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Jellal was an obsessive man. It was what remained after the corruption of his mind ebbed away. A pitiable idealist, as Brain called it. A strong leader, Erza insisted. A prime subject for magical development, Ultear admitted, because obsession bred mastery.
He had long lost mastery over himself. In the wake of his coma, he acted on muscle memory and heart, eliminating obstacles with finality. His past and mind were blissfully clear. It was a driftless interlude before the pain resurfaced.
Darkness and light formed the foundations of Nirvana, the site of his second birth. But worse than such simple sublimations was the wreck which constituted himself. He found that he was the obstacle to be eliminated, but dear Erza wouldn’t let him die. Indebted to her, he choked on reality once more.
Survive he did, but he was little more than a carved out cadaver, housing bitter memories and the depth of a personality that didn’t wholly belong to him. Now with the other half of his mind dead, he was left alone to wallow in endless self-questioning.
Macbeth was the opposite and yet all the same, and in him Jellal had selfishly hoped to find the answers to his own dilemma. Macbeth, who led his friends astray for years following Brain’s arrest, who always held his ideals close, and who carried an air of regret for his egomania. But ever since his bout behind bars, he allowed life to take its course so long as he could rest. He had always been, in all his quietude, a force of manipulation, and yet he had transformed from one who laid in hunt for schadenfreude to one who lived in calculated acceptance of the world.
Jellal envied that lackadaisical attitude of his. Perhaps it was out of this peculiar admiration that he had unconsciously cornered Macbeth into joining the guild, so as not to lose contact with someone who grew differently from a similar upbringing.
He envied how, after battling each other just months prior, Macbeth could lay his head on his shoulder and fall soundly asleep.
“Macbeth, wake up.” Jellal prodded. “Let me get you into your tent.”
What a feathery head of hair Macbeth had, long and tousled from their travels; from the long lashes to the coquettish face, he was such a pretty thing, Jellal mused, and then mentally cursed himself for it.
The campfire crackled as if amused. He sighed into its dwindling warmth and lamented the hopeless figure still nestled into his side. The two of them were the last of the group to remain outside. He gently shook his guildmate’s shoulder to rouse him.
“If you don’t wake up, I’ll have to carry you back into your tent.” Jellal said.
Macbeth groaned. “Then carry me.”
Jellal flustered. “…If that’s what you want.”
Carefully, he dug his hand through the large navy cloak until he found the warm crutch of a forearm, and began to stand up with the weight of two people.
The weight shifted. “I said carry me, not drag me…”
“You’re certainly awake enough to talk.”
Vibration tickled Jellal as Macbeth grumbled something incoherent into the fabric of his hood. Jellal had only been attempting to move the other in a manner befitting his pride, but oh well.
“Then, if this doesn’t offend you.”
He positioned himself in front of Macbeth and hoisted the other’s legs into his arms: a piggyback ride. As limp weight slotted against his back, a few wisps of black hair came to tickle his left cheek. More alarmingly, warm breaths brushed up his nape and a nose nuzzled into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. His face grew hot.
He hadn’t felt this sort of airy panic since he nearly lost himself with Erza, and it immersed him in the incredulity of his own lack of self-discipline. The development was unwanted and unneeded. Perhaps he had just been deprived of physical touch for too long. Yes, that was all it was.
His footsteps trudged like lead on his way to the tent, and he felt exceptionally self-conscious even though nobody was awake to see them. Shadows cast by the fire danced in flickering motions across the clearing, red and uncontrolled like the blood pounding in his ears.
Unfurling the entrance flap of the tent, he gingerly laid Macbeth onto his sleeping mat. The warmth of contact still buzzed, temporarily imprinted across his skin. He lifted a blanket over the man, making certain to cover all extremities, and neatly refitted the mat to create a makeshift pillow under his head.
“It’s cold.” Macbeth whispered, although he was cocooned in furs and blankets.
“Winter is approaching.” Jellal replied dryly.
Deciding he was too swayed to deal with the situation any longer, he stood from his knees, ready to leave. As he turned to face the exit, Macbeth’s hands caught the edge of his cloak.
“There’s enough room for two.”
A strange request. Jellal preferred to sleep outside, alone, or both. It was just a teasing quip on Macbeth’s part, he reasoned, the sort of casual flirtation he often employed when it came to fights and persuasions. But it was always just playful, and Jellal was far from the only recipient.
“I’m alright, thanks.”
“Is it that you think I don’t trust you?” Macbeth drawled lazily, though Jellal could sense the sting of his intent. “We have Erik to discern your allegiance. You don’t have to sleep outside all the time.”
Ah. He miscalculated.
Jellal could have read Erik’s mind too if he wanted to know the Seis’ inner thoughts. Soul-listening magic was well-rounded but nowhere near the most difficult type to learn. Jellal had decided not to listen. He had even forgone erecting a sound barrier around his mind, thus exposing all of his thoughts to the guild, whether directly or indirectly. He wanted the Seis to trust him.
Jellal turned back to meet that crimson stare. Macbeth released his grip on the cloak and sighed softly.
“Erik trusts you. I trust Erik.” Macbeth continued. “But do you trust us?”
“Trust,” Jellal murmured. It was so hard to come by. As complicated as it was between him and the Seis, they were connected by shared experiences. “Of course I trust you.”
“Then sleep in the tent, or else you’ll get ill again.”
“I’ll be fine. Last time was a special case.”
“No, you’re reckless. Thank Richard’s herbal expertise that your eyes didn’t get infected.”
“I—” Jellal stumbled over his words, awkwardness corrupting his eloquence, “—have nightmares. They disturb my sleep patterns. It wouldn’t be fair to bother you with my night terrors.”
“We all have nightmares. Yours won’t bother me.”
It was a tiring conversation, so Jellal resigned himself to the somnolence affixing him. He removed his cloak and lowered his back onto the bedding—if one could even call it that—and kept an acute distance between them. Their blankets were worn and slightly coarse, but they were the cleanest textiles Crime Sorcière could source from an abandoned dark guild hall on the coast of Desierto. Erik was the one who had uncovered the blankets from a desiccated basket and pretended to offhandedly show them to Macbeth. For the first time since Jellal had met him, Macbeth glowed. It made Jellal want to chew on bark.
He allowed a contemplative silence to pass between them for many beats. The encumbering tension was eventually eroded by the dulcet chattering of windswept leaves, like a natural choir singing outside their tent. It calmed him, as did the dark.
Macbeth always looked beautiful washed in moonlight.
“I trust you.” Jellal said into the night. What he didn’t trust was the emotion flaring in his chest that he refused to indulge. Macbeth’s sleeping expression faced back at him.
Neither of them were big on speaking, after all.