notes— Written to Come Back... Be Here by Taylor Swift. It doesn't really suit the fic as a whole but it did inspire this particular chapter. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
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23 ; missing ingredient
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It's so domestic Erza can't help but let slip one indulgent smile, just a little, just for herself. She hikes her shoulder up in a held shrug, balancing the phone against her ear so she can measure two tablespoons of oil properly.
A smile is audible in his voice. "What are you doing right now?"
It takes her a moment to answer, focused on not spilling any excess oil into the pan. "Trying not to set fire to my dinner."
"It would be such a shame to waste all your endeavours over the last forty minutes."
She doesn't try hide her grin this time. "Thirty minutes."
"You started at—"
"Getting the vegetables out of the fridge and washing them didn't count."
Jellal laughs at that, deep and low. They continue to banter back and forth as she twirls around the kitchen, always at her own pace, pausing in her stirring with the wooden spoon to slip a dish into the sink or throw onion peels in the bin or wipe spilled spices off the table counter. When she switches the phone to her other shoulder, she realises that the amount of stir-fry in the pan is definitely more than one serving, and it makes her purse her lips in exasperation.
He catches onto her little huff. Which in itself is saying something — but he's always had that ridiculous sixth sense, that instinctive way he knows her, all the ins and outs of her thoughts, all the funny little things other people don't think to notice. "What?" he asks good-naturedly. "Did you forget an ingredient?"
Erza shakes her head before realising he won't have seen it. "No, I just—" She sighs again, frustrated. "I made too much again. I'm still not used to cooking for one person."
It takes a moment for her to realise what she's said, and she wants to hurry back and catch the words, reel them back. Of course, she can't, and she winces, mentally cursing herself. Of course he'll take it the wrong way. He always does when it comes to this.
Predictably, his guilty silence affirms her worries, and she's just opening her mouth to stumble through an awkward apology when he cuts her off quickly, rushing the words like he's worried he'll forget them if he doesn't get them out fast enough. "I can't wait to come home again, I miss you so much, I want to hold you."
The breath Erza took to speak comes out in an unsteady exhale. She bites her lip, fiddling with the end of the wooden spoon as she stirs absent-mindedly; the stir-fry is, for a moment, forgotten.
"I want to wake up to you in the morning again," Jellal continues, unable to stop now that he's started. "I want to walk through the door when it's dark and tell you about my day and laugh at bad day-time TV on Saturday mornings and argue over how many boxes of grapes we should buy on our weekly grocery trip. I miss the warmth of your hands." He sighs, deep and drawn-out. "I miss the strawberry scent of your hair. I miss your awful burned Sunday roasts. I miss you, Erza. I miss you."
"Jellal..." She closes her eyes and covers her face, hiding the smile from an empty apartment. "God, I miss you, too. Eight weeks feels so much longer than it should. Stupid work trip."
Again, with that mysterious sixth sense that only he possesses, like he can see her standing in the kitchen hugging herself, Jellal clears his throat and murmurs into her ear, "I'll be with you soon, though. I'll be back home before we know it."
All she can do is hum in reply, unable to stop the sudden onslaught of emotion welling up in her chest. She glances around for a bowl to pour the stir-fry into, and interrupting the warm quiet, Jellal's voice crackles out of the receiver again.
"You never told me what kind of stir-fry you made."
This makes her giggle as she tips the pan, watching the goldened vegetables slip into the bowl. "Don't be mad," she grins. "I made your favourite. Chargrilled pepper and chicken with Mexican spice."
His answering groan of longing, so genuine and pained — "You're trying to kill me, Erza..." — turns her smirk into full-blown, clutching-at-your-stomach laughter.
It's you who'll be the death of me, she wants to whisper to him, but it's too intimate for an evening's phone call, and she lets the thought curl around the special place in her heart she keeps only for him. Where one goes, the other follows. That's just how we are.