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Lucy looks up and frowns. The sky is pale and gray — as it so often is this time of year — a telltale sign of snow to come. It is only November, but it is cold enough to be January, and her breath forms little puffs that hang in the air a moment before evaporating.
She pulls her knit cap down lower over her ears and buries her stiff fingers deep in the pockets of her threadbare coat. Strands of her blonde hair whip about her face, and she brushes them aside. The stinging cold leaves the tips of her nose pink and her cheeks numb. She might enjoy the winter, but she’s not immune to the cold, and Lucy shivers despite herself.
It’s going to snow; she can feel it in the chill that seeps into her bones.
She’s not really sure why she’s wandering a park in the biting cold when she could be at home, wrapped in blankets and writing the next chapter of her novel with a mug of steaming hot chocolate. The idea sounds so appealing that she turns to go, but something urges her to stay just a while longer. And so, on instinct, she sits down on a park bench and retrieves a book and her iPod from the bag slung over her arm.
She must be insane. If only Levy and Erza could see her now. They’d never let her live this down.
She chooses a quiet playlist from her music library and adjusts her simple headphones. Opening the book to where she last left off, she loses herself in a world of paper and ink. She does not notice the first few snowflakes of the season drift down around her, even when they melt on the pages of the novel, nor does she notice the boy approach her bench almost hesitantly.
“Can I sit here?”
Lucy’s eyes widen in surprise and she jumps at the sudden interruption. Her gaze snaps up from the pages of her novel to the boy standing in front of her. Her eyes are immediately drawn to messy, dusty pink hair that sticks up in every direction. Lanky but toned arms, broad shoulders, tanned skin, a sharp jaw, chapped lips. He’s about her height, maybe a little taller, but he still cranes his neck to look down at her and clears his throat, and it isn’t until then that she realizes that she’s staring.
She wonders if he thinks she’s weird, or probably crazy — she must be, if this boy, this boy she’s never met before, makes her feel like she’s known him for all her life, for a thousand lifetimes, even, and neither of them have said more more than a few words.
But then she meets his steady gaze and all she can see are his brownbrown eyes framed by dark lashes and she’s drowning in their intensity. She sees hundreds of lifetimes in those eyes — a prince, a soldier, a slave, a warrior, a mage, a dragon slayer. Her book falls from her shaking hands and her vision blurs.
His eyes light up in genuine delight and he grins broadly (and for the life of her, she can’t understand why her heart skips a beat at the ridiculously happy look on his face). I found you, his eyes say, and then the look is gone, leaving her to question whether or not she imagined it.
Another few seconds pass and she can see the unfamiliarity and utter confusion in her eyes reflected in his, and then a look of hurt replaces them, so strong she thinks she’s going to cry.
Abruptly, out of nowhere, her head hurts, a sudden splitting pain like nothing she’s ever known, pulling her thoughts apart and tearing them to shreds, and she winces, gasping. She sees blindingly white flashes every time she closes her eyes.
“Are you alright?” She registers footsteps, and she forces her eyes open only to see that he is awkwardly reaching out to her, and their eyes meet again. She recoils.
It’s him, his eyes, that are causing this, and it sounds ridiculous but Lucy knows it’s true. Her headache intensifies, and she opens her mouth to ask what he’s doing and why is this happening, but she can’t form the words and then — and then —
For the briefest of seconds, there is everything — a pink haired dragon slayer and a blonde haired celestial spirit mage bound together by the threads of friendship and maybe, just maybe something more, something neither of them can yet put a name to (although they’ve come close). It’s always more fun when I’m with you; let’s save the tears for when we win; I’ll protect our future;
There is a guild full of laughter and warmth and it is her home, her family, and they’re all beckoning to her to join them, their arms outstretched to welcome her home —
And then just as quickly there is nothing, nothing at all, as the glimpses and flashes slip from her grasp and fade into the shadows of her mind, leaving a gaping hole in their wake.
But that’s not entirely true, because there is something: a name. She can taste it on the tip of her tongue, familiar and warm. Why can’t she remember? She squeezes her eyes shut tight and clenches her fists, frustrated and angry because this very well may be the most important thing in her whole life and she can’t remember it.
Her head spins, and there’s another flash of something, images and words that run together in a mass of forgotten laughter and jokes and promises —
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks softly. She jerks her head up. “Why are you crying?”
Lucy reaches up and is only mildly surprised by the cold tears wetting her cheeks.
She vaguely realizes that he’s wrapping something warm around her neck; a white scarf, she discovers, and Lucy looks up at the boy in confusion. The gesture is far too familiar, too intimate, to be between two strangers. “You looked like you could use it,” is all he offers in response.
She tugs at the ends of the scarf, and it feels oddly familiar. She doesn’t reply for a long time. “I don’t even know you. Why?”
But even as the words leave her lips Lucy knows they’re a lie, because she does know him, knows him as sure as the sky is blue and the earth is round; she can feel it in some deep, instinctive part of her.
He doesn’t answer, avoids the question. “I’ve waited for you,” he whispers instead, so quietly she can barely make out the words. His hands clench into fists and his shoulders hunch ever so slightly as he fights back inevitable tears. “I’ve waited so long. And now I’ve finally found you, Luce.”
At the sound of her name, Lucy stills, and he freezes, his mouth half open as he catches his mistake. His eyes widen almost imperceptibly, rimmed with shock, and she can see the doubt and worry spilling over.
Come home, Lucy.
“Natsu,” she breathes instinctively, and the name is the trigger; it’s like a light has been flipped on, sparking memories buried deep in herself that Lucy wasn’t even aware of before now, because she remembers and he is Natsu and she is Lucy and nothing else matters.
She can scarcely believe that he’s really her Natsu, but then he’s pulling her into his arms and they are closecloseclose, his strong arms hooked around her waist. He’s close enough that she can feel his breath on her neck and she can smell him, the scent of the sea and the forest and the desert all rolled into one, tainted by the faint scent of his cologne. Underneath it all, she can smell her Natsu, the one she knew so very long ago in the distant past, the one that smelled of sweat and dirt and ashes and the hope of the entire guild.
He’s not that Natsu anymore, but he is at the same time; he is her Natsu and the ones after him rolled into one boy who bears the memories of them all. He’s still the boy she’s woken up beside, the boy that protects her when she can no longer protect herself, the boy who catches her when she falls, and the boy whose determination has tied them together throughout all of their lifetimes.
He holds her, and Lucy clings to him as if her life depends on it. She’s terrified he’ll disappear the moment she lets go. She’s finally found him, her pink haired dragon slayer, and this time she won’t let anything take him away from her.
“I won’t let go this time, you weirdo,” he mumbles into her ear, like he just heard her thoughts.
She's crying again, but not because she’s sad, and maybe she’s imagining it, but he tears up a little too. They are no longer two strangers standing in the snow; they are best friends and lovers and everything in between. They’ve found their way in the darkness again, and she knows more about him in that moment than she has in a thousand lifetimes.
He leans down and presses his lips to hers. The taste of remembrance lingers between them when he kisses her for the first — second, third, hundredth time. She winds her fingers into his hair and kisses him back.
Maybe it’s fate, or maybe it’s something else entirely; Lucy’s not sure, but she knows that fate is part destiny and part self-made, and although fate — or whatever else this is — has kept them apart until now, it cannot keep them apart this time, not in this life or the next, because Lucy has found him and she won’t let go.