First time I was in Chroas I been fifteen filled with an irrational anger and wanting a quick way out of the lashing feeling coiling in my gut. It had been two days previous that my father had been banished from the guild, and the deep pit in my stomach had been a profound sense of loneliness that cogulated within me, sadness had a place there too, but it was overwhelmed with everything else churning inside my head but the want to deny it pushed it far away; I hadn't wanted to acknowledge it, because according to the man himself sadness was a weakness which had no place in a man's persona. I'd held onto his ideal because at the time my mind was focused on clinging onto whatever bond I had. Therein, betrayal was the only thing ringing in my head like a goddamned bell -I hate bells- the thought of punching my grandfather was the main thing my twitching fists had wanted, a crunch of bone under my knuckles in the bitter hope he might come to regret his actions. The argument fresh and the need for an escape followed quickly after the scarring words had been spat out my mouth in the harmful want to just make him cry; the desire to see him cry in rue for the multiple burdens he'd inflicted upon me. I had just been focused on spewing my anger out, because deep in my rationality; I knew I would hate to punch my grandpa.

So I'd gone to the capital of the country, I cannot say for certain what drew me there, maybe it was because of the distance away from my home, maybe it was because it was big. Although I have a guess the reasoning was in the fact that the city had the biggest known Red Light district in Fiore, tones of sellers cramped together in too closely packed, poorly made wooden stalls- pawned off items sold at a cheeper price and in no way genuine. Random garbage of nothing anyone looking could name sitting around in the road packed in piles and often making an oder everyone pretended not to notice. Most everyone walking around were drunk and swaying, crashing into each other wearing torn clothing which smelled as if it had never been washed, some men and women would be hanging about in wait with small packets of white or crystals in their hands, a cigarette hanging from chipped lips and smeared makeup. More rarely there was an occasion a grouping of men in an expensive suits walking gracefully around those drunkards, fronted by one guy with an arrogant expression, gang masters or merc captains I could only fathom. Regardless of my age, I'd had only scowled at the sight and stepped around them without intimidation effecting my head, to me they had no sway, not like certain persons I'd met and knew well.

As it were, the acknowledgement of the Red Light being pronounced grabbed my attention, because my urge had been to drown myself drastically in all the rebellious crap my grandfather despised. Yearning to defy him in whatever manner would hurt the most onto his -seemingly- holy mindset, and further dampen his view on me, for as how I saw it at the time- he only saw me as a failure. The Red Light was the known destination for depravity, disgust, mistakes intermingling with all the sin plausible for a young or old man hankering for an escape. My goal; I cannot say I had a specific one, to pour myself in alcohol, lounging in the stank of beer or hard whiskey. Find a hit that drove away all my inhibitions, to crawl at the wall with a mindset that made no logical thought and laugh hysterically at the sight of my own actions without provocation. It was the wanton women around me that caught my fast attention, those prancing about the corners in fits of giggles with stumbling men and wads of cash sticking out the ass of their white lace panties on full display; those with slim figures and short statures with bras tight on their chest, with hardly anything to display, yet managing to flaunt what they had. Those women brought me forward in enticement, and I'd been seduced by a sexy blonde standing at a doorway with a coy smile, short hair, no true breast and whom I towered over at six-foot:

Thus, my first sexual experience was in Chroas; I woke up on a filth covered floor, boxers lose around my ankles as my head pounded in protest to the drinking marathon I'd allowed myself. Body still twitching and limbs on occasionally flailing ever so slightly from the unknown drugs clinging inside my system. Fifteen years old, no longer a virgin, having been buzzed with the sweetened tang of hard drugs and the fuzz brought by a drunken stuppor. I had in no way regretted the action, even grinned for it, though I hadn't been able to truly strain myself upwards from the carpet of a questionable motel even in to pull my only remaining clothing on. Accomplishment had rattled at my bones, elevated my mindset and tickled the blood I still felt was burning at my veins, for I knew, if my grandfather in all his scathing had seen me then he would have been disheartened- disappointed by my rebellion.

Now however, its only with profound shame I can glace at the memory ever fresh in the closet of my recollections. The shameful desire of wanting to hurt someone I considered- still, precious in my life. The anger that had encompassed my head, likely in response to my own true feelings and yet certainly enhanced by the effects of my impeedful -permanent- sickness sterring my instincts. Now, my want to see, to smell, touch, or hear the bustling of the people of the city is so mineal I would be content to never witness the capital's unique charm again. That inclination was now to be ignored by the very person I'd wanted to wound in the past, obligation had clouded my choice, and I now stand disenchanted and vexed by the fact I am within the place once more; and only for the old-man's aspiration to win a ridiculous competition that will supposedly gain a further repertoire for the guild.

Everyone gathered- in rationality, that being the whole of the remaining members, standing in the registration area, while gramps and Mira talk sweet to the pretty little receptionist in charge of sign-ups. Most of us talking in small groupings with contented smiles and irritating jitters showcased in body language, even my own friends are skirming with the want to win the contest, speaking enthusiastically amongst differing persons of the guild not within our small team. Evergreen having gravitated herself to the hulking mass that strained his clothes and flexed his muscles more then a practiced bodybuilder; being Elfman naturally -the irony in the syncrodisity of their names does not flee my notice.- Freed, to my own curiousity was in polite conversation with Lisanna as she enthusiastically cast tiny glances in my direction with her wide blue eyes that somehow looked only daunting in reflection of her recent attempts at finding my 'womenly preference.' Bickslow, implicationally leaning into the free space of Cana's irate figure, as she nursed a beer of unknown origins and with a free hand pushed at his chest in her opposite direction.

I am comfortable in my position against the far wall merely observing the behaviour surrounding me, that is until I can catch sight of the skipping bob of pink hair and flaunted slim muscle coming ever closer in my vision. His hands are intwined together behind his back as he rocks backwards on his heels and gazes upwards to properly face me; his eyes shimmering with the illusion of scintillating stars as a small dust of a smile filters across his lips, his chest is puffed out in an imitation of some type of self made attempt to retain confidence. "So, a date?" Once again his aura is warm against my mind and wrapping me in the want to adheed, but whispers of knowledge linger and barr that thought.

"We're in the capital city." I both want him to comprehend my qualms and yet not understand what my hesitation is for. So my answer comes forth vague, even though I'd already had to force myself in saying it at all. In true Natsu ignorance, I find myself faced with a tilted head in confusion, pouted pink lips, hunched over shoulders, and worse; the sight of black eyes not glittering in the light of the room. Disappointment is already prominent in his expression, though not fully in effect as I can guess he doesn't really understand my rationale in stating the obvious. Itching forms on my skin at the thought of explanation, because I know without doubt that being caught in the place where the illegality of homosexuality was dictated; engaging in something as simple as an innocent date would be more harshly punished then in an adjacent town. That is ignoring my own arrogant want not to be found out as being interested in men at all.

Natsu manages to stretch his pink lip into a further pout, by some divine power. "But, its not as if anyone would know that we're... you know?" Staring directly at me once more, it churns at my gut to see the glint of hope beneath the stars gleaming in his irises. It might be my own cowardice denying the request in candour, but still escaping my clenched throat with a choke and discomfort making my muscles skirm.

"No." For there is no way to lighten the impact of my decision over him, in myself I have no want to sugar coat my choice either; because it is simply that, if he holds issue with it then that is not my problem. Yet still, in witnessing the shimmer of disappointment that shows in his eyes as his lids lower down into a narrow glare at the floor, and his arms fall lose at his sides instead of hidden behind his back. It irritates me to see, in that I wish he could see my reasoning as I do, logically and not have such a profound response. He says nothing however, though my ears yearn to hear the depths of his thoughts- his opinion of my denial, he is silent and avoiding my gaze, but instead of the normality of his anger it stands impossible to not notice his despondent posture. In an explanation, I can only assume I would be met by either a sudden rage or blank disconcolant stare. That knowledge, in my own dolorous discomfort in seeing such a view of Natsu- in contrast for the man I know, makes me seize my body up from the wall and walk away from his form simply standing afore me. The feel of my fingernails at my skelp and palm near soothing over the marks left pulls alongside the tug at my hair to release the sigh from my body.

I strain my legs to walk into the more communal area of the room, negating the people surrounding me, guilt pressing upon me less profound with my comrades laughing amongst each other; still sitting heavy in my gut however. Thus as another sigh ripples through my chest and drags in my windpipe, instead of allowing the calm atmosphere of those I know and recognize, I feel the bang of the door as I shove my elbow into the wood and step outside. Comforted by the blunt clarity of the night breeze even if it is musked by the stain of the city's grime scent.

~0~

There is a pleasentry in the darkness encompassing my eyes, that is in ignoring my own regret upon making Natsu wilt- not regret in decision, but in choice phrasing. The familiar warmth of my coat at my shoulders and lose around my arms in opposition to the cold is stark, somehow relaxing. The hour has yet to be late and several people are still making a commute, though many of them are beginning to be those wanting for a night out in a club or bar with little surveillance, teens and cheaters, drunkards and the occasional drug addict looking for their fix. Having been almost all of the above, I could find myself astraying to any option in truth- and except for lowering myself down to infidelity, all options are appealing to my sin. The bar echoing more fierce for the simplicity of the action, a stiff drink- or dozen, sounds like a perfect detaraint to guilt clogged thoughts and emotions. Sitting in the corner with faded lighting and an unscrewed letter dangling from the sign is a pub I was in during my first tip to the city, familiar, dingy, and cheap, a perfect combination for someone running away from their thoughts. It was also unlikely I would be sought after there.

The door is not courteous to open, with a stick in pulling and hinges that protest the act. The smell would scare off a youth unadapt to the unkempt nature of those whom drowned their lives away in the filth of depravity. A strong odor of beer, cigarette smoke both visible and stank in the air in along with the creeping musk of sex hanging about in accompiance with everything else. In sight, the room portrayed a vintage design, up to the piano in the corner- layered with dust and ignored, with the oak bar in red wood, all of the patrons seemingly those above thirty or teens who had delved too far into depravity to be saved; regardless, everyone had dark shadows under their eyes with strained lips obviously held to often downwards. I took place at one of the worn red stools infront of the bored bartender- a women with a brown ponytail, dirty gaze and lose clothing, a woman whom had seen many people come and go in depression. Seeing her, I can only grumble out an order for straight whiskey on the rocks, waiting for the burn it would give me to fade away my sharp feelings. Because for all the wizards I can crush under the static of my knuckles, wither with a glare or talk out of their panties with two words; emotions in all their complexity are a burden onto my brain.

"Well, hello my boy." It was crisp, the rise of my shoulders at the familiar nastal tone broaching, encroaching unto my ears. The very knowledge of his presence leering over behind me -even if I stand taller in truth,- urges forward my want to both knock him down and leave in quick succession. Pride keeps me from doing either, but on automatic I shift just a fraction to the left and further from him as he sits next to me on the right. Not bothering to acknowledge his existence at all is a grievance on my mentality, knowing he sits beside me in full physicality scratches at entrapped memories I want only to pretend are long forgone. I keep my eyes to the wood of the counter, I can feel my lips thinning in concentration to not glance at the impactful man. His chuckle in return almost vibrates against my skin for the recognition of the sound. "Good to see you too Laxus." Vaguely, I can hear him order something hard as my glass gets put directly in front of my nose, even in not truly hearing I am more then aware he would never order something as simple as a beer. Again, vaguely, and without any particular attention made I can hear the bartender reply with a response that sounds like 'whatever drunk old man.'

It should hold no effect in my circumstance and mindscape, but I still snort as she sweeps away to retrieve his order. Raising my eyes in some form of small dignity to look at the large display of branded alcohol on the shelves, not paying glance to my peripheral vision. "Its rude to ignore people." It makes me snort again, his attempt at a scold even if sarcastic is funny as hell. Bracing myself against my own stupidity, I find my voice.

"What and you count?" More of a reply I'd shoot at gramps on an irritating day if I was feeling particularly vindictive, but with my company it feels generous.

He betrays my expectations with a sigh, "you're taller then when I last saw you." Annoying is all that can describe his arrogance, in the manner in which he speaks implying that he knows all things, is aware of all changes the world makes.

"You haven't seen me since what? My fifteenth birthday? You don't know shit." My teeth grit together as I force myself to retort, because the thought of it still lingers in an abstract burn at the forefront of my imprisoned recollections; far from horrid, but unwanted. Finally, I let myself shift to stare at him, face my ire, and it brings a stab- brief, through my chest to see his experience worn visage with more wrinkles then should be paramount, plain grey hairs incurring down his beard and seeping into his natural ironic raven hair. His stature is the same however, though I think with all it could not change; he slouches over to appear less visible, he automatically hangs his head- but lifts his chin on occasion to mimic a type of domineering persona he no longer possess. Fingers tapping with nerves that do not fit the atmosphere, but tap regardless just as his knee bounces ever so slightly up and down. Twenty-three, grown and powerful, his gaze staring me down from eyes that do not meet my own height in his slouched posturing, I am not intimidated by the familiar look so much as uncomfortable with the intensity it still pertains. Standing upon that fact; my father had never been intimidating.

"You need to watch your sass." Its a weak warning that bares no weight, and he knows that well enough, said moreof for the exasperation of dealing with it then being actually annoyed. Therein, he knows I'm not wrong and has no want to admit it. It catches at the corner of my eye, the flask of hard liquor clinking on the counter just in front of him, next to the drink he ordered. My scowl comes quick to the sight, as once more my hatred for the man reelivates from its slumber, a mixture of memories and disgust in the vision it presents of who he is.

"Still a filthy alchololic huh." There is no need to make it a question with evidence so obvious, he untwists the cap and takes a swing, but makes no bother to respond. Nothing other then a warning glance with grey-blue eyes in my direction. I force a quick shot of my own drink down my throat ignoring the sting it brings, because my desire to speak with my father is lowering below its previous location of zero. I could make a mockery of who he is, how he turned into such a villanious figure in even his own father's irises, I could taunt him with all that he had done which proved failures, but even now- in my hatred of the man, those words won't come forward. "If you hadn't sunk to liquor things might have been different." Its a thought I'd pertained for years, but predominantly ignored because I had no want to consider it.

"No. It wouldn't have changed anything, don't delude yourself with a fantasy thought boy. Nothing would have changed, it wasn't the alcohol that controlled me despite what you may think." It made me flinch to have it spelt out in front of me, forward and without compassion in the words or tone, stated as fact and without regret colouring an inch of his voice. The amber of my glass and the thought of pouring the contents down my throat is not as appealing as pouring, raining down, my own contempt in his worn face and unsympathetic stoicism.

"You're right, you were just a coward. Cowering from any action because you were too frightened of the consequences, even though I was the one who paid for your fear. You said nothing, and pretended that hiding me away in your want to ignore the situation and that it would make it all untrue. Drunk or not, you were always a fucking coward." I removed him from my sights as I let the tempting liquid burn down my throat in a last gulp that was too big to be rational. That burn made no scar as horrid as the acknowledgement of knowing nothing would have changed without his drowning. The slam I made on the bar might have resonated as too forceful as I stand in my want to get leave, steps further from the man, inches apart from his form. I expect no retort from him and I get as I wish as he stays silent and suckles at his bottle.

My feet draw me to the stage of the piano looming in the dinge of the place, perhaps the familiar comfort of the instrument lingering in my mind lures me to its black polish. The ease of the leather stool beneath me brings back a nice tinge of recognition, and my fingers near tenderly tap at the keys as I listen for a string out of tune. I can find none, and on automatic, my hands come into position, skimming over the cold, dusted, keys with the gentlest of press. Just before I can feel myself fall into the rise uplifting lightened feeling in my chest and clearity in my head from scattered thoughts and the emotions therein. Music surrounding, classically infringed and welcome as I play a song I do not consciously focus on, but my fingers know.

I remember, many years ago, before my ideas had been fogged with ignorance and my next impending week had been a thing of dread in my head. I remember because I had been around eleven to thirteen; before my illness had been too prominent and I had no proper magic to use- I hadn't been a capable wizard, and I was weak in body and mind. My grandfather had possessed a piano in his house, it was not a large expensive classical piano, it had been a keyboard with little ability, but I had been so entranced by music at the time I had integrated myself into learning the piano, and I had. Much later, at sixteen and free from the my entrapment of my parents, when my prejudice against my grandfather had sprouted; whence my actual training to comprehend my newfound magic had begun. The raw sound of an electric guitar had come to be my instrument of choice. Yet the soothing tone of piano remained to calm me in moments of panic.

Now in playing it, even when in the confines of a grotesque, retro, bar with questionable people surrounding me, it soothes at my mind. Especially with the lurking presence of my father shadowing the room.