing this chapter.
*Content Warnings:
Almost everything to do with Nashi's upbringing on Our Earth is a very inaccurate portrayal of CPS, foster care, and the police. I didn't bother doing deep research on those things because it's only vaguely relevant to most of the story. Please criticize cops and the failings of the foster care system, just not on the basis of this fic.
Also:
Drug & Alcohol abuse mentions; swearing; graphic violence; nausea & puke mentions; ignorant ableism (mostly by Nashi/Layla, whose top personality trait ATM is "just wrong" but still); bullying mentions; death mentions (not any OC's); discussions of sex.
tbh, most of that's gonna be standard fare for this fic.
EDIT: sorry about the weird mistakes when I first published. I always have so many formatting issues on FFNet!
"This tree is talkin' to me!" […] "Yes, Great Tree!" - Natsu's line, Episode 76, English dub [~2:45]
"Oi, Mad Cow! If you don't quit whining and drive faster, I'll break your damn neck! You hear me?!"
The thick throat bobbed under Natsu's forearm in response to the growled threat. "Y-yes," came the hoarse choke. "But…it's Mad Bull, not—"
"Like I care!" Natsu snarled, managing to hide his vehicular distress behind a scowl he fixed on the little mirror the big bastard's eyes kept darting to. Sweat crawled down his temples.
It had taken mere minutes for his despair to burn into rage after Nashi left—and it didn't even happen because of how badly their reunion had gone. The guy Nashi had just finished thrashing had been holding a weird-looking Mini-Comm to his ear as exited the same door she had, too distracted by his conversation to notice the pink-haired man curled wallowing on the ground amidst a scattering of untouched bills.
Natsu would barely have noticed him, either—if he hadn't caught part of the asshole's side of the conversation:
"—think I tried that?! The little freak was gone by the time I could sneak into the—yes, I'm fucking sure! How the hell could I miss her pink hair?!"
Natsu had stilled on the ground.
"—sure that's the little bitch's apartment building?…Well, whatever…don't need an exact address, I'll kick down every door in the damn place till she comes out if I have to, and make sure that whore regrets the day she ever—ARGGHH!"
The hulking man had bellowed in pain as he staggered from the Dragon Slayer's sucker punch. His weird Min-Comm skidded across the ground, going totally silent as it audibly cracked against the ground.
"YOU'LL PAY FOR THAT, ASSHOLE!" the big man shouted, lunging.
Despite the brand new wave of near-paralyzing vertigo, it had been easy for Natsu to take him down. First, because the loser really was a huge waste of size and strength. Second, because of the rage which had driven him to his feet.
The world had both seared red and spun around him. In the back of his mind, he noted that the dizziness was almost definitely at least partly due to the fact that his fire was trying and failing to rise to the surface. Every attempt at using his Magic in this world, so far, had resulted in shattering dizziness. He didn't worry about it too much. He wouldn't have been able to control his Magic, anyway—not when he was this pissed.
After easily slamming the man to the ground, Natsu yanked the bastard's arm across his back until it trembled on the verge of breaking or (even more likely) dislocating.
"I know I didn't just hear you call my daughter a whore, you asshole!" he'd hissed, pulling the massive arm an inch further back, barely refraining from ripping it off.
"D-daughter!? You're—?"
"SHUT UP!"
Natsu had garroted the freak's throat with his free arm and chuckled darkly when he spluttered and gagged. He'd thought quickly, fighting his ongoing dizziness for clarity.
"Right. You're going to take me to Nashi's apartment. Now! Then you'll get lost and stay lost, you got it?!"
"N-Nashi? Who the fuck—?"
"THE GIRL YOU WERE JUST TALKING ABOUT, MORON!"
He'd been forced to accept a car ride—very reluctantly, giving in only when Mad Cow had spluttered that it would take them hours to walk to Nashi's building.
Now, sitting in a moving car yet retaining the wherewithal to keep the guy's throat locked under his arm from the back seat, he remained as creeped out as he'd been at the beginning of the journey. He'd always thought it would be awesome if he could ride in a vehicle without getting sick, that Wendy was basically a miracle-worker whenever she used Troia to help him out.
Now, under these circumstances, with his heightened senses stolen from him—Natsu found himself disturbed as hell by his ability to keep his wits in a dreaded moving Magical Vehicle.
It made an awful kind of sense, though. Whatever this world did to Magic sucked so much out of you, Dragon Slayers even had their motion sickness reduced. Maybe to the point they didn't have it at all, eventually, if Nashi's ability to ride a Magicycle was anything to go by.
In any case, Natsu's nausea was still pretty bad—but not so bad he had to let go of Mad Cow, which was good because the asshole had already tried to attack him once, when Natsu was reluctantly oozing into the car. The bastard paid for it with a head slam that created a small crack in his Magical Vehicle's window. As satisfying as his scream of pain and frustration had been, it had tested Natsu's already overtaxed temper. He couldn't hurt the guy badly enough that he couldn't take Natsu where he needed to go, but boy did he want to.
Sweat slithered down his face, stomach rocking persistently, but he managed to hide his strain until the car finally swished and jerked to a halt across the road from a medium-tall, crummy building. With a trembling, meaty hand, Mad Cow pushed the stick he'd been holding forward between the two front seats then quickly lifted his hands like a robber.
"W-we're here…" he sniveled.
Natsu glanced around, eyes narrowing as they briefly latched onto the Magicycle gleaming under a street lamp before returning to meet Mad Cow's beady gaze in the little mirror. "Right." He pulled his arm tighter against the thick throat, relishing the distressed-sounding gargles he got in response and the way a Vulcan-ish hand started clawing uselessly at his arm. "If you even think of laying a hand on my daughter again, I'll flay you alive! You got that?!"
Natsu had to let up on Mad Cow's throat just enough to hear the wheezed affirmative, wishing badly that he had his fire so he could brand this freak with the threat. There was something in the way those dark eyes gleamed and darted around that he didn't trust.
But he didn't have the option, and his stomach was rocking violently. The lump on Mad Cow's head and the crack in his Magical Vehicle's window would have to suffice. If he got any ideas about trying something, Natsu would be nearby to protect her, anyway.
"Good!" For the first time in living memory, Natsu was able to stagger right out of a Magical Vehicle and stay standing, albeit by the skin of his damn teeth. He scowled after the car as threateningly as he could as it roared away. Only after it had screeched around a corner did the Dragon Slayer double over to groan in agony.
After recovering, he stared up at the apartment building for a minute, somber and contemplative. So. This was where his daughter lived. Angry shouting emanated from broken windows, slurry arguments, violent threats, and the sounds of loud sex layered over each other. A man puked on the cracked bricks of the building's side. From the dark alley of the other side, a pair of shiny eyes stared at him unblinkingly.
Lucy would have blown her top if she found out their daughter had been living in a place like this. Natsu couldn't say the looks of the place was doing his blood pressure any favors, either.
Noting the location of the building, he'd hobbled off in search of food. As reluctant as he was to lose walk away from where Nashi was, passing out from hunger wasn't going to help either of them. Fortunately, he'd thought to grab the money Nashi threw on the ground and shove it in his pocket just before ordering Mad Cow to make sure his Magic Vehicle didn't shake too much. An order which had made the bastard splutter excuses about how "that was impossible!" and which he had not obeyed.
Natsu panicked slightly when he realized everything Nashi had given him only a couple hundred jewel-things. But when he found an open food stand (with wheels?! What sick bastard combined something so beloved with something so terrible?!) he sighed in relief upon reading the low prices. Jewel-whatevers went further here, obviously.
He proceeded to cheerfully order all the spiciest things on the menu until he was out of money. He wished it was Lucy or Mira's cooking—and that it came with his usual side of fire, but the food was tasty enough. Nothing could could clear his head or perk him up like good grub. He felt much better as he hobbled away from the wheeled food stand, waving back at the beaming (and oddly weeping?) family talking excitedly in a language he didn't understand.
Still, being clearheaded wasn't as much fun as usual, at the moment. He brooded as he ambled back to the dumpy building, the truth sinking in like a rock in a pond.
Nashi didn't believe him. Not just about the fact he was her dad, but about…anything. Hell, she didn't even go by the name "Nashi." Natsu could sort of start to understand how she'd come to be called "Layla", seeing as it was her middle name. He worried about the specifics of the name change, though. Fairy Tail's Strongest Team had had to use fake names on a few missions, mainly to infiltrate dangerous groups and take them down from inside.
Another guildmate who'd used fake identities in the past was Jellal (now the official Master of Fairy Tail's Branch Guild, Crime Sorcière). Aside from playing Mystogan back when he'd been a fugitive, he'd done it mainly to prevent enemies from retaliating against Fairy Tail or his family. Then there was Mest, who Natsu was pretty sure still did spy things for the guild, but thankfully didn't manipulate his own memories any more. None of the reasons he could think of for why Nashi might be hiding behind an alias made him feel too good, especially after his encounter with Mad Cow.
Even more concerning was the fact that Magic didn't exist here. That you were considered insane if you mentioned it at all. Even Nashi, one of only two born Dragon Slayers in history, thought so. What the hell was he even supposed to do with that?! He couldn't even protect her from whatever had forced her to take the name "Layla."
He stopped in front of her apartment building and scowled up at it for the second time, struggling to think straight enough to come up with a plan with how physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted he was.
It was supposed to be simple: find Nashi and everyone else who vanished into those portals, then bring them home. Since the day they all vanished, that had been his main goal. Hell, it was the self-appointed mission of pretty much all the Mages left in Fiore—most of whom had also lost at least one person close to them to the mysterious portals which erupted across the country. Natsu had achieved the first part of the mission only for Nashi herself to become a new obstacle. In every possible way, he was lost.
His head felt like it was going to split. The pain made it even harder to think clearly. But standing there, Natsu did manage to draw one important yet unfortunate conclusion: kicking down the door to his daughter's apartment building and yelling her name till he found her was almost certainly a bad idea.
He sulked at the realization. That was exactly what he wanted to do. Patience had never been his strong suit, and he was barely clinging to it at all after finding his daughter only to immediately learn she was in danger and living in a shit-hole. It was only what wisdom he'd gained as a frown man, a husband, and a father that allowed him to accept all he was likely to get from chasing her down again tonight was another kick—not to mention a lower chance of ultimately convincing her he was her dad. Something he had no chance of figuring out how to do when he was this tired and frayed.
Eventually, reluctantly, he headed to the park across the street from her house.
Or, uh, maybe a park? he wondered, eyeing all the dirty, bedraggled people curled up on benches or over the grass. Maybe travelers of some kind, seeing as some of them were in tents not too unlike the one he and Lucy had started bringing on missions after they'd started getting frisky. So long ago, now, but he could remember like it was yesterday.
He chuckled to himself at the thought and suffered the wave of ensuing (decidedly less-than-pure) homesickness. The breeze cooled Natsu's skin pleasantly as he scanned for a good spot to rest for the night, quickly spotting a tree with wide branches.
He didn't particularly like dozing in trees, preferring to spread out and/or cuddle Lucy as much as possible. But being able to was a skill that came in handy as a Mage—especially for S-Class missions that required initial reconnaissance.
Besides. In terms of this "mission", the tree's largest branch also happened to overlook Nashi's apartment building. Even from here, Natsu could see her Magicycle gleaming beneath its street lamp, well in-sight of the tree branch he had his eye on. From there, he could watch over her.
"Oi, watch it!" someone snapped when he tripped over them on his way over to the tree.
"Oops, sorry! My bad, man!"
The tree bark was merciless against his palms. He grimaced at the trouble his knee gave him going up and grunted as he pulled himself onto the wide branch.
"This sucks," he grumbled, shaking out his arms and glaring at his bloody, dirty knuckles. An entire lifetime of training dedicated to both his Magic and his body. Now he couldn't even punch a couple people without exposing bone, could barely climb to the lowest branch of a damn tree. He wondered idly if this is how Loke felt when he'd remained on Earthland for such a long time.
He wondered how Nashi must have felt, when she landed here. How hard it must have been for her. At least she hadn't been all alone. Even if Harley couldn't fly, now, Nashi had confirmed they'd been together. The thought provided a sliver of comfort.
He settled his back against the trunk and peered out over his left shoulder, pleased he'd been right: from the perch he'd found, he had a clear view of Nashi's Magicycle and apartment building perfectly. The nearly empty road between them sat like a dark and eerily still, silent river far below. Which apartment was hers? Could she look back at him, if she stood at a window?
"I'm keeping my promise," he vowed softly, staring at the apartment building. "No matter what, I'm taking you home, Nashi." He sniffled a bit, swiping the tears from his cheeks before they could wet his smiling lips.
Natsu crossed his arms behind his head and fell into a rather easy sleep, considering the bruises and aches on his weakened body.
Thud!
She fell back to the ground with a cry of surprise and pain. A small one—the squeaky cry of a child no older than five. Frustrated tears gathered in her eyes. She groaned, propping her elbows beneath her and squeezing warm dirt between her fingers.
A huff met her ears, and she lifted her eyes to focus on the person strutting towards her. It wasn't until he stopped right in front of her, blocking the sun with his head, that she could make him out. A scowling boy. Bigger than her, older, with hair the color of midnight.
It was when she noticed the edges of his form shimmering under the sun that Layla realized she was dreaming.
It had been a while since she'd had this dream…
The bright scent of fire and the smell of coming rain hung strong in her nostrils, so sharp they were breathtaking. So sharp they kept her in the dream despite her awareness of it. The combination of scents was inexplicably comforting. Familiar.
The boy crossed his arms over his bare chest, grunting irritably. "Would you quit?! Jeez! How many times have I told you to quit following me around, ya damn pest!?"
"Too bad!" she growled, still trying to get up. Her arms and legs weighed about a thousand pounds, and she wound up flumping backwards with a groan. "I-I'm gonna beat you, I swear!"
He rolled his eyes. "You mean like you said you were gonna yesterday? And the day before yesterday? And the day before that? And then also the—"
"Shut up!" Her cheeks burned. "Today's gonna be different!
"You get that I'm, like, way older than you, right?"
"So what?!"
"So I'm bigger and stronger, that's what!"
She groaned, pushed again. Once more, she fell. This time her head thumped against the dirt.
Concern peeked through the boy's scowl, his arms dropping back to his sides. "Oi! Take it easy for once, would you?"
She ignored him. "Get up!" she growled, fighting back tears of frustration. "I always get back up!" Moving her legs was like swimming through sand. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get them under herself. Finally, her frustration boiled over, and she stabbed a finger at the boy. "GET UP!"
"YOU'RE THE ONE THAT'S ON THE GROUND!" [*1]
He took a couple deep breaths. However, it became clear his efforts to calm himself didn't work when he exploded, "Why do you wanna beat me so bad anyway, huh?! I mean, the hell'd I ever do to you?!"
"It's not that!" she groaned, still pushing. "It's not like you did anything! I wanna beat you because…because you're so strong! If I wanna be the best, I can't waste time fighting a bunch of babies! If I wanna be the best, I gotta be able to beat the best!"
She could feel his gaze on her as she finally managed to push herself to her hands and knees, breathing heavily.
He huffed again, and this time, the sound was less annoyed. "That'll never happen," he chuckled, then sighed. "Damn…you really are a pest, you know that, Nashi?"
Just as she gritted her teeth, preparing to stand, a hand appeared in front of her face. She looked up in surprise to find the boy smiling down at her. The irritation in those strange, clear blue eyes—fringed in long, dark lashes—had softened into an exasperated sort of fondness. His outline was clearer, now. Less shimmery. "Well? Thought you said you were gonna beat me. Can't do that from down there, can you?"
It was when she took the sparkly Edward Cullen child's hand that she woke up. Always then.
Awareness of the pain in her battered body slammed into her like the morning's white light against her eyelids. Groaning, she flung an arm over her eyes only to hiss when the movement tugged at muscles stiffer than cold taffy. Harley stirred at Layla's abrupt movement, a purr emanating into her side. Her joints throbbed as did the underside of her right jaw.
She could tell from the din of traffic floating through her closed window that it was past time to get up. She'd had an absolute shit of a time falling and staying asleep the previous night, but she couldn't afford laziness now, when the Championship fight was less than a week out [*2].
Unlike most fighters of Layla's caliber, she didn't have top-notch sparring partners, a doctor, or a nutritionist at her beck and call. She didn't have money to throw around so she could pay other people to make her the best; she didn't even get paid anywhere near as much as the assholes she fought, whenever they won a fight. Hell, she didn't even have one coach any more. She was the best because she woke up earlier, trained harder, gave more, and aimed higher. It was up to her. Her alone. It'd always been that way.
And yet…that morning, for a few longing minutes, she tried to let sleep keep her. She clung to the details of the years-forgotten dream, heart pinching inexplicably as they faded despite her best efforts, like smoke slipping through her fumbling fingers. The smell of fire and coming rain were swamped by the pungent odor of sweaty clothes and kitty litter. The echo of the boy's voice slipped away beneath the sounds of traffic and the couple next door's shouting.
Unfortunately, the one part of the dream she wanted to forget—the detail she'd stewed over all night—stuck to the front of her brain like it'd been superglued:
"Damn…you really are a pest, you know that, Nashi?"
…Nashi…
That damn name.
Rage Layla had been too tired to fully realize the previous night boiled up in her chest as "NASHI" screen-savered through her head, the memory of that homeless, pink-haired wingnut popping up between the floating words like a bad jump scare. She gripped her bedsheets with swollen, lilac knuckles and clenched her teeth so hard, they creaked like they were going to break.
Why? she fumed silently, struggling to swallow the hot, frustrated scream clawing its way up her throat—only because she didn't want to scare Harley. Fucking WHY?
It was bad enough that she'd stewed over the bizarre encounter until the not-so-wee hours of morning, unable to sleep thanks to her shithead roommate and her "friends" making a bunch of sounds she'd never wanted to hear in her goddamn life! (Not to mention the conversation she overheard between two of Gracie's creep-ass "guests" right outside her bedroom door, two guys egging each other to "get the pink-haired girl involved in the fun" until Gracie lured them back to the living room—lucky for them.) But when she'd finally started to drift off, she'd sworn not to think of the incident until after her fight four days from now.
That's right...she thought grimly. Four days.
The Championship.
Her shot at redemption.
Her stomach churned. The frustrated scream climbed higher in her throat.
It was humiliating and infuriating enough that Pinky Wingnut had caught her off-guard so bad. For most of the night she'd raged at herself for engaging with some freak who was so clearly insane, let alone almost believing him, let alone asking him about…that name, a name she didn't even give a shit about anymore. A name gathering dust in the bottom of the tattered, locked trunk across her room, right along with the police file it was tucked away in.
It felt like she'd had an embarrassing childhood toy she didn't remember burying shoved into her arms without warning. And instead of throwing it back in the jerk's face and telling him to fuck off, what had her stupid ass done? Asked him where he dug it up. Oh, and paid him for his trouble.
But no, she brooded, dropping her arm from her face and letting the light sear her eyes so that she could glare at the ceiling. Worse than the fact that she'd let him wobble her mentally and emotionally, worse than the fact she'd given him $250 she couldn't really afford to hand out…worse than any of that was the bastard's timing.
The moments following her win had already been a shitshow, even if no one but her knew it. It'd been that way the whole past year, but last night—the semi-final fight—had definitely been the worst. The second Lee had thrown her away from Mad Fuck or whatever and she'd managed to pull herself out of "fight mode" to convince herself that yes, she'd actually won, her mind had eagerly jumped to her corner—only to remember it was empty, now. There was no one there. No strong, smirking older blonde boy or a tiny, old one-eyed man offering up one of his rare, proud smiles through his mustache.
Just a little bit of hope had kept her heart from sinking too far as she remembered that her friend from the system, Rose [*3], had promised to come out to watch her tonight.
The triumphant smile and pose had been a facade, one which she struggled more and more to keep up this past year. The effort had felt monumental while she strutted around the perimeter of the cage, heart warming a bit at the sight of some regular fans cheering from the front row, decked out in what must have been homemade merch with her name all over it, even as she remained desperate in her search for skin pink and slightly warped with an old burn; messy brown waves of hair; and large, dreamy hazel eyes in the crowd.
She never found them.
As her eyes' search had faltered, realizing her friend wasn't there like she'd promised she would be, they'd begun to sting, much to her horror. Bitterness nipped at her crumpling heart.
I…have nothing—
It was with the thought she barely managed to stifle, this time, that she'd been completely unable to maintain the facade, all of her effort needed to smother the pit trying to yawn wide inside her. The throbbing, gloved fist she had lifted in triumph had begun to drop, the smile had fled, her vision had blurred…
And then Pinky Wingnut had appeared like a bolt from the damn blue, bellowing the name she'd been so close to finally forgetting. In front of a shit-ton of people, no less. He hadn't even looked embarrassed for himself. Had thrown himself into the arena like he had any—no, every damn right to be there, obviously not caring who he had to punch, elbow, or throw to get there. Had shamelessly barked and pitted himself against the ref, Lee, whose very presence demanded respect.
No, he was too crazy for shame, something which had finally been driven home during their second "reunion" when he'd started yelling about Harley—a name he definitely shouldn't have known. Not even if he somehow had a copy of the same police file she did. Her police file. In the notes they took during the interview with her five-year-old self, the cops had consistently misspelled Harley's name as "Charlie," one of the many ways those dolts had fumbled and fucked up while trying to figure out who and where her parents were.
At least "Charlie" makes more sense than "Nashi Layla Dragon O'Neil"…she thought, eye twitching at the thought of the ridiculous name the pigs claimed her five-year-old self told them. Granted, Little Layla had been pretty obsessed with dragons. Even more than she had been throughout most of her childhood in the system. Even more than Pinky Wingnut. Maybe even enough to make up such a ridiculous name, one which literally contained the word "Dragon."
If she remembered the interview correctly, she'd even whined that she was hungry and begged the cops for some fire to eat—that was, when she wasn't too busy crying because Harley wouldn't talk to her or making up wild shit about how her parents were warlocks or whatever, how she belonged in a fairy tale. She hadn't even bothered to specify which one.
Throwing her blanket off herself and the cat in question, who beeped hoarsely in protest, Layla swung her legs out of bed. Her bruised bare feet slapped against the cold, cheap, off-white tile as she fumbled for her trusty bottle of pain pills on the nightstand, popped a couple, then brought her water bottle to her lips to wash it down.
She stood and stretched her arms above her head with a groan, scratching at her tan, toned stomach and wincing slightly as she tottered over to her bedroom window, tripping over piles of manga volumes on the way [*4]. She'd gotten lucky with her view of the park across the street, especially with the big, half-dead old tree which dominated the middle of the panes.
Now, Layla was so busy raging at herself, she barely registered the sight. Didn't see the sunny day, the homeless people rolling up their tents and clearing out before someone driving by called the cops. She glared at the cars moving below, seething with her own thoughts so hard she could almost feel steam pouring out of her ears and nose into the room.
No more goddamn distractions, she swore viciously to herself. No more crying during her victory lap like a pathetic weakling. No more getting sidetracked by delusional Pinky Wingnuts. No more thinking about…that name and all the mortifying bullshit that came with it. Four days out was Championship night. Until then, no more fucking distractions.
She sat there, staring unseeingly at the old tree and tried to amp herself up, frustration detonating slowly in her brain as her heart barely stirred at her own lecture. No matter how hard she worked, how much she tried, or how many times she yelled her catchphrase at the end of her fights…for the past year, something just wasn't there.
"I've got a fire inside me you'll just never put out!" came closer and closer to getting completely stuck at the back of her throat—and staying there. It felt more like a lie every time it left her lips.
Frustration finally hitting boiling point like a fucking teakettle screaming, she stomped back over to her nightstand, less tripping over her manga than kicking the pile, this time. She unplugged her phone from its charger, scowling as she scrolled through the notifications to see that not only had Rose not bothered to show up, she hadn't even fucking texted to explain why. The last text she'd ever sent came two days ago, just the words, I'll try n be there punctuated with a shitty smiley face.
"You fucking liar," Layla seethed under her breath, croaky voice shaking.
Distantly, she registered Harley (who'd apparently decided to quit being a lazy little lump) twirling around her ankles, mewling for breakfast.
She told herself it was anger making her heart wince, not pain. She knew Rose struggled. She did. She knew that. Her life hadn't been any easier than Layla's—in ways, much harder after the fire which left them both scarred in different ways. After Layla and a reluctant Gracie had managed to convince her to get help a couple years ago, she'd been so much better for a while. But now…
Now whatever, Layla thought viciously, black flames licking furiously at her insides. One thing, she'd asked for. It wasn't like she wanted anything crazy, just for one person who mattered to show up for two of the biggest fights of her life (so far). She'd long given up on Gracie, but Rose used to show up—even if it was only occasionally. Sometimes even when she was going through a bad period. Layla had been there for Rose as much as she could after juvie, had picked her up after benders, beat the shit out of anyone who made fun of her burns. And her "friend" apparently couldn't pay her back by just freaking showing up once or twice.
So much for "Foster kids don't ditch each other," she thought bitterly.
Fuck you too, Rose, she typed aggressively. Seriously.
Layla hit Send. Then, after pausing for a second, she typed out:
If you're not there Friday night, I'll fucking kill you!
Layla hit Send again. Clicking out of their conversation, she scowled as another text from an unsaved number made itself known through bolded font:
Yo, congrats on the win! Looks like we're up again! A fist emoji. I heard some crazy shit went down at the end of your fight, tho…u good?
Layla's eye twitched. Ever since that motherfucker Helio thwarted her attempt to take the championship title from him a year previously, he'd decided to fuck with her mind by sending annoying texts at least a few times a week. If that naive, gullible dumbass Rose wasn't the one who kept giving him Layla's number, insisting he "wasn't such a bad guy" Layla would have killed her.
She gritted her teeth hard enough to give herself a headache, almost mangling her phone. No matter how much she tried to tell herself she was too experienced a fighter to let that stupid douchebag psych her out, the rage burning in her chest and the fact that she still hadn't been able to make herself rewatch last year's championship fight—the only one she'd lost in the semi-unders—said otherwise.
The most she'd ever sent him was a poop emoji. Their "conversation" was basically just littered with them. But now, her temper was so close to snapping that she just deleted the conversation entirely with hard taps, refusing to give herself a chance to reply something stupid.
For all the fucking good it did. This time, the frustrated scream did leave her throat, making her sound like a fucking demon smoker.
She threw her phone on her bed with more force than necessary, breathing heavily while she watched it bounce.
"Whatever," she breathed to herself like a fucking bull. "Forget it, whatever!" At least she didn't get any texts from that other bastard anymore…obviously, changing her number a bunch of times had done the trick.
Harley, wholly unperturbed by her outburst, decided to up the breakfast-begging ante. She went from weaving around her ankles to clawing viciously at her bare leg, meowing louder.
"Ow!" Layla snapped, swatting at the little gremlin to shoo her off. "You fish-addicted, fucked up cat!"
Harley yowled petulantly. The little shit was Layla's best friend, and she loved her to death, but she could really be a monster when it came to her damn "fishies." Or scratching the shit out of her furniture and walls. Or if anyone other than Layla came near her (though Layla didn't really blame her for that one).
The little cat leapt atop one of the few still-intact pile of comics and manga near the window, white tail swishing agitatedly. Those odd, blank-but-not, round, charcoal eyes of hers an unblinking, salmon-filled demand. Layla was geared up to ignore her and get ready for the day—maybe even eat her own damn breakfast first, for once, if Harley was going to be such a little brat!—but her anger cooled when the morning light streaming in from the window illuminated the sheen of pink skin peeking through her white fur. Barely visible, but still there. A burn gained in the same fire as Rose's, before Layla managed to get her out.
Layla didn't feel bad for calling Harley "fucked up." She didn't. She was a cat, for crying out loud. She couldn't even understand a word she said anymore than she could fly like Pinky Wingnut the Stalker seemed to think.
The fighter sighed. "Tch…well, who wants a fishies, then?" she half-cooed, half-grumbled her usual morning phrase—which she'd never say in front of anyone else in her goddamn life!—then snorted and made to get dressed when Harley practically sang a meow at hearing her favorite words.
"Fuck off, Gracie!"
Her shithead roommate was the absolute last person Layla wanted to see while she and Harley were trying to enjoy their breakfast that morning. Especially when the jerk was practically naked—clad only in a thong and one of her loser "friends'" shirts (Layla assumed); especially when the apartment had gained a new beer can and burnt tin foil rug overnight; and especially when she was trying to steal Layla's food.
She slammed a bruised fist onto Gracie's lanky hand as it snaked to towards her bacon. The table, silverware, and Harley's bowlful of raw salmon rattled as she pinned it to the wood hard enough to leave a bruise.
"Ouch!" Gracie squeaked, wriggling her hand out from Layla's fist, Layla only letting her up after giving her a good long glare.
Harley, perched on the table right next to Layla's morning feast, was barely fazed by the jolt to the table or loud sounds. However, she was clearly not happy with Gracie's nearness. If Layla hadn't been there between them, there would have been a real concern for the safety of Gracie's hands. She lifted her head from the bowl of raw salmon she'd previously been loudly scarfing to stare down their lanky, pale roommate. Though her tail briefly bristled like a soda bottle, she quickly returned to devouring her fish to no one's damn surprise, although she ate more quietly now.
Meanwhile, Gracie pouted, rubbing her hand and eyeing Harley with a distaste that was far too familiar. Then she finally returned her angled, glinting dark eyes to her angrily flushed roommate. Her pout grew bigger as she threw her skinny, naked ass into the chair on the opposite side of the table from Harley.
"Seriously? You have that ginormous breakfast and can't even give your own bestie one tiny slice of bacon?"
"Bestie" was a major stretch, especially at the moment. But admittedly, it was a big breakfast:
One huge veggie omelet and a sizable hunk of meat (bacon, today) both marinated in enough spices to turn most peoples' tongues to leather. Whole wheat toast with almond butter. A big protein smoothie to top it all off. It was a ton of calories, but every one would be needed for today's training.
Makar, Layla's old coach, would have skinned her alive if he'd been around to know she wasn't taking the day after a fight to rest [*5]. She'd always thought it was a stupid rule, but she'd grudgingly followed it out of respect for her coach.
But now, Mak was buried in the graveyard a couple blocks over, and so was the "Rest Day Rule" as far as Layla was concerned. She hadn't rested a single day the past year, not even when sick. Rest was for spoiled douchebags like Helio who had an entire team dedicated to shaping him into an amazing fighter like a ball of fucking golden clay. Hell, he even had a fight manager now that most of his fights were in the "real" octagon rather than the semi-underground.
She should know, since she'd been watching all his fights since forever.
(Just not theirs.)
Layla bared her teeth at Gracie. "No, I can't! I need the energy for training! And even if I could, I wouldn't! Get your own damn food!"
"Ugh." Gracie rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her braless chest. "Don't tell me you're butthurt about last night. God, it's not even that big a deal. You are such a slut-shamer."
"Don't fucking call me a slut-shamer!" she snapped back, throwing her chopsticks down just to taunt Gracie with the fact that she wasn't even eating the breakfast she refused to share. "As if that has anything to do with shit! Last night was the semi-final—"
"I forgot," Gracie sniffed, turning away while closing her eyes.
"Like hell you did, liar!" Layla snarled. "I reminded you like a thousand times!" She scooped her chopsticks back up, squeezing them so hard they threatened to break. "I don't care who you bone, but I've got four days to the Championship fight, and I'm not getting there like a zombie because I had to keep listening to your shitty crooning! Next time, I'll throw their asses out!"
She pointed her chopsticks at the girl whose aura was now definitely souring, ignoring the sounds of Harley now loudly licking her chops from the other side of the table.
"And while we're on the subject, how does that scenario even happen!? 'Oh, hey, Rando, do you happen to be both an asshole?'" She pretended to pause as if listening, then to brighten with a mocking amount of pageantry. " 'Oh, you are? Fantastic! You pass the audition! Come on over around 8 for a gang-wang!'"
"It's 'gangbang'," Gracie sneered, her laughter making Layla's ears heat with embarrassment. She hunched her shoulders in an attempt to hide the effect, hoping Gracie would just move on. But since when had she ever gotten what she wanted?
"And also, I just meet guys at parties, get their numbers, and text them. Really not rocket science. But then, you wouldn't know that, would you? Since you're such an oblivious prude. Not to mention an imbecile." She stood, turning away to stretch and giving Layla an unfortunate full view of her bony white horse butt. "But then again…" She turned smirking over her similarly bony shoulder. "That's only to be expected from a gorilla."
Layla stiffened as the cruel nickname was thrown at her for the second time in as many days.
Let it go, she tried to tell herself. She's just pissed because you called her out. Foster kids don't ditch each other. They stick by each other. But this time, the placations didn't work. Her rage leapt to her tongue faster than she could bite it.
"Go fuck yourself, Third-Base Grace!"
Her roommate froze, turning to stare at her with wide eyes full of horror and disbelief as Layla glowered up at her, cheeks tinged in anger. She'd never resorted to calling Gracie that. Ever. Hell, she used to beat people up when they called Gracie that, after they both left juvie and wound up in the same high school.
The worst part was that she couldn't even make herself feel bad for pulling out the mean high school nickname. Not when she was having such a shit morning. Not when the resentment had been festering within her for this long. Not when Gracie had done the exact same thing to her—several times, now.
When their glare-off lasted for several seconds, Gracie's devastation transformed just as surely and quickly as Layla's had. Layla could see it in her eyes. For a second, she thought Gracie was going to say something really nasty, and she geared up, ready to fucking throw down if it came to it. Throwing her naked ass out was looking more appealing by the minute, let alone by the day, if she was being honest.
But then, as soon as Gracie's eyes narrowed and the fire flared within them, her anger was muted. Not exactly gone, but looking like a veil had been cast over it, darkening it.
"Whatever," she scoffed, snatching her phone off the couch she'd been crashing on for months and stalking towards the bathroom. "Get that hideous thing you call a cat off the table."
Harley, obviously unable to understand the girl, paid the words no mind, flicking her bristled tail while she watched her walk away.
Layla, on the other hand, felt her temper spike. "Her name is Harley! And fucking make me!" she snapped back. "And all this shit better be cleaned up by the time I get back, or so help me—"
The slam of the bathroom door cut her off, leaving Layla cursing under her breath.
Suddenly, she wasn't hungry any more, but she forced herself to shovel down the rest of her breakfast as quickly as possible. She told herself it was the spicy food making her eyes burn.
A good, hard run served as Layla's daily warm-up for training. Always had, as far as she remembered. As per usual during the flaming can of garbage that was the past year, she felt like she was flagging the entire time. According to the timer on her phone, her times were better than ever. Yet she'd never felt slower.
Sometimes, it felt like her phone and even her Wikipedia page—which documented her unbroken record over the past year—were lying to her, playing tricks on her. Like a light scale, something she'd had to deal with occasionally back when she competed at other types of martial arts as a kid [*6].
It also didn't matter that she refused to look at the graveyard when she passed it on her route; she could always hear Mak's voice , like the loudest bastard of a ghost ever from the moment she dashed her first step.
"GET YOUR ASS IN GEAR! DON'T EVEN FUCKING THINK OF LETTING THOSE BOYS BEAT YOU!"
Nevermind the fact that she didn't run alongside any boys to beat, anymore.
"Foul-mouthed…old…man," she wheezed to herself, leaning against the big, dying old tree where she always finished her run, the one she could see from her window. She ignored the passersby who gave her strange looks.
Jeez, she thought after a while. It's really taking me a long time to catch my breath. She felt way better, but she could still hear herself. In fact, it almost sounded like…
Her eyes widened. Hold up! That's not someone catching their breath, and it sure as shit ain't me.
Instead, it sounded like…snoring? Pretty loud snoring, too. Layla straightened. Warily, she glared down several of the passersby, wondering if one of them was fucking with her or something. To her fury, several of them eyed her suspiciously, like she was the one standing there in broad daylight snoring out loud like a fucking freak.
"What the hell are you looking at, huh?!" she snapped at one old man with a weird green had and a particularly disdainful glare. He huffed something about "rude brats" while shuffling along.
She frowned as he vanished, glancing around to see that most people in the immediate vicinity had cleared off. Yet the snoring raged on, sounding like a bear except when it would stop entirely, turning into these obnoxious little snorts. With a huff of confusion, she walked around the tree, frown deepening as she looked to see if someone was sleeping on the other side.
"Alright, seriously?!" she exclaimed throwing her arms up before flinging them across her chest, pouting in thought. She was stumped. If the snoring wasn't coming from her, then what, was it coming from the freaking tree?!
She paused, actually considering the possibility. The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. "Huh…" she muttered, eyes widening in fascination as she crouched down, putting a hand against the bark and wiping at her sweaty forehead with the other. "Well, I mean, plants gotta breathe, too, don't they?" At least, she thought she remembered learning something like that in school.
Suddenly, the snoring ceased, turning into a groan. Layla yanked her hand away from the tree like it burned her, eyes bugging. "W-what the hell?!" she whispered, now officially getting creeped out.
Then the tree fucking gasped.
And then, Layla figured out it wasn't the tree when the gasp was followed up with an unfortunately familiar voice crying a hoarse, "Nashi!"
She looked up.
She screamed.
Final Author's Notes:
Hmm…could "Makar" be an Edolas-like parallel, I wonder?
Again, sorry this took so long! Tried to cut back on the "Our Earth" exposition, but kind of think it might still be too much? I'm also nervous about Layla/Nashi's second debut. She's definitely been something of a handful to write. But this is just how the story developed in my head, so oh well.
Like I said, I'm going to try to get chapters out faster, from here on out. I'd like to aim for at least one every week and a half, but I won't give you guys a real, hard number until I figure out what works for me.
Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoyed!
Footnotes:
*1. On Layla/Nashi telling the "Edward Cullen Child" to get up when she's the one on the ground: You might recognize this interaction from the original story. Natsu said it to Gray when they were fighting as children in one scene. I couldn't resist borrowing the moment as both a hint and for nostalgic reasons.
*2. On having two fights within the same week: In the UFC, fighters have ~5 fights a year at most. The idea of someone doing a sport as violent, intense, and damaging to the body as UFC-level MMA even multiple times in one month is ludicrous. Doesn't really matter since this is a Fairy Tail fic, and I won't correct everything that's inaccurate, but if I don't roast myself just a little all my research was for NOTHING!
*3. On mentions of characters from "Our Earth" such as Rose and Helio: Little characters and details like this are genuinely important to the fic and will ultimately be relevant even to Fairy Tail's OC's, I promise. This is NOT going to be one of those fics that's ostensibly a Fairy Tail fic but in execution could really be totally unrelated to the original story, I promise.
*4. On Layla/Nashi's manga volumes: Nashi's love for manga (including eventual mentions of stories some of you may recognize) is as close to a crossover fic as this story will ever get.
*5. On Layla not taking rest days after fights: no
*6. Meaning of "light scale": a scale that gives out readings less than one's actual weight, an infamously common problem with the scales provided by US Olympics in sports such as Judo, where fighters have to cut (lose) or make (gain/maintain) weight to compete in certain weight classes