『 R E Q U E S T S , C L O S E D 』AnimeCharacters x Reader

43. God Serena x Reader | We Don't Realize; Our Own

》character: God Serena | Fairy Tail

》requested by: Yoa-Chan

》06262017

》MODERN AU; wherein you haven't talked to him for years upon years, and the strangest of whims are always the most tempting at the endings of a tiring week.

[a/n]: i've been redoing the ending over and over again because it just doesn't feel right and the title is just a joining of two ideas i've had for the title

xx

You don't know if it was a dream, a hallucination, or a fantasy that draws rings of sunlight in the sky while you were tied to the ground but the laughter that pretended a short existence amidst your ears felt all too real, and you felt all too lonely when you open your eyes to find nothing but scattered things.

You correct your spine as you sit upright on the chair, fingers dangling uselessly as you wonder the sight of a younger you, and a younger him. It leaves you haunted, the images that begin to fade, the reality that reminds you that laughter was rare if not contrived; it leaves you haunted like the exhale of death, the parting of friendships.

Childhoods were precious, cherished, held secret and dear, whether sunny or stormy. The times of youth were things to remember, in fractures and slices, to bring in your pockets as you breathe the air of winter. 

It was a nice thing to dwell upon with your fist under your chin, signs passed of better times. It was a painful thing to dwell upon with your heart tossed at each palm, signs passed of better times.

Like jewels pasted on a dress, you watch a light that isn't your own, daring to return to the times of your childhood that were saturated in the colors of living seasons.

》flashback

It was a simple day, a simple arrangement like white flowers placed horizontally on a table that fitted twenty quests that would share the same conversation. A breakfast you only remembered when your plate was half-finished, a slur of pulled-back chairs and long blinks after.

What mattered was that you exited the car, forty minutes away from home, staring long at the scenery you're presented with. It was pretty, indigenous, close to the water, and you think that you could hear the sounds of the ripples under hanging footsteps if it collapsed into the silence of a hospital haunted by emptiness.

It's close enough to civilization that you don't see bone-white seagulls chase each other above a sky patched with light clouds, but far enough the road disappears into dirt that crunches under you feet as you wish for company to agree with your opinions. The land surrendered to water in a battle long forgotten, for the plants stop far enough in respect that the water is soundless as it passes. The water was greenish, you could only describe in your lack of knowledge in the colors saltwater liked to present itself in. You could compare it to the dresses of a bizarre mythical creature, with the head of a woman and the body of an animal far-thrown from any effortless elegance.

You step on a rock, a lump against your slipper that makes you grunt, though no one looks at their concern. Your parents have already detached themselves to greet other parents with loud laughs and gossip of the happenings inside your late-summer-wrapped house.

"(F/N)!"

You turn to a voice you recognize even without a face, of your best friend, your only friend if you had not begun conversations with comfortable people for the short lifetime of eight minutes. God Serena carried his feet clumsily, two fishing rods so superficially that you feared one of the ends would whap an unsuspecting adult in the forehead and stun them for all of two seconds.

He's wearing you don't see him wear often and shorts that end around his knees, with more pockets than you know he doesn't know what to do with. His grin is brighter than the dancing sun, that skirts through cloud and cloud until you don't even remember it's there, and he stops just far enough you don't become a victim to the precarious end of the slim rod.

"What happened to your nose?" you ask him, wanting to reach out and touch the bandage he's placed across the bridge of it. He looked like a perfect teenager then, you think now, with his interests swirling pictures in every free minute, kicking pebbles into road bumps and sticking close to the friends that keep their secrets. This God Serena is kept in pictures, torn and new, exchanged to the ones who've seen every single face he's able to make.

"An accident with the hook," he says, laughing to himself- at himself, at the memory, "it's only a light cut, nothing to worry about."

Of course it's something to worry about, you wanted to tell him with a berating tone that you learned from replicating your mother's, but you roll your eyes at him instead. He's been shot at the arm for anti-tetanus a month ago for another accident that's mighty identical to this one, and you wonder if his bruises from that time stopped colonizing his unblemished skin.

You take a fishing rod, watch the silver hook with a wary point, and you and him design the early beginnings of a competition that has you racing after three little footsteps.

God Serena catches nine fish and you catch a disappointing six, you remember, and the two of you try shouting over each other, arguing over who's hooked the biggest fish. You're certain your parents and his parents exchanged looks only they understood the meaning of, for both of their children emerged from the shells of dependency quite the same, it's no wonder they became friends faster than a mayfly drops dead. 

You forget the competition minutes after, sitting beside each other, touching at the hip, silent and focused on your own plates of food.

》end of flashback

You don't realize you've reached for your phone until you're staring right at the numbers arranged in order, asking for your passcode. You type the numbers in, not knowing why.

A decision you don't give much thought to sends your fingers through your contact list, so close to the unexplored end the scrollbar reaches it, almost. His name sends a pang, like touching the screaming iron of a kettle, or pricking yourself on a needle, like in a Western fairy tale you can't put a name to.

It's four rings, not enough for you to regret anything, because you've already said your hello, much less vigorous than what you last picture from the least distant of your touched memories.

"(Y/N), it's, it's been a while," he says. You wonder if he's pleasantly surprised, been disturbed but been taught too well-mannered to show it or sitting in a room so deprived of past delicacies that it feels strange, like you.

You begin wondering all about his life, what kind of things he likes, what kind of people he drinks juice in the summers with, if he even still likes juice. His voice is deeper now, and you can't tell what he's feeling anymore.

You ask him ordinary questions, and he answers with words that don't quite fit like sentences.

It takes a while, but you don't count the minutes. Soon, it feels like nothing has changed, because you're both laughing at everything the other has to say, finding that old quips still work as faultlessly. It feels like nothing has changed.

Except, when you turn a tired head, reach out with rested fingers, you don't find him by your side, laughing into your ear.

You don't realize you've fallen silent until he calls your name. You smile, for nobody to see, to convince nobody but the light that wasn't yours.

"Oh, sorry about that," you reply to him; "just thought about something."

"What kind of something?"

"Something I'm keeping a secret from you."

"Aww, come on!" You laugh, and soon, he does too.