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His steps were slow and sluggish. They splashed on the wet pavement, every cobble slick with rain. It had started suddenly; pouring down from one second to the other. The cape had been of use for about ten seconds, now soaked, water seeping in through the fabric, making it heavy and his clothes and hair stick to his skin.
The package in his hands was kept dry, however, as he bent over it as if shielding a child. It had been the last of his money, he had noticed after paying for the single piece of strawberry cake. He felt as if he would starve but he refused to eat it. It was for her, after all.
For what seemed like ages, Jellal had wandered through the now empty streets of Magnolia. Hardly anyone was out and about, not voluntarily getting drenched. Neither was he. He had stood in front of the door for an hour, waiting for her to return – he did not have his key on him. He did not remember to have taken it out of his pocket and leaving it in the house, but then again, he did not remember much after having been knocked out. Nothing, actually.
Through the thickness of the clouds, Jellal thought to have caught glimpses of stars. They reminded him of the way her eyes had sparkled at the festival. It had been the first and undoubtedly wonderful gift he had managed to surprise her with – until his drunkenness swooped in to kill the mood. With wandering eyes, he had now searched his surroundings for new ideas during his forcefully lengthened walk. Something to do; something she would like just as much – maybe more.
He had not dared to look for her at the guild – he was afraid he would unable to contain himself and just hug her tightly in front of everyone. That, and he knew she would beat the living daylights out of him the second she saw him out of bed. The guild hall was another thing he feared. They might ask and he would have to answer. It gave his empty stomach a fuzzy feeling. She would probably be the one to tell them, not him – about how they were a couple and lived together and maybe even that they kissed. Had kissed.
And was that all that bad? Not the way things were, that was definitely good; a dream come true. Then so what if others knew? He could never tell how people really felt about him, how would letting them know the truth change that? He was not the one who had to endure the teasing in the guild.
He stopped in his tracks. Looking ahead, he met a pair of huge eyes. She stared with surprise, relief. He was about to give a reassuring smile, to call her name or hold up the cake, when her expression changed. Her eyes glinted with anger.
Erza stalked over to him. Without saying a word – or allowing him to utter any – she grabbed his wrist. She pulled him along through the dark streets, striding with big, heavy steps, reflecting just how mad she was at him. He swallowed, following, though he was not given the choice to refuse in the first place. Her nails dug into his wrist.
She threw the front door of the house open, slamming it shut behind them.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" She hollered, spinning around to face him.
"I'm sorry," he tried in a submissive voice, "I couldn't find the key and…" she was not listening anyway. Erza's eyes sprayed sparks, burning into him, crashing against him like a tidal wave. It nearly knocked him over.
She snapped his cape open, working around his hands which held the package. She then opened his overcoat, almost ripping it off while he tried again to explain himself – about the cake and his missing key and how he speculated for it to be in the house somewhere.
She punished him with her silence and it stung more than any words she could have slapped into his face.
She grasped him by his shirt, pulling him along into the bathroom.
"Sit." She ordered. He sat. Erza took the box from him, bringing it into the kitchen. Her steps echoed from the bleak walls like they never had. He did not dare to move, not even to get the wet strands of hair out of his face.
She returned after another minute, still visibly fuming. She tossed his sleepwear at him, rummaging through the cupboard for a towel. His stomach growled.
"Are you hungry?" Her voice was tight, fighting not to tremble with fury. He shook his head, not daring to glance up.
"It's digesting…" he lied. He felt the guilt more strongly than his hunger at that but he could not make her do something for him now – he did not deserve it. Quietly, Jellal began to unbutton his shirt while he endured her nearly violent rubbing to dry his hair.
She left him then, disappearing through the door and he thought she would never come back again.
With a sigh under his breath – his chest feeling emptier than his stomach, though at the same time as heavy as the house itself – Jellal went to bed. She was not there. Part of him believed her to truly never return and it was starting to win.
His heart gave a painful skip when the door opened and closed after some time. The mattress creaked as she laid down but he did not feel it sink. She was that far away, back turned, mind set on sleeping alone. He did not blame her.
He cursed inwardly. He murdered himself inwardly. Would she not have been there, he would have probably hurt himself for real. His eyes itched but he refused to let tears form. They did so, anyway, rolling down his temples. He had hurt her. Everything he had ever done was hurting her, he thought, admitting to somehow be hoping for her to just end it and leave him to suffer. Find someone – anyone – else, someone better than him, someone who did her good and not break her heart.
He had not slept. Sometimes, he would wake up, not having noticed to have dozed off, his face sticky with fresh tears. With fresh self-loathing. Now it was all dry and wrinkly and raw. He was still on his back, obediently minding his wounds, his muscles and injuries aching and his heart still bleeding out.
Jellal knew she was not asleep, now, either. She had had a rough night, too, however she had not come to cuddle when tossing and turning, probably having woken up and reminded herself that she was angry. And had every right to be.
Erza sat up, still turned away.
He watched her sadly where she knelt on the bed. She was indecisive, probably contemplating whether to finally leave for good.
"Are you okay?" He dared to ask. It was over now, anyway; a wrong word or two would not make a difference.
"I couldn't sleep..." she sighed. Her voice was as sore as his, speaking of the same night of silent tears as his.
"I know,"
"How come you always notice and I don't ever wake up when you do?" She sounded desperate. As if trying to have a conversation felt abominable. As if she had done so for years and only now let her facade crumble. And perhaps she had, he thought.
"You did wake up because of me once," he said, less carefully than before.
"That wasn't you, that was my bladder," her voice was sharp in a way that he could not decipher.
"You have such extraordinary ways of charming men, Miss Scarlet," he said. She is not taking it. He did not know what he was hoping for. He had not planned to turn the situation around – he knew he could not. She was in charge. She always had been. Whenever something changed because of him, it was because she let it. She could have called him out on the beach for lying, but she had not. Whatever she would decide, it was going to be final.
And at that moment, it looked as if it was the end of the line.
Erza sighed. Finally, she turned to look at him. She looked sad, a little helpless but mostly tired. Her eyes roamed him shortly, hardly keeping eye contact.
"Are you insomniac?" He looked away from her, rather staring at the ceiling. She should not care about him. She should have left it at searching him and not finding what she was looking for. What she had hoped for and searched for almost her entire life – which was not him. When would she realise and stop torturing herself?
He hesitated. He was not sure whether he was allowed to answer at all.
"Not when you're there,"
"That's a lie." She cut in. Her voice was plain, hiding hurt. "You're always awake when I wake up, be it morning or the middle of the night,"
"I do sleep better when with you," he confessed, giving it his best shot to sound honest. It was true; he did sleep better when she was there, but it depended on her entirely. On which terms they were on.
She sighed again, exasperated.
"Are thoughts keeping you awake?" She was staring ahead now, out the slot between the curtains. A narrow streak of light blinded her eye, illuminating her slightly. He had no idea what her aim was. What he could say to answer correctly. Why she was talking to him at all.
"I don't know," that was another lie. Of course he knew. It were thoughts and… feelings. Keeping him awake almost more than his churning mind. Everything he locked away, bottled up and built a wall around during the day had to go somewhere. It crept through the shadows of the night, gnawing on his insides, winding into his head.
"I guess so…" he confirmed after a pause. He felt her eyes on him. Her stare. Willing him to… to what? Tell the truth? Stop with… doing whatever he did? Erase all of those feelings of hatred and accept himself? Make her find a way to forgive him for being the disastrous person he was…?
Jellal could not lift his gaze. His heart was weeping but if she would not put an end to this, then he had to. She had to stop trying to fix him – there was nothing to be done. He was a hopeless case and he could not understand why she would not just see that. She deserved so much better.
The weight on the mattress shifted when she moved. He turned his head to see, breath getting stuck in his throat when she was suddenly there, having crawled over until her hands were on either side of his face, drilling into the sheets. Her hair fell around their faces.
"I want this. I really do." Erza sobbed. His eyes grew wide while hers squinted close. Her arms trembled. "Don't you?" He stared at her, his heart pounding against his ribcage. His voice was not more than a whisper.
"… more than you can imagine,"
"Then help me." She almost yelled at him, voice shooting upwards, breaking. He felt his eyes itch again, water pooling behind them. Hot tears burnt on his dry skin, streaming down his cheeks but they were not his. She was crying. And then he was crying.
She could pull on his heartstrings like a puppet master. His breath hitched and he panted, sobs hiccupping thickly up his throat.
"I'll do anything you sa-"
"No!" She exclaimed, tears pelting down onto his face. She opened her eyes and they trembled as much as she did. He could see it in them: they could not go on like this. And how she did not say it, because if she did, both knew that he would plunge himself down an endless hole of self-loathing. Or an actual endless hole. "For once in your life will you listen to me!" She was screeching now.
She had taken his shoulders, ramming her knees into the bed, shaking him; shaking him heftily, too angry to bother with his injuries.