Chapter 133:

"Last one?" Laxus prompted, watching Gajeel light up his third cigarette in a row.

His response was a drawn-out hum that sounded like a growl.

They were on the path to Oak Town. An awkward quiet had descended after what had happened. Serrill no doubt was still facing his personal insignificance, Davian still rattled by Gajeel's violence, and Gajeel in a thoroughly soured mood. Laxus though this might be what his own personal hell would be like; he was already so poor at maintaining a conversation on a good day. The silence was tense and tenuous, every word spoken like a step on the thin ice of a freezing river. But the stifling cold that clung to everything was killing him now. He had a desperate need to break it. To warm it.

"Are you going to brood for the rest of the day?" Laxus asked, leaning a bit into him as they walked. His response was to flicker his eyes to Laxus sharply and drop them back to the task in his hands.

Laxus had broken his knife. It had alarmed them all at first when Gajeel withdrew the handle to reveal just the snapped-off jagged shape. He'd absorbed the rest and a bruise was already beginning to color his chest from the force Laxus had used to stab it into him. Now, he was carefully pulling apart the handle, pocketing pieces as he looked at the inside of the knife. There really wasn't a lot to it and Laxus was intrigued to watch.

"Nothing bad happened," Laxus reminded him, "Could have ended up a lot worse, all things considered."

"Did you like throwing your knife?" Gajeel asked abruptly, not acknowledging the sentiment.

Laxus shrugged, "I guess?"

He hummed his reply and held his hands before him, summoning magic. It suddenly occurred to Laxus what he was doing.

"You don't have to make me a new one. I can buy one," he said.

"Do you not want me to?" Gajeel asked him, not looking at him.

"Will it put you in a better mood?" Laxus asked, daring a smile.

Gajeel ignored him, returning to his work.

"Sooo…" Serrill began timidly, "You're Alexi's CPTSD case?"

"Yup," Gajeel said, obviously trying not to let it phase him.

"Ah…" There was a long silence before Serrill said: "Uh… so what is it? That thing you do?"

"She don't have a name for it yet, just says it's like... extreme dissociation." he muttered with his cigarette still between his lips. There was a tight set to his features that he was trying to hide with concentration, shaping summoned magic into a honed blade, the serrated edge towards where the hilt would soon be, the darkening metal. Green sparks flitted from his fingers, dancing around him.

"Not a split personality?" Serrill asked, "Because I've read a little about those and-"

"Don't make me crazier than I already am, Serrill." Gajeel cut him off, his voice taking a threatening edge. He was done making the blade, now turning it in his hands. He took part of the wooden handle to it, being sure it would fit snuggly, and lining it up with the other piece, "It's like... a dream, kinda. It feels like I'm just watchin' what's happening, it isn't me, but it is at the same time. Feels like I dropped somethin' important, somethin' is broken; and the color bleeds out. Like... mist over water. It's not real, it's... but it's also fucking terrifying because I feel like I'm failing and I can't fail."

He slid bolts in to hold metal to the wooden handle with a little more force than needed. Magic bound iron to iron. When he was done, he held a new knife in his hands, gripped handle and rotated the blade experimentally.

"It's not that I'm Kurogane. That's just a title. It's me, and I don't know you, but I do, and none of that matters. I just know I... have to make Jose happy." Gajeel said, flipping the knife around as he spoke, testing the weight. The emotion in is voice died, darkening to cool, numb tones, "Why else would I be there except to kill somebody? I can't fail... because what he'd do to me is worse."

"There has to be some way to get you out of it," Laxus said, trying not to let him dwell too much, "You worked for Jose for years. How did Hajime survive if you did this every time?"

"That's... different." he sighed, seeming defeated. His eyes were dull, tired, staring into the dirt ahead of him like the words he was searching for were scattered across it, "When I kill, Laxus, I break it apart. Compartmentalize, or some shit. I guess. I don't know. Whatever the doc says. The thrill of the fight, the rush when I win, the swell of rage and then the catharsis, the relief when it's over, and the high when I think I did a good job. It's a pattern I used to dissociate to, but I still knew what I was doin'. It was intentional.

"What happened is more serious shit. She calls it depersonalization, a separation from reality. A trauma responsefrom long-term PTSD. I fuckin' hate that term, trauma response..." he said it like a curse, his eyes flashing with his anger, "I didn't deal with it when I should've an' kept makin' it worse so my brain decided it would fix it by doin' that. End whatever's causin' me ta stress out 'cause I have a pattern in my head already to handle that type of stress or whatever. Who fuckin' knows?! Couldn't've been somethin' fuckin' harmless, could it?! Go fuckin' catatonic er pass out fer fucks' sakes, forget who the fuck I am maybe, nay, just fuckin' kill ev'ryone instead, eh? That'll make 'im feel much better."

"Gajeel," Laxus said calmly, resting his hand on his shoulder, "We're fine. You didn't hurt anyone."

"It don' make fuckin' sense, does it?!" he continued to rage, the knife in his hand flashing as he spoke, "I know I talked some big shit but, honestly, I don't crave murder. It's a means to a fuckin' end. A necessity in some cases, but I don't... I'm not... goddamn..."

"Yeah... I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fear of Jose for – you said you were fifteen when you joined?" Laxus asked as casually as possible. Gajeel didn't look at him, just scrubbed his face with his palm, trying to relieve his tension, "Nine years, Gajeel. You lived under his shadow for nine years."

"And Hajime lived in his shadow fer longer! And ye don't see 'im almost killin' his wife 'n kid! Fuck..." Gajeel snapped back, but took in a breath and sighed, "Though... guess he always did dodge Jose's wrath better than I ever did. Had a way with words. Knew how to talk him down. I just... made it worse."

"Did you not inform Serrill and I that your old master got markedly worse after The Titan left?" Davian asked with a keenness to his question that was lost on Laxus, "Perhaps he adapted better because he was in less harrowing circumstances."

"Perhaps," Gajeel mocked scathingly, "Whatever. It doesn't matter. I'm… I'm workin' on it."

"So... how would someone - not Laxus dropping a literal thunderstorm out of nowhere – bring you back if it happened again?" Serrill asked. "Or is it like sleepwalking? Don't touch you, leave you alone, kind of thing?"

Gajeel stared into the distance, slowly shook his head, "Who knows. Can't let it run its course, obviously."

"Guess I'll just have to stay by your side forever," Laxus hummed, "How terrible for you."

"Next time just fuckin' hit me with lightning," he groused.

"Gajeel," Laxus said, lacking humor, "Did you ever once hit me? Ever? How many times have I done something bad to you because I wasn't in my right mind? And a couple of times when I just wasn't thinking straight?"

"That wasn't... we talked about that," Gajeel said, refusing to look at him, "That's different."

"Did you hit me?" Laxus asked again, stern, trying not to be agitated. He softened and did something he would rarely do with others around. He slipped his hand across the small of his back, gentle touches that made Gajeel's muscles coil protectively at first, and then release with the rest of the tension in his shoulders. Red eyes dared to look over at him through long strands of black hair. Laxus gave him a meaningful look before letting him go again, "I'm not going to strike you with lightning, Gajeel."

Gajeel went silent and just drew out his own knife to compare the two to each other, checking his craftsmanship. Laxus was genuinely impressed and found himself admiring it. Gajeel's iron. He wasn't scared of it.

"Those aren't knives, they're machetes," Serrill muttered, looking over at them, "You might as well carry around a short sword."

"A machete is a long knife, eleven to twenty-eight inches," Gajeel replied smoothly, "These are hunting knives. The balance is different. They're made for stabbing, not chopping. I'll give it to ya that they both have a full tang, though."

"No one should just carry a nine-inch blade," Serrill scoffed.

"Nine inches really intimidate ya that much?" Gajeel glanced over at him, his eyes almost sparkling with the mischief they held, "It's alright, Serrill, most women prefer somethin' smaller, anyway."

Laxus's laugh caught him off guard and he struggled to hold it in when he saw how Serrill blushed and narrowed his eyes at him. Gajeel's grin all but screamed go ahead and say something, and so he did. He tilted his head to the side, his tone sympathetic.

"Funny, no one ever told me that. Maybe it's just you?"

Gajeel laughed, handing the new knife off to Laxus, "Give me your sword, Serrill. I'll fix it."

"No way, seriously?" Serrill perked up, relief racing across his face, "Oh man, that saves me so much paperwork. Thanks!"

Now it was Serrill's turn to marvel at Gajeel fixing blades. Walking up behind him to look over his shoulder as the air began to hold the edge of iron.

"Please tell me that wasn't done on a whim," Davian said, drawing Laxus's attention. He blinked rapidly, trying to understand what he was talking about. At his questioning glance, Davian motion towards his ear, "Get those after your argument? I would have thought it would be a tattoo, given the one you already have."

Laxus dumbly reached up and stroked the studs in his ear. There were three, arranged just like Gajeel's, and the glint in Davian's eyes told him that the chameleon didn't think for one second he'd gotten them in a tattoo parlor.

"Oh, hah, yeah. Recently…" Laxus said, "A few days ago."

"I thought as much," he said pragmatically, a holier-than-thou judgement ringing in his tone, "you two are dreadfully reckless. Every Virale user for a hundred miles felt that little ritual of yours."

"Ritual?" Laxus wrinkled his nose, "What ritual?"

Davian's eyebrows shot up on his forehead and he gave him a cynical look over his glasses, "You're joking."

"Are you talking about that thing that happened?" Serrill asked, "That was magic, Davian. I felt it, too."

"It certainly was not," Davian tutted.

"It was magic," Laxus said, blushing but trying not to be mortified, "It was… we… they were magic circles."

"I can't feel magic," Davian said, "I can feel ritual. And that was certainly what it was, which begs a great many questions."

"We didn't…? Gajeel?" Laxus looked over at him, silently demanding him come to their defense. He paused when he saw the awkward way he tugged at his glove. There was something dark shimmering in his scarlet eyes and Laxus found he couldn't help his lip quirking up slightly to see it, "Gajeel... did you do something wicked to me?"

"It was both," Gajeel said, to the surprise of everyone. "T's just an old practice... and we didn't do anything that you didn't specifically ask for, Laxus."

"Which was?" Davian demanded, "Not something sacrilegious, I hope."

"Just a promise," Gajeel replied smoothly, "Just a very old way to make a promise."

"Bodily marking one another?" Davian said, his voice hitching slightly with his incredulity, "Quite."

"Yeah, sure," Gajeel dismissed cagily, "Body marking. That's what we did."

In the fringes of Laxus's mind, he remembered the pulse in his hand, the promise uttered in draconic that he was somehow able to understand. Gajeel, too, had held something in the palm of his hand that throbbed like a heartbeat. It was all so fuzzy now, and when he looked back on what happened it wasn't blind lust that came to mind. Laxus rested his hand on his chest slowly, experimentally, feeling the intrinsic rhythmic beat in his chest. His heart. Gajeel had held his heart in his hand and he'd told him to take it, that it belonged to him. He'd felt iron mix with the magic inside of him. He'd placed his own in Gajeel. The viridescent lightning he called to, saw glimpses of in Gajeel's eyes... did that mean there was something iron in him now as well?

Davian watched him warily.

"You felt it?" Laxus said quietly.

"Like a beacon of light piercing the night. An unfathomable amount of energy just… blinking into existence," Davian said, oozing suspicion, "I was speaking with the Lamia. They all ran to the street and stared. Lust is a powerful thing for them, you know."

"That wasn't… it wasn't lust," Laxus murmured, but he couldn't describe what it was and quickly gave up on trying, "That wasn't what it was."

"A promise?" Davian prompted, a brow arched in his skepticism. After a beat, he realized he was going to get no clear answer and finally dropped it, "Well, certainly an archaic way to go about it, but I suppose not much different than wedding, engagement rings… or whatever those are."

He motioned at Laxus's hand.

"Oh, hah…" Laxus chuckled, "Gramps raised me to be an old soul. They just mean we're serious."

"Dragon slayers are so weird," Serrill muttered.

"Your crush is covered in ritualistic scars that glow when he gets the itch to eat people," Gajeel snapped, "but yeah, we're weird."

Serrill's face flushed scarlet and his eyes widened. He leaned towards Gajeel and hissed at him through his teeth, "Gajeel, he's my commanding officer. We're friends."

"Who says I meant your commanding officer? He's got a brother who looks real similar..." Gajeel hissed back as if Davian wasn't standing five feet away and could hear everything he was saying, "Yer givin' yerself away on that one."

"I'm sorry, perhaps it's the language barrier but… what's a crush?" Davian asked, the innocence in his tone far more than what was necessary.

"N-nothing… don't worry about it," Serrill muttered, refusing to look at him.

"Oh, well, if you insist," he replied, silkily, "Shall get into town? I'm getting peckish, often not good for me, I'm afraid."

"Yep," Serrill said, walking pat them hastily, "Let's go."

Laxus, thoroughly confused, said nothing as Gajeel walked by wagging his eyebrows at Davian. Davian's return was just a smug, knowing grin.

"Oh… you're friends now," Laxus said to Davian as they watched Gajeel run up to razz Serrill some more, "You can't torment Serrill like that. It's mean."

"Did you know he told Irena he has feelings for not just me, but both of us?" he replied quietly so the two ahead of them couldn't hear.

"He did?" Laxus had to hold in a laugh, "When?"

"Your lover's welcome home party. I suspect he didn't realize I was beside him because of my glamour, drunk as he was," Davian explained, "Although, Irena looked right at me when it happened. He nearly had a heart attack when she offered to speak to me on it."

"No." Laxus whispered, making a mental note to tell Mira all of this later. He knew she'd eat it up… and maybe he was a bit of a gossip, too.

"Oh yes," Davian replied, "he thinks he's hiding it so well, the poor dear, but I've known for a long time."

"You're kidding… how long?"

"Since we started rebuilding the prison," Davian said, brandishing his hand, "I brushed his hand, I'm afraid, and well… I do try not to pry but it's difficult when the emotion is strong. And if that wasn't enough, the scent of human desire is dreadfully distinct."

"It is one of those things, isn't it?" Laxus said, "Once you realize what it is, it's kind of hard to miss."

"I'm a patient man," Davian's lips twisted where he was hiding a smirk, "He can tell me when he's ready. Irena, however…"

"Oh, no…" Laxus laughed, "it's killing her, isn't it?"

"You have no idea."

Gajeel refused to go to the market, muttering something about bad memories, and gave Laxus directions for a restaurant to meet him at, handing him a sizable amount of jewels before opting to just meet them there. Laxus had blinked down in obvious surprise, shot him a questioning look, but Gajeel was tired and didn't feel like explaining he had a mountain of blood money, and so pretended he didn't see it. Laxus walked off with the Major and Serrill, the lieutenant already chattering away about something interesting he knew about the area. When Laxus had rounded a corner where he couldn't see him, he pulled out another cigarette.

He slumped through the alleyways to a place that was familiar. The Parlay Room was a one-of-kind establishment made for the sole reason of housing dubious rendezvous. Jose had needed a place where he could politic more high-class individuals. The mayor, Major Wesick, and even the heads of many nearby officially sanctioned, mercenary, and even some dark guilds. It was a multi-story building, and Gajeel was one of the few who'd seen every one.

He rolled inside and sidled up to the box, watching idly the patrons at their tables. It was warm and inviting here, with exposed, red brick walls and comfortable seating just a little better than what most of the diners around the area had. You could hear lively chatter, see families laughing or squabbling, enjoying their meals as wait staff bustled here and there, keeping up with the traffic. There were black and white portraits on the walls, old scenes of shootouts and knife fights from the yakuza's classical period, when they had a much stronger hold in Fiore. The faces no one would know were the legacy of the owner himself.

Gajeel lounged patiently until one of the staff looked over to him, did a double take, and rushed back into the kitchen. He decided in that instant he hated Oak Town. It didn't matter where he went, someone recognized him, and for the first time in his life he was so fucking sick of it.

He tried his best to pin an even, unfazed expression on his face when a gentleman about a decade his senior with slicked back brown hair came out. His royal blue collared shirt was tucked neatly into dark slacks, and a gaudy gold ring on his finger bore his family seal. He wore his jacket over his shoulders like Laxus did, but it was real mink fur that lined his collar and lapel, not the faux that Laxus wore. Caramel eyes centered on him, and a wide, congenial grin grew across his face with each step closer he took.

"Gajeel! How are you, lad?" he said happily, a voice as greasy and insidious as an oil slick on the river. It was a marvel to him that the man attempted to use the same vernacular as everyone else in Oak Town. He lacked their northern accent, so when he spoke it felt like a pretentious parody from someone clearly from the capital. If it was an attempt to blend in, it was sorry at best, "My, my, it has been a while!"

"Dorian," Gajeel responded, his tone as flat and grey as slate.

"Oh! You remember my name? I'm flattered."

Dorian 'Angel' Montaine was, in the worst way, a nepo baby. His father, Averardo Montaine, was the eldest son to none other than Nostriano 'The Spider' Montaine, Head of the Montaine Family. Gajeel never ran with the yakuza. He had a head for tactics and mind games, but he simply wasn't political enough for it. But Jose had friends everywhere, and it was in securing Dorian the position of owner of The Parlay Room that he made friends in the Montaine Family. This worked out for Dorian quite well since he didn't have the stomach for violence and his family was always looking for a good front. Those same Montaines, taking the opportunity to pay Jose back for his good will, had been the ones to refer a certain Jude Heartfilia to him when he had decided to hunt down his runaway daughter, a job that really could have gone to any guild, and certainly didn't have to go to Phantom Lord. But the Montaines were familiar with Jose's feud with Fairy Tail and were also well aware Jude wouldn't be able to pay Jose's exorbitant contract fees, and so would aid him worming his way into securing the entirety of the Heartfillia estate, knocking down another Old Money peer and paving their way deeper into the capital, bolstering their name.

Politics. Jose wasn't as good at them as he had thought, either.

"Who could forget you, Angel?" Gajeel asked, just as placating, playing this little game easily.

He had once caught him attempting (extremely poorly, at that) to murder a client in the alleyway and been forced to assist. It scored him points with Jose, but definitely made a lackluster impression. Ever since, Dorian had always met him in person when he heard he was in the restaurant. For the longest time Gajeel thought it was to shore up some rapport, to keep him from talking about what had happened. Now, he wondered if it was just his way of recognizing the favor extended to him, that if Gajeel hadn't intervened, his family would have. Like Jose, the head of the Montaine family was known for his ruthless punishments just as much as he was known for placing his progeny on pedestals.

"What's your availability look like upstairs?"

"How large is the party?" he asked, never one to insinuate an answer would be no. He was already stepping towards the stairs.

"Small. Four," Gajeel replied.

"Oh, there's plenty of room for that," Dorian replied, "Business or pleasure, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Can it be both?" Gajeel asked stoically, "Both."

"How intriguing... you always were an interesting one, lad." he chuckled, "Never a dull moment when you come around."

He was led up a dark wooden staircase. The lighting warmed up here. The noise of the first story was soundly left behind for the quieter, more refined hum of couples and polished families of higher standing. Soft piano music wafted from somewhere, played live though Gajeel didn't care to look for it. The furnishings of these tables took on more elegance, the sort of well-worn appearance that only came with expensive antiques. Vintage. Gajeel had always rolled his eyes at that concept.

"Oh, I have to ask, I don't need to worry about any messes, do I?" he asked as they approached another staircase, "Four isn't an especially troubling number but there is an upcharge if you need any of our more specialized services... and unfortunately, I have to collect up front."

"Up front?" Gajeel asked, genuinely curious, "Don't tell me someone finessed you."

"Yes, as much as it painsme to say it. What is it they say around here? They got me in the neck." he sighed with a dismissive flick of his wrist, "Oh, it was awful. The amount of gore. Had to call in my brother's boys to rip up the carpets. A regular dine and dash on top of it all. They took one of our good bottles of scotch, too."

"Scoundrels." Gajeel smirked.

He paused and glanced back over his shoulder. Something sinister sparked in his eye, latent magic waiting to be summoned, "Are you still in the business? I really could use the assistance. The last person I hired was... sloppy."

"I've gone straight, Angel, or I would," Gajeel said as if it really were a shame, "The only premium service I'm needin' is one of your special menus."

"Oh?" The darkness vanished immediately. His voice lilted in his curiosity, and then twisted in cunning, "Not for the ladies from the Iris, I hope? There is a fee for that sort of mess, also. My couches are expensive."

"Heh, no. My friend is a carnivore," Gajeel said, wrinkling his nose, "You let people wine and dine the ladies here, now?"

"Well, you've noticed, haven't you? Money has moved in... money that doesn't want caught at a whore house," Dorian said with a grin. He spoke in a way that said he'd pitched this exact argument to the Sable Iris ladies themselves, "We're not in competition with each other, and deep pockets certainly have enough to go around. Their success is our success, and vice versa."

"Damn," Gajeel whistled, "I'd hate to get on the bad side of the Sable Iris. Between your family and Sal's men? How many boys do they have ready ta jump when they say jump?"

Alighting the stairs found the room opening up to what looked much more like a hotel hallway than a restaurant. The place oozed exclusivity. You didn't see staff scurrying around here, each room having their own clandestine staircase straight from the kitchen to ensure even the service was discrete. There were busts of many of the prominent members of the Montaine family, Nostriano and his wife, their four children, and then the walls held portraits of the grandchildren, Dorian included. He always thought it was weird having the entire family staring down on him, but he also knew it was a statement, one that didn't pertain to him in the slightest. He was not a political figure, part of the yakuza, or master of a dark guild. He was an ex-mercenary who knew when to avoid attention.

Each private room had its own theme, and Gajeel was far from seeing every one of them despite how many times he'd been dragged along as detail for Jose – never allowed to sit or eat, of course, only there to look scary. The room Dorian took him to was one of the more modest ones, called the Vintage Lounge.

Everything was burgundy and gold to the point it made it hard for his eyes to focus. Ornate, gilded mirrors were on each wall surrounded by the sepia-toned photographs of the Montaine family in golden frames. The farthest wall in the back was covered in antique clocks and newspaper clippings, signed documents, and letters from the king, along with other bits and bobs to fill in the gaps. Shadow boxes of things the family had used a handful of times and discarded; custom jewelry and watches, a monogrammed shirt cuff paired with a tie pin, an engraved firearm. There was an arrangement of some aged wines and spirits Gajeel could only guess the value of and engraved glassware alongside it. Cigars and their boxes set out neatly for guests with personalized cigar cutters. Fine linens, crystal decanters and gold-rimmed dinnerware were set at the table with fresh-cut flowers in a large arrangement at the center. There were coffee tables with monogrammed stationary waiting for use and overstuffed, velvet sofas with matching chairs, each with gold detailing running down them. A crystal chandelier and sconces provided soft lighting, making the place seem as intimate as it was luxuriant.

Laxus would absolutely lose his shit when Dorian walked him up here.

"The box is here," Dorian said, breaking his thoughts, "Sound proofing, music, the call button for the wait staff... oh, and this button here is for emergency premium services. Do not hit it unless you need it. You'll lock the whole room down."

"Things better or worse for your lot since Phantom was taken out?" Gajeel asked, running his eyes over the panel, "Sounds like ye've been through the ringer."

"Unpredictable would be the word," Dorian said, "Jose at least had decorum."

"A system, you mean."

"Respect," Dorian snarled, his face darkening in a supernatural way, twisting his features into something nasty and cruel, "We've had to... hm... market ourselves. It's brought in new characters. Not a bad thing but we do have expectations of our customers and, well, no one abuses my staff."

"You ain't gonna have a problem from me, Angel. We're just here for good food and some privacy." Gajeel reassured him. He pulled out his wallet, counted out jewels and handed them over.

"One special menu..." he muttered, making a mental note as he leafed through the bills, "I'll be giving you the check, then, shall I?"

"Thank ye kindly." Gajeel said preemptively.

Dorian bustled off after getting descriptions for the rest of his party. He turned on the soundproofing as well as some music, flipping through genres until he came to something with what he determined to be enough screaming, and turning it up as loud as he could. He helped himself to the whiskey and laid out on the sofa, pulling out his black book to write down all his feelings for the good doctor while it was still fresh in his head, being as descriptive about his episode as possible so she could dissect it later. His gut twisted with guilt, remembering his drive to thrust a knife into Laxus's chest. He sipped his whiskey, shut his eyes, and let out a slow breath.

Don't internalize it. Don't turn it into self-hate.

He opened his eyes again, stared down at the pages in front of him. He did something Alexi had kept pressuring to try but he always thought was silly. He flipped to the beginning and began to read. Most of them were songs but some were the ramblings from his mind. His deep thoughts that he shared with no one, not even Laxus. They were harsh. They were degrading. They were angry and filled with his vicious self-hate. But as he flipped through the pages, reading through days, weeks, and months, he noticed the words changed, putting to practice things his doctor had said. Each arduous step on his journey to be better.

He stopped back at his latest entry, rereading it, letting the guilt return, appreciating it for what it was. He had done something wrong, and he felt bad for it. He had apologized. He had been forgiven. He didn't need to hurt himself anymore. He was re-learning how to live, and he'd stumbled. That didn't mean he was... a bad person.

His breath left him just to think it. I'm not a bad person.

He put his hands on his knees, stared at his entry. Laxus had said he was good. Steeped in lust as it was, as it always was, it still struck some place deep inside of him that ached from a fracture that had never properly healed. Fused bones hadn't been set properly, didn't move properly. He'd called him good, and Gajeel would have preferred he call him anything else. A bastard, a lecher, a whore, even a bitch in heat, but not good. Even now, it ached. It ached and he craved more. Tell me I'm good. Tell me I did something good. Even if it was only a sexual act, even if it was just getting him off in a way he liked. He wanted to be good.

If someone asked you who you were living for, you could drop my name.

It had been a long and hard journey, hadn't it? This crooked trajectory of his life; swerving from one gravitational pull to another, skimming the surface like a comet and skipping to the next thing that tried to pull him down, smother him, send him crashing to the surface and scattering shrapnel around him. The only sign he'd existed at all were the ashes in his wake. An S-Class wizard, a man who'd never known his kind of struggle, had been the one to guide him towards the light by sheer force, a solar attraction that couldn't be resisted even if he'd tried. Icarus reached and burned like a dying star, unable to touch the sun. But somehow the burning hadn't killed him. Somehow, he'd come out the other side transformed into something else, a washed-out reflection of sunlight, an ethereal glow to break the unending night. And this, the moon, could. He could weep for Icarus never knowing what true bliss there was in holding the sun in his arms.

Hajime had said he was proud of the man he'd become, despite what it took. Despite the pain, despite the burning, he was proud.

Could it all be worth it? Could he drag something bleeding from this life he'd lived, hold it to the light and say it was good? Find purpose in the pain he'd been forced to endure? To use these hard lessons to teach someone else, to make life easier for the people he cared about, because he'd hit rock bottom so many times he knew now the quickest routes to take to claw his way back out. Even if you come back covered in blood, come home.

Laxus had told him to kill Bianca, and now he didn't care that he'd made a pact. Laxus had forgiven him, and it felt like he forgave more than just this one mistake. Like rain, he'd washed the salt from his hands. Gajeel had been cleansed. He didn't need to be punished for his crimes because Laxus had said it was fine.

Gajeel shivered and felt like a beaten dog shown kindness for the first time. Tell me I'm good.

He stared at the book in his hands, the concrete evidence of what six months of trying his hardest to heal could do. It wasn't healthy. It wasn't where he should be, but it was enough for now. One day he wouldn't need Laxus to give him purpose. One day he'd have it on his own. He would love like he should, he would be the man he should be. But if this was what it took now, then fine. He didn't need to be good, he just needed to be good enough.

Tell me that I'm good to you. I've done so many bad things but I'll be so good to you. I'll be good.

Gajeel let out a shaky breath, clenched his fist into his shirt above his heart and felt it beat, each immutable throb a promise he intended to keep. He shivered and remembered Laxus's voice low and brimming with his mad rush, his desperation. Telling him he was beautiful. Telling him he was good. Telling him to live for him. Begging him to give him everything and take it in kind from himself. Marry me when the roses are in season.

Laxus would never know how hard it was for him to talk about getting married, seeing Laxus run the guild one day, the possibility of a family, a future with him in it, voicing thoughts he only had sparingly, that he didn't want to derive too much hope from because their fruition was fragile at best. He avoided thinking about the future. The uncertainties had always scared him. He'd never wanted to make a promise there was a chance he couldn't keep. A year ago, he'd wanted to kill himself. Six months ago, the same episode he had today made him hate himself so much he thought it better if he had; he had sat on the beach contemplating throwing himself back into the sea and hoping this time he wouldn't make it back out while Davian handed him a card for a therapist. He had thought he was going to be the end of Laxus, the only good thing he'd known would be snuffed out by his own doing.

Now, he was writing notes down for Alexi so she could help him break the cycle. Now, he was thinking about what he would say to Makarov in the spring, when he asked for Laxus's hand. Now, his mind was traveling to love songs, and how he still hadn't been able to write a new one, and he desperately needed to. He was thinking about the future, he was thinking about forever, with Laxus.

He'd made a promise, one that he intended to keep far more than some deal he'd made while delirious from pain and consumed by hate. Unwittingly, he'd made a deal for revenge at the cost of his life. But this promise he'd made to Laxus meant far more to him. He'd pledged his heart to a jealous god of lightning. No matter what happened to him now, he wouldn't go quietly. He'd come back home to him, offer back whatever that was left of his body and soul, and fall to his feet when he was welcomed back again, broken, bloodied, ugly, and feel the light of him wash the pain away again.

Things do change. Things do get better. Maybe the world wasn't as ugly as he always thought.

He leaned back into the couch, took a sip of his whiskey and let it warm his chest. He didn't roll his ankle to feel his knife strapped there. He didn't itch his wrist. He didn't even reach for his cigarettes. He closed his book for Alexi, set it to the side, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The guilt that had rested in his chest ebbed away like a shadow to the light of day.

He didn't want to kill himself.

He didn't want to hurt himself.

He wanted to live.