Yo, so I'm back with some more NaLu! I've just been craving them for the past few months, and so I decided, "Let's write some [awful] fanfic about them!"

But yeah, let me warn you now, nothing in this fic is canon. Some stuff are loosely based off of what has happened in the manga near the end (which was disappointing as hell, but hey — and kudos to you if you can recognise what's based off of what). This isn't a rewrite of the ending either. And I completely forgot about Acnologia's entire existence in this fic, so he's not included. And he doesn't need to be anyway, because like I said, none of this is canon.

Hell, this doesn't even have a coherent plot, if it has a plot at all! This is just... something. I don't even know. It's just NaLu. Yeah.

WARNING: I got kinda sloppy approaching the middle and towards the end.

Please review, feed me your criticisms, your opinions, anything! Have mercy on my heart, who beats for the sole purpose of obtaining your precious thoughts (I exaggerate in jest; do not take me seriously, dear readers).

Edit (17th July, 2018): some minor tweaks, really. Nothing significant (and not even that much improvement, haha).

You are all candles and infernos, and my mother must have told me once that playing with fire is dangerous.

And I, drunk on your smile, suffer the consequence.

But maybe I like the burn; the heat of my cheeks when we are so close to the point I cannot touch you (because it's the intangible that sets me aflame), the way my heart blazes when you turn dusk into dawn and emerge victorious in situations where my faith flickers (but you tell me to trust you, and I do).

For a man with a salamander heart and fire in your veins, you are oblivious to your power. You don't know the number of those who admire you, love you, desire you. You flaunt your fire, your grin the simultaneous bane and blessing, pain and warmth, of our lives.

Dear mother, I must be a masochistic pyromaniac, because I am falling for the flames and thriving off the scars.

Your anger is like a dance. The way you manipulate your flames is reckless, brazen, destructive, but it's free, mystical, entrancing.

You've always cared too much. When you emerge from beyond the horizon, you leave a trail of ash in your wake, your golden skin basked in the blood of the sun as it collapses beneath the fissures you made in the earth.

And you smile.

Idiot. You fall into my arms, legs buckling beneath you, overexertion forcing you into a slumber.

Sometimes, I want to kiss the top of your head, tell you that you have worked hard. But even in unconsciousness, with your ear to my heart, I know you can decipher my heartbeat enough to understand my message, without words, without actions; you know me like your favourite song.

(—too well, yet somewhat foreign to my lyrics.)

How could I forget? A boy like you can't burn. You can't afford to.

A boy like you, with flames at your fingertips, envelops others in warmth, or scorches them in your wrath. You cherish, and you inflict.

But you don't fall in love. Your cheeks do not burn, your heart cannot be set ablaze, and your body, a temple for your flames, is heat-resistant, fire-proof.

A boy like you can't burn.

I guess this is the first time your flames, in spite of their benign warmth, has brought me a pain that I cannot stand.

The second time your flames scathe my soul is worse than the first— and it is when you leave. No warning, just a note you hid underneath my pillow.

You see, a flame gives, and a flame takes. You taught me how to to dream, and now you take the dream away, packing it in your bag and fleeing somewhere far away.

I'm running, but I can't catch you. Almost a week has passed. You are the bomb craving a crowd, explosions lingering in your footsteps. Finding you shouldn't be impossible. It can't be.

But it is.

People ask if I'm alright when I collapse on the sidewalk, knees buckling, vision blurred, cheeks damp and salty.

I tell them I have to be, sooner or later.

But my world crumbles too soon, too fast, not quick enough. The pain remains, even if the wound does not. Everybody is gone, but their memories leave scars on my walls, dreams, heart.

You told me that I should treasure my scars, because they are what will help me evolve into something better—

(Y'know, like photosynthesis!)

—someone stronger.

(You mean metamorphosis.)

Thrive off your scars, remember the pain, and nurture the flame of hope.

Ah, yes. Hope; the one gift you gave me, that you didn't take away the day you left, that has taken all of me.

(The only gift that you forgot to attach a warning to—)

Never stop hoping, you said.

(—a gift that consumes, that promises self-destruction.)

I'm trying (crying). But somewhere along the way, for reasons I pretend not to know, my hope has been extinguished, and I try even harder after that, trying to breathe in the smouldering remains and finding myself asphyxiated.

I'm tired, now. It's dark, it's cold, it's lonely, and I'm tired of it all.

In the end, a dream is a dream. To hope for something so hopelessly fleeting is bound to leave one breaking down eventually.

Yet, you return, after goodness knows how long, and you melt away all my woes just like that. All my misery, gone, as if the past two years didn't exist.

I want to scream at you, tell you everything is gone and that I have given up, and that I thought you were dead.

But here you are, my dreams caged in your hand, and you grin, setting them free and burning my heart up once again.

Idiot. I reciprocate your smile, letting the warmth spread through my veins and the hope roar once more, and I pull you into an embrace.

And you promise that we'll fix everything together. That we will revive our dreams, our home. I believe you.

I laugh, burrowing my face into your shoulder, feeling the familiar burn of my cheeks.

God, how I've missed you.

Your flame protects, defends. It is not a weapon for vengeance. You have never used it like that.

Your enemies laugh. They think that your demons have pervaded you. That even you and your will-power just wasn't enough to diffuse your inner monster. That you are inherently evil. They pity us.

But we know: you don't have an inner monster, and you are not a demon. Hell fire could never be enough to dominate you. You're our Natsu, after all; the guild's salamander, whom fire can never burn. Your flames are the kindest thing we know.

You're angry for us, but this has turned into an insatiable thirst for revenge that incinerates your map to justice, where X is your comrades, where X is scattered in the same cinders as your enemies. You don't know where to run, and you can't remember who it is that you're fighting for and against.

I run to stop you. If you are lost, then I promise you, I will be the star that guides you.

I throw my arms around your neck from behind you, and try to hold you back (pointlessly, because you are much stronger than I am, but I'm betting my hopes on this and our bond). I have never been the direct recipient of your fire, and god, it's painful. My flesh is peeling and burning and I'm not sure how long I can withstand it. But I have to, because it hurts me more to see you like this.

You remember the song of my heartbeats and the familiarity of my touch, and you stop, muscles relaxing as you peer over your shoulder.

You look exhausted, and everybody always forgets that even you aren't unbreakable or invincible.

"Lucy?" You see the burn on my arm, and your eyes widen, but I stop you from saying anything.

"This isn't you," is all I say in return. A double meaning, a test, and the world eases off my shoulders when I feel your need for vengeance dissipate (I smile; of course you understand what I meant— you know me like your favourite song). You breathe, and we both collapse in tandem.

You'll probably still beat yourself up later for losing yourself, and for burning my arm, but right now, that doesn't matter.

"You sure know how to make me worry, Natsu," I whisper, pressing my forehead against your back. You look apologetic, but you don't say anything, reaching behind from over your shoulder to place your hand on my head.

You don't stroke my hair, pat it, or do anything, really; you simply keep it there, stationary.

It's warm, comforting. I manage a small smile, before telling you to rest a bit before battling again. That I'll protect you in the meantime.

You grin, falling limp against my shoulder, your salmon-pink hair tickling my chin.

I don't know if you notice, but I lightly kiss the crown of your head before you fall asleep.

You're a salamander, for the sake of Edolas. Your body is heat-resistant, fire-proof.

You don't burn, and you can't fall in love.

But, perhaps I was wrong.

When you emerge victorious from the battle with Zeref, your arm is scathed and charred and burnt.

You grin, pulling my cheeks and telling me to smile, because it's all over. The heat from your fingertips transfer to my cheeks, and a florid, crimson hue erupts across them.

(And I guess my next goal is to make you experience the same thing—

—so I cup your cheeks and kiss you.)

Right, hope ya'll enjoyed this.

If you couldn't tell that this was from Lucy's point of view (as if the fact that this is a NaLu fic isn't enough), then I'm not gonna lie, I will be a little disappointed.

WARNING: Rant ahead. (For those of you who wish to skip it, then I shall gracefully beg you to PLEASEEEEE drop me a review, or a favourite, or something! I want to know whether my work is being appreciated, or if there is something you think needs to be improved. It's awfully depressing seeing the number of views on my fictions and comparing them to the complete dearth of response. (Yo, this was totally a rant in itself, ha.))

Also, SPOILERS:

(I don't know how to make that anymore clearer; don't read the following if you don't like spoilers.)

You know, I wish Lucy had her own mini arc in the year that Fairy Tail disbanded. Like, she could have totally mastered that cool star/ planet power thing and then be able to use it whenever she wanted without fainting or forgetting about it. She would be so powerful, and on equal ground with the rest of the main characters. But you know what she got instead?

A lame glow-up essentially. She just turned into a fairly incapable magical girl who can transform and what not. Or she's just a VERY WEAK version of Erza.

That was probably one of the biggest disappointments of Fairy Tail (besides the poorly handled fights against Zeref and Acnologia, and practically the overdone fake deaths of every single character (which I'm iffy about, because I don't want any of them to be dead), and how Jerza aren't together yet for some reason, and how NaLu technically isn't canon in the end (although you could try and twist it in a weird way and convince yourself that they are, but you'd be pulling at last straws).)

Anywho, please review! I realise I got heavily sloppy, and I'll come back one day to improve it.

Adieu!

X's and O's,

Liberty