Natsu Dragneel had a life. A good one, by most standards.
His days were a predictable rhythm: mornings spent staring at blank canvases, afternoons wrestling with half-formed ideas, and evenings spilling beers with Gray and Erza at their usual spot. He had friends who cared about him, a roof over his head, and a reputation as a decent artist who sometimes stumbled into brilliance. But beneath it all was the quiet hum of something missing.
It wasn't an ache, not really. More like an emptiness that hovered just out of reach, shapeless and stubborn. He used to think it was Igneel, his father – the man who'd disappeared when Natsu was too young to understand why. Finding him should have filled that space. For a while, it did. They'd laughed, reconnected, and healed wounds that time had only scabbed over. But when the dust settled, that hum was still there, as persistent as ever.
He tried to ignore it. But some nights, when he sat in his studio surrounded by the ghosts of half-finished pieces, he wondered if he was just... incomplete.
The night the dream came, he wasn't thinking about any of that. He'd been frustrated, staring at the same canvas for hours. The paintbrush felt foreign in his hand, the colors on his palette dull no matter how he mixed them. Even his signature reds, the fiery hues that used to blaze across his work, seemed muted. Finally, he'd thrown down his brush and collapsed into bed, letting the world dissolve as sleep took him.
The fire came first.
It roared to life around him, wild and untamed, swallowing the forest in a wave of heat and ash. Natsu didn't run. There was no point. He crawled through the dirt, every muscle heavy, every breath a struggle. His body felt smaller than it should, fragile like a broken animal waiting for its end.
The flames were alive, ravenous, and they surrounded him on all sides. He closed his eyes, letting the heat press down on him, waiting for it to consume him. Then, through his eyelashes, he saw it.
The moon.
It hung impossibly large in the sky, pale and perfect, untouched by the smoke curling toward it. Its light was soft, yet it cut through the chaos with an authority that silenced everything else. He could feel it – steady and calm, as though it were watching him. Holding him. Suddenly, the fire didn't matter. He stared up at the moon, and for a moment, he felt... peace.
When he woke, his heart was pounding. His sheets were damp with sweat, and the faint smell of smoke lingered in the air. He sat up, running a hand through his pink locks, but the image of the moon refused to fade. It stayed with him, vivid and haunting, like an ember burning in the back of his mind.
The dream came again the next night. And the night after that.
Each time, it was the same fire, the same searing heat. But the moon was always there, waiting. Watching. And with every dream, he found himself drawn to it more and more, its light pulling him from the flames like a lifeline.
Until the night he heard her voice.
It was soft, barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the crackle of the fire like the moonlight itself. He didn't understand the words at first – nonsense syllables that carried no meaning – but her tone was unmistakable. It was calm and soothing, like she was trying to ease the weight pressing on his chest. He wanted to speak back, but the words wouldn't come, vocal cords severed by the cutting, searing fire. All he could do was listen, letting her voice wash over him, until the flames seemed to fade into the background.
When he woke that morning, the ache in his chest felt sharper. Clearer. For the first time, he realized: the emptiness he'd carried all these years wasn't just a part of him. It was a space waiting to be filled. And now, it had a voice.
Natsu's friends noticed the shift before he did.
"You look like crap," Gray said one evening, throwing himself onto Natsu's couch with all the grace of a collapsing tower. "Are you sleeping at all? You look like you've been wrestling with demons in your dreams or something."
Natsu didn't reply right away. He wasn't sure how to explain it. He was sleeping, but it never felt like rest. Every time he closed his eyes, the fire returned, blazing brighter and hotter than before. Each time, the moon was waiting, its cool light a balm against the inferno. And now, there was her voice, threading through it all like a melody he couldn't quite grasp.
"I'm fine," Natsu muttered, brushing Gray off as he hunched over his easel. His hands worked without thought, dragging a palette knife across the canvas. The colors burned: searing reds, luminous yellows, shadows of blue-gray smoke. The shape was abstract, but he could feel her there, in the way the paint moved.
"You're not fine," Gray shot back. "You've barely been out of the house, and all you do is paint. What is this, your 'tortured artist' phase? At least drink some water or something."
"I'm not tortured," Natsu grumbled, glaring at him.
"You're painting fire," Gray pointed out, gesturing to the canvas. "Again. You know, I think we've got enough flames around here. Maybe paint a puppy or something for once."
Natsu rolled his eyes, but he didn't argue. Gray wasn't wrong. The fire consumed every piece he worked on, spilling out in shapes that felt alive, almost restless. He couldn't stop himself—it was as if the flames had seeped into his veins, demanding to be unleashed onto the canvas.
But it wasn't just the fire. It was her.
At first, she was just a voice, murmuring through the smoke in his dreams. But as the nights went on, she became something more. The flames began to shift, their edges softening, and from them, her shape emerged. A silhouette at first, all curves and light, until one night she stepped fully into view.
Her hair was molten gold, cascading in wild waves that shimmered with the heat of the fire. Her skin glowed, almost translucent, as though she were made of the very light she walked through. Her eyes – dark, deep, infinite – held galaxies within them, stars swirling in an endless dance. She was beautiful in a way that defied reason, but it wasn't her appearance that left him breathless. It was the way she looked at him.
Like she knew him.
"You're not afraid anymore."
Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it carried through the fire like it belonged to it, like the flames were hers to command.
Natsu blinked, his body still much too heavy in the heat, but her words cut through the weight like a cool breeze. He wasn't afraid. The thought settled in his chest, quiet and certain, even though he didn't understand why.
The woman stepped closer, her bare feet brushing over the flames as if they were solid ground. The fire softened where she moved, its roar dimming to a low hum, like it bent itself to her will.
"That's good. You shouldn't be," she said, her lips curving in a faint smile. "The fire isn't your enemy."
The words struck him like an ember to the heart. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask what she meant, but no sound came. He didn't need to ask. The answer was there, in the way the flames swirled around her, not hostile, but alive.
She stopped in front of him, so close he could see the way her golden hair shimmered with the heat. Her eyes caught his—dark and endless, full of stars.
"It's you," she said simply.
The words lingered in the air, sinking into him like they were meant to. The fire surged higher around them, crackling with energy that wasn't threatening, but electric.
And then she was gone. The fire dissolved into darkness, her figure fading with it. Natsu woke with a sharp breath, his chest heaving as he stared at the ceiling. The room was quiet, but her words remained, seared into his thoughts.
'The fire isn't your enemy. It's you.' It wasn't an answer. Not yet. But it was something. And for the first time in weeks, Natsu felt like he wasn't drowning in the flames.
A few nights later, Gray barged into Natsu's apartment like a man on a mission.
"If you don't see sunlight soon, you're going to become one of your paintings," he announced, kicking aside a pile of discarded sketches. "And I mean that literally. Like, one day we'll find you trapped in a canvas somewhere, screaming for help."
Natsu barely looked up from his work, a half-finished abstract piece where streaks of red and orange clawed up the canvas.
"I'm busy."
"You're coming to the club," Gray declared, ignoring him completely. He grabbed Natsu's jacket from the back of a chair and tossed it at him. "You need to get drunk, dance like the idiot you are, and maybe talk to someone who isn't made of acrylics and gouache."
Reluctantly, Natsu let himself be dragged out. He lingered by the door as Gray tossed him his jacket, muttering something about how it wasn't worth the trouble. But Gray was already halfway down the hall, yelling over his shoulder, "Move it, ash-head. The world won't wait for you to catch up."
With a heavy sigh, Natsu followed.
The streets were crowded, alive with the nighttime buzz of the city. Neon signs flickered above storefronts, and the chatter of passing strangers blended into the rumble of distant traffic. Natsu shoved his hands deep into his pockets, trailing behind Gray, who strode ahead with his usual confidence. Overconfidence, if you asked Natsu.
The air was cool but carried the faint warmth of lingering summer, tinged with the smell of street food and smoke. Natsu glanced at the clusters of people outside bars and restaurants, their laughter spilling out into the night. It all felt distant, like it was happening on the other side of a glass wall.
"You're gonna have fun," Gray said, throwing a glance back at him. "You just don't know it yet."
"Doubt it," Natsu muttered, kicking a stray bottle cap across the sidewalk.
"You're impossible," Gray groaned, rolling his eyes. But he didn't slow down, weaving easily through the throngs of people as if he'd done this a thousand times before.
As they neared the club, the bass-heavy thrum of music grew louder, vibrating through the pavement beneath their feet. Bright lights flashed from the open doorway, illuminating a line of people waiting to get in. Gray walked right past them, nodding to the bouncer like they were old friends.
Natsu hesitated at the entrance, glancing back at the quiet street they'd left behind. It felt like a threshold, one he wasn't sure he wanted to cross. But Gray grabbed his arm, tugging him inside with a determined grin.
"Come on," Gray said over the noise, his voice almost drowned out by the music. "This is gonna be good for you. Trust me."
"This is pointless," he muttered.
"No," Gray said sharply, "you hiding in your apartment and staring at a canvas for days is pointless. This? This is fun. You remember fun, right?"
Natsu didn't answer, but he followed.
The club was packed, its bass-heavy music pulsing like a heartbeat. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and alcohol, the flashing lights cutting through the darkness like electric blades. Gray wasted no time throwing himself into the chaos, chatting up strangers and tossing back shots like he was trying to set a new personal record.
Natsu lingered by the bar, nursing a drink he barely tasted. He watched the crowd move as if through a haze, their bodies twisting and swaying to the beat. It was loud, frenetic, alive – but it felt like something happening to other people, not to him.
He felt detached, like he was watching the world through a fogged window. The fire in his chest, the one that burned so brightly in his dreams, felt dim and muted here. The rhythm of the music didn't match the pulse of his own heartbeat. The lights, no matter how dazzling, couldn't compare to the glow of the flames he longed for.
He found himself wishing he were back in bed, chasing the faint hope of seeing her again.
Gray reappeared suddenly, breaking his thoughts.
"You look miserable," he said, handing Natsu another drink. "Seriously, you've got to loosen up. Do I need to hire someone to dance with you, or...?"
"I'm fine," Natsu muttered, glaring at him.
Gray rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small plastic bag.
"Okay, fine, but I'm not letting you be a buzzkill all night. Here." He shoved a joint into Natsu's hand. "Loke's stash. Top-shelf. Trust me."
Natsu hesitated, then raised an eyebrow at Gray.
"This is your grand solution?"
"It's a solution," Gray said with a shrug. "Stop overthinking and just do something for once."
Sighing, Natsu took a hit. The smoke filled his lungs, heavy and acrid, and for a moment, he felt like the world tilted sideways. The music became a low hum in the back of his mind, the flashing lights smearing into streaks of color. Everything blurred at the edges, and he felt... lighter. Unmoored.
"Better?" Gray asked, grinning.
"Sure," Natsu said, though his voice sounded far away.
"Let's go outside." Gray tugged him toward the exit, and Natsu didn't resist.
The cool night air hit like a splash of water, sharp and invigorating after the heat and chaos of the club. The alley behind the building was quiet, save for the muffled thrum of music and the distant sounds of the city. Natsu found himself crouching by a pile of discarded cardboard, fumbling for a match.
The tiny flame sputtered to life, small and weak, but it held his attention completely. He struck another match, feeding the fire until it grew. The flicker of light reflected in his eyes, hypnotic, drawing him into its dance.
The world around him seemed to fade.
And then she appeared.
She stepped out of the flames as if they were a doorway, her figure forming from the light itself. Her hair was swept into a high side ponytail, her bangs framing her face in a way that felt modern, almost casual. She wore fitted clothes, dark and sleek, clinging to her like the fire had melted and shaped them.
Natsu froze.
She was different, but it was her. He knew it instantly – the way her eyes glimmered, dark and infinite, holding entire galaxies within them. The way the flames bent around her, as if she commanded their very existence. No, that might be the joint playing with him. Still; there she was.
"Are you two okay?" she asked, her voice smooth and quiet, but with a resonance that seemed to vibrate in Natsu's chest.
Gray blinked, glancing between Natsu and the woman.
"Uh, yeah, we're fine," he said awkwardly. Was he missing a shirt?
But Natsu couldn't speak. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at her, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible.
And yet, here she was.
It was her.
Natsu couldn't get the image of her out of his head.
Even as he lay sprawled across Gray's couch the next morning, staring at the ceiling with a pounding headache and the vague taste of ash in his mouth, her eyes haunted him. Dark and shimmering, like the night sky itself. The memory of her voice – smooth, calm, and impossibly real – echoed in his thoughts. Gray shuffled into the living room, yawning and scratching his head. He looked like shit. Natsu wanted to claw his own eyes out at the sight. Though, at least he was wearing clothes.
"You're alive. That's a good sign."
"Barely," Natsu muttered, dragging himself upright.
Gray tossed him a bottle of water. "You were acting weird last night. Even for you."
Natsu didn't respond. What could he say? Oh, by the way, the woman from my dreams showed up in an alley last night, wearing fire and starlight. No. He wasn't even sure it had happened. It felt real—too real—but his memory of the moment was hazy, blurred by smoke and exhaustion.
Gray raised an eyebrow as he sat down on the arm of the couch, his eyes scanning Natsu's face.
"So, who was that girl you were talking to last night?" When Natsu didn't immediately answer, Gray clarified. "The blonde chick from the club? You're thinking about her, aren't you?"
Natsu froze for a split second, his pulse spiking. He hadn't expected Gray to ask, though part of him had known it was coming. He'd been there after all; he'd seen Natsu's reaction.
"I… don't know," Natsu said quickly, too quickly. He felt a strange twinge of guilt, but he couldn't bring himself to explain it. Not yet. He shook his head quickly, grabbing the water and standing up. "It's nothing. Just tired."
Gray snorted. "Sure. Whatever you say."
The walk back to his apartment felt heavier than usual, his mind spiraling as he replayed the night over and over again. He tried to convince himself it was just the high messing with him, but the memory of her was too sharp to ignore. When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, the scent of paint and turpentine greeted him like an old friend. His canvases stood in their usual places, leaning against the walls, half-finished and abandoned. But his eyes were immediately drawn to the center of the room.
She was there.
Sitting on his couch, her legs crossed delicately, as though she'd been waiting for hours. Her hair, now loose and cascading over her shoulders, caught the light from his window like recognisable strands of molten gold. She wasn't wearing the fitted clothes from the alley – this time, her outfit was simple, a flowing dress that shimmered faintly with a light he couldn't place.
"You," Natsu said, his voice a breathless whisper.
She tilted her head, her lips curving into a soft smile. "Your landlord let me in."
"My- what?" Natsu blinked, his thoughts tangling as he tried to piece together how she could possibly be here. In his apartment. In the flesh.
"I told him I was a friend," she continued, standing and taking a step toward him. Her movements were fluid, almost otherworldly, like she was gliding rather than walking. She dangled a spare key on her pointer. "You should really make sure he doesn't hand these out so easily."
"Why..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "How are you here? What's going on?"
"You invited me," she said simply, her gaze steady.
"I- what?"
"At the club," she added, amusement flickering in her eyes. "You gave me your address."
Natsu's face burned as the memory rushed back – a hastily scrawled note on the edge of a torn rolling paper, handed to her in a haze of smoke and desperation. "That wasn't... I mean, I didn't think-"
"You didn't think I'd come," she finished for him, her tone calm but teasing.
He stared at her, his mind racing. Everything about her felt unreal, yet here she was, standing in his apartment like she belonged there. He didn't know what to say, what to do, but his hands itched to grab his brushes, to capture the way the light played off her skin, to bring her presence to life on canvas.
She stepped closer, stopping just a foot away. "Do you want me to leave?"
"No," Natsu said quickly, the word escaping before he could stop it.
"I like your work," she said, gesturing to the scattered canvases and sketches that filled the room. "I've never seen anything like it. It's like... you paint fire, which is literally just a gas, but it feels… alive. Like it's telling a story."
Natsu blinked, her words sinking in slowly. She didn't know. She had no idea she was the woman from his dreams, no clue that her face, her presence, was etched into every brushstroke.
"You like them?" he asked, his voice quieter than he intended.
She stood, walking over to a half-finished painting propped against the wall. Her fingers hovered just above the surface, careful not to touch the wet paint.
"Like isn't the right word," she said softly. "I think I'm in love with them."
Something inside Natsu shifted. The emptiness he'd carried for so long, the weight of feeling like something was always missing, began to lift. It wasn't gone entirely – he could still feel its edges – but it was quieter now, overshadowed by the warmth of her words and the way she seemed to see right through him.
"I'd like to paint you," he said suddenly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.
She turned to him, surprise flickering across her face. "Really?"
"Yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean... if you don't mind. I think... I think I could make something amazing if you let me."
She hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
"Okay. I'd like that."
For the next few hours, the room came alive. Natsu worked with a focus he hadn't felt in months, his hands moving instinctively as he captured the way the light hit her hair, the way her smile seemed to brighten the space. She sat quietly, her posture relaxed, occasionally watching him with a curiosity that made his heart race.
When he finally stepped back from the canvas, his hands smudged with paint and his chest tight with anticipation, he turned to her.
"Well?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
She stood and approached the painting, her eyes widening as she took it in.
"Is that… me? It's beautiful," she said after a long moment, her voice filled with awe. "You've captured something... something I didn't even know was there."
Natsu swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wanted to tell her everything – about the dreams, about the fire, about the way she'd filled a void he didn't fully understand. But the words wouldn't come.
Instead, he simply nodded.
"Thanks."
She glanced at the clock, then back at him. "I should go," she said reluctantly.
"Will I see you again?" he asked, the question spilling out before he could second-guess it.
She smiled, a soft, almost shy curve of her lips.
"If you want to."
He nodded, his chest tightening as she walked toward the door. She paused briefly, looking back at him one last time.
"Your work... it's amazing," she said. "You, as a person, are amazing."
And then she was gone, leaving Natsu standing in the middle of his studio, the air feeling lighter than it had in months. The door closed behind her, but the quiet she left in her wake lingered, wrapping itself around Natsu like a warm blanket. For a long moment, he stood there, listening to the stillness of the room. The humming of the fridge, the faint background noise of a bustling city outside. It was as if the space had shifted with her presence, and now, without her, it seemed like a different place altogether. Lighter. Brighter, even.
Eventually, Natsu made his way back to his chair, his eyes drifting to the canvas in front of him. The portrait. The portrait that now felt more like a memory than a creation. She had become something more than just an image in his mind or a figure in his dreams. She was real. He had touched her, spoken to her, shared moments with her – moments that had shifted everything he had thought he understood.
He sat back, his gaze lingering on the completed portrait, the woman before him as vivid as she had ever been. Every stroke of the brush had felt like an exploration of something deeply familiar, and in the spaces between the strokes, he had found the truth he'd been searching for. The fire that had once threatened to consume him had settled within him, no longer a danger, but a part of him.
Since that night, he hadn't had the dreams—the wild, desperate fires that once roared through his mind. No more lost, hopeless wandering through flames. No more questions without answers. Sometimes, he wondered if the dreams had ever been real at all, or if they had simply been a prelude, leading him here, to this. But it didn't matter. He no longer needed the validation of dreams to know she was meant for him.
In the quiet moments, when he would lie beside her, his body pressed against hers in the cool light of the moon, it all became clear. Their connection. The way her touch felt like a promise. The way they fit together, as if they had always known each other in some cosmic sense.
Natsu closed his eyes, remembering how they had come together, bodies entwined, under the soft glow of moonlight. In those moments, the world outside ceased to exist. There was only the warmth of her skin, the rhythm of their breathing, and the gentle hum of something deeper. A bond neither of them had expected, but one they both understood now.
She had been sent to him by the universe itself. His soulmate. His muse.