isolation

Sometimes Juvia was far away.

Gray had his dark days too, but Juvia's were something different. From the moment they slipped into their relationship, Gray had found himself dismantling the walls that he'd put up so long ago. Despite how long he'd fought her and attempted to deny the feelings that etched themselves into his bones, he threw himself headfirst into her love and affection, desperate to make up for the time he squandered. He told her everything. Gray's dark days were the ones in which he clung to her most.

Juvia's dark days held the quiet of a beach with no moon, when the ocean was at low tide and receded into itself as if to escape the touch of shore. Sometimes Gray didn't recognize her. Juvia didn't speak much during those times, but when she did her voice was always just this side of wrecked, her tones that typically held waves fell into silent ripples. She fell into a lonely place, a place Gray was afraid was too far for him to reach.

That didn't mean he'd ever stop trying.

The advantage Gray had was he could always see them coming. It was always clear when the rain was unnatural. It starts with the way the wind engulfs his form, the way it can smell like spring in the middle of summer. There's an ache to his bones when the drops begin to hit his typically bare shoulders, as if the sky itself is trying to tell him something. He thought his easy recognition had something to do with how attuned he'd become to her magic, several unison raids later and night after night spent watching her play with the water in the river. Truly, it didn't matter. He was just grateful for it.

Her days were infrequent, maybe once every few months. But when they came, they came hard.

If he's within Magnolia when it starts, he sprints. Sometimes it was dead in the middle of conversations, his words left abandoned and hanging in the air like an unsung song, questioning looks sent his way as he burst from shops and left bags of instant ramen spilled at check-out. It was always unfortunate on days when he had been on missions, when he came back into town and was met with a downpour and a guilt that settled low in his stomach knowing he hadn't been there to help.

Gray always found her in the same place; Juvia always sat in her oversized chair in front of the window, curled up in his favorite black t-shirt. Usually she pulled their comforter out of their room to bundle herself further. Sometimes she was knitting. Sometimes she was asleep. Other times she played with the water that slid down the panes, tracing intricate patterns and beautiful pictures on the glass with her magic. Her state was always trance-like, pulled so far into her own mind she couldn't recognize he was home and dripping rainwater on their hardwood floor.

Taking care of her was usually an all-night thing. Gray would change into dry clothes and lift her just enough to set her sideways into his lap. He would guide her head to his shoulder, letting her face press into his neck as his fingers lifted to pull through her long, blue curls. Juvia typically wouldn't react for a few minutes, but eventually she'd slowly leave her dissociative state and lift her hand to rest over his guildmark on his chest. She'd trace it; she never spoke and he never pushed her.

When Gray was sure she he'd pulled her mostly into reality, he'd move to cook her supper. Juvia usually did the cooking, it was something she genuinely enjoyed doing, but on these nights he'd usually have to coax her into eating. "Juves," he'd call out her nickname. Sometimes she responded. Other times she didn't.

After supper he'd draw her a bath. By this point he could get her to give little nods or head-shakes to his questions.

"Too hot?" he'd ask. She'd shake her head.

"Bubbles?" he'd ask. She'd nod.

Gray would bathe her. He'd wash her hair and massage her scalp with soft ease and tender smiles— ask her slowly about how her day went. He listened to the rain as she responded, usually generic little murmurs under her breath about her knitting or something that happened at the guildhall. By the time the bubbles had popped and the water had gone lukewarm, she was content enough that the weather had settled.

Gray dried her and brushed her hair down her back. He pressed kisses to her collar and shoulders as he dressed her, pulling another one of his shirts over her head and a pair of his boxers on her hips. He sang to her; it always made his Juvia giggle.

"How you feelin'?" Gray would finally ask, letting his hands slip beneath the back of her shirt. He rubbed circles against the curve of her back, and Juvia would close her eyes.

"Better," she'd smile.

"Wanna talk about it?" Gray would ask.

Juvia would say yes, but sometimes she said no. They'd lay down and he'd listen to her every word, talk it out with her and kiss the corner of her mouth. Gray would lull her to sleep, and the next morning she'd wake up early and make muffins for breakfast. He'd rouse from heavy sleep to the smell of blueberries. The scent would lead him all the way into the kitchen over to the stove, and the gentle hum of his happy and content girlfriend would bring a sleepy smile to his face.

"Good morning, love."

"Good morning, Gray-sama," Juvia would turn with a muffin and lift it under his nose. Gray would chuckle.

"Juvia loves you," she'd smile. Gray would know then that the storm would pass.

"I love you too," he'd tell her, and she'd lean up and kiss his cheek.

Juvia definitely had her lonely, dark days. But Gray would always bring her back.