(Set during Fairy Tail's brief disbandment, months after OS joins CS.)

They move together as one chiaroscuro. Wispy slashing and clean focus keeps them steady on their feet. Jellal looks over his shoulder and watches Macbeth's impending silhouette through the foliage. He furrows his eyebrows curiously as the young man stumbles out of the last wall of leaves and lands next to him.

"We can rest," Jellal offers.

Macbeth pulls off his hood and looks around. "Are you sure? It's getting dark."

"We'll be alright if it's only for a couple of minutes. There should be a spring ahead anyways."

"Oh," Macbeth breathes. "That sounds good then."

"Alright."

They continue a fast trek through the forest breadth in front of them in hopes of meeting the spring; with Macbeth closer to his tail this time around, Jellal clears through the sparse bushes, skinny tree branches, and limp plants dipping in front of them. The hum of the spring strums louder and louder with covered distance, rousing his ears. They arrive in under five minutes to damp soil and levels and levels of coursing rivulets of water.

Canteen in hand, Jellal goes down to the edge. He chugs down the first refill in one go. After his throat has been tended to, he fills his hands with water and watches it overflow to the sides before scrubbing his face clean. He waits for this moment everyday—to breathe warmly into his wet palms and for only a few seconds, to listen and become intimate with every delicate fall and lift around him. This luxury won't stop baffling him; he still does not fully understand how human water could make even a scampering criminal like him feel.

Macbeth plops onto the soil next to him. He takes off his boots and pours water over his bare feet.

"Are you alright?" Jellal asks, raising a brow.

"Sore," Macbeth says, after a swig, "but fine."

Jellal nods. The longer he crouches the more he can feel his own exhaustion; it curls and numbs into his chest and hips and coaxes him into a lazy sit.

"We sure cut it close today," Macbeth says. "Are you sure about this?"

"I didn't sense anybody following us," Jellal says. "It doesn't seem we made much of an impression."

Macbeth sighs. "Erik's abilities may be our best asset right now."

"I wonder about that."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't doubt Erik. But, if these last few days were any indication, getting close enough will be difficult for all of us. The grounds aren't easily maneuverable, and you can't see or hear much from the outside without the risk of getting too close. It might be easier to figure out a way to infiltrate their headquarters directly rather than trying to figure out their motives from a careful distance."

"In other words," Macbeth smirks, "a spy."

Jellal nods. "It's a risk, but we don't have many options."

"Let's discuss it with the others when we get back."

"Yes," Jellal replies. After a small pause, just as his comrade tries to stand, he says, "It won't hurt to stay a while longer. The hideout isn't very far from here."

Macbeth glances at him wordlessly. Then, he undoes his ponytail, wrings his long black hair to one side of his neck, and sighs in a way that makes Jellal stare. "Fine by me," Macbeth says.

Jellal carefully prods. "Is…anything troubling you?"

"There might be," the man mumbles back. "I've had a lot on my mind. Can I ask you about something?"

"Okay," Jellal nods, "what is it?"

Macbeth shrugs. "Love," he murmurs. "Tell me what love is."

Right away, Jellal doesn't understand.

Jellal doesn't get how his guild-mate can shrug, as if love had ever been deserving of an empty gesture like that. Finding himself unresponsive, the twenty-six year old sets his eyes on a rush of the spring.

Suddenly, his primary thought is of her.

And she is enough for him to suspend into further silence. Six months have passed since Jellal has seen Erza, and he wonders where she is and what she is doing now. He almost wants to try to find out.

"Sorry," Macbeth mutters. "I know it's random."

"No, uh, not entirely. It's fine."

Jellal turns away and clasps his hands together. Love is a night topic. When the world seems asleep and quiet enough for Jellal to hear himself, love comes for him then, as everything else does—everything he could do, all that he can't, and what he could have done. The dust of his insanity still lingers, and the woe of it is something he'll always acknowledge—to love many people and many things even though many of them don't love him anymore. He thinks of allies old, new, and always there—of those who he now considers family to those who once considered him apart of theirs. The grief burns like it always has. He understands that welcoming it is even sadder.

Jellal looks at him. "Did something happen?"

Macbeth shrugs again. "When you sleep beside Richard, you just stay up thinking about these things. You know how he is."

Jellal listens and waits for him to continue. When he doesn't, he asks, "Have you gone to the others?"

Macbeth snorts. "Why would I?"

Jellal frowns and looks away again. The quiet takes over. After a moment, Macbeth chuckles. Jellal does not know what to make of this, because he doesn't know what kind of laugh it is and he knows better than most people all the ways to hide behind one. It occurs to him then—right on schedule—that he still has too much to learn about his new guild members. He has made a guild out of the chunks of the same broken mirror. They are reflections of similar pains and he knows there will always be small shards of themselves floating away with the wind, swept into the trash and left behind. Jellal knows he cannot piece back everything, but he still tries and cannot bear the thought of it taking another seven years.

Suddenly, Macbeth falls onto his back, hands tucked behind his head. He closes his eyes and says, "Wally sounds like a good guy."

Careful not to repeat the name, Jellal finally replies. "Richard has somebody he loves. With something so precious, you wouldn't need much else."

"So he's the luckiest one out of us all," Macbeth says. He laughs, "…but he's also the nicest. I can't get mad at him."

Jellal no longer feels comfortable listening and sitting still at the same time.

"I'm a piece of shit," Macbeth murmurs. "I can't deny that I'm jealous."

"Is that really it?"

Macbeth opens his eyes. "Huh?"

More harshly than he intends, Jellal replies, "Why are you here? Why are any of us here? Life hasn't stopped for this guild. We try to make the best out of every random circumstance, good or bad, and for what? How important are your comrades to you? What does Crime Sorciere mean to you, Macbeth? Why did you stay?"

Macbeth watches Jellal with blank eyes. He sits up and stares at Jellal strangely, like he doesn't know him—and it occurs to Jellal again that he still really doesn't, which frustrates him even more.

He struggles to vocalize many things—things that he feels more than he can explain and hopes people like Macbeth can figure out by just watching him, but Jellal understands that this has nothing to do with observation. There's a gap between him and the recent additions to his guild that he needs to shrink as soon as possible.

Jellal has half a mind to stand up, tell the man to simply think about it, and get back on the move. But before he rises back to his feet, something catches his eye. There's something about the last strands of sunlight shimmering over the stream that almost makes him forget how to breathe. He can't stop himself from gazing at it, or reaching out to it.

The water caresses the tips of his fingers, still very cold. He hesitates for a moment, raises his hand, and stares at his fingers with narrowed eyes. They have gotten so calloused and dirty. He hovers them above the water and doesn't know if he should dip them back in.

"You asked me what love is," he mutters. "It's not luck. It's not a choice either. Not necessarily."

"What—"

"I don't need to explain it to you, Macbeth. You've known for a while."

They all have. His heart begins to weigh heavily in his chest as debate moves in his mind. He loves the clean water, he loves the sun. Jellal tries to take back his hand, but the motion allows a sudden ray of light to flit across his knuckles and he stills, his breath escaping him. The sun is so warm on his hand. It fills his insides with a familiar passion and Jellal feels himself blush as he dips his fingers back in and stares at the thinning strip of sunlight on his skin. What a simple and beautiful thing.

"You don't need to be afraid of it," Jellal finally says. The light disappears a minute later and the forest has gotten darker. And while his heart has hardly slowed, it has renewed the peace in his mind. He brings his hand back to his side, brushes it against the bulge of the communication lacrima in his pocket, and glances over his shoulder. She is everywhere now.

"Do you understand?"

Macbeth has a bewildered, flushed expression that makes Jellal smirk a little. "I…I guess."

"You will eventually. Shall we head out?"

"I…fine."

Note: I'm not really sure what this was. It's just a thing that I wanted to write because I'm a huge fan of symbolism. Also just a small fyi (in case it wasn't that clear), this was a small take on what I want to believe could have happened right before Jellal reached out to Erza for help on infiltrating Avatar. Thanks for reading.