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“Those were the tastiest flames I’ve ever had,” Natsu mumbles to himself, limbs splayed out tiredly across the cold, stone floor of the vault. His voice nevertheless projects through the vast space. “You’ve got to make them for me every day. You can be my personal chef.”
Jellal’s mind reels at the absurdity of Natsu’s statement. He’s sure Natsu is joking, but seeing that deadpan look on his face, Jellal supposes this is just how he operates. Funny how it works, that only a maniac can free another maniac. Or so he’s intuited. Jellal can’t piece together the precise events that led him here, only an undeniable adrenaline that draws him to Natsu.
“I’ll… likely be arrested, once this is all over.” Jellal says.
“You can’t be arrested.” Natsu says with unexpected certainty.
“What?”
“Not if I have anything to do with it.” Natsu’s gaze is fixed on the ceiling. “When Erza heard your name in her sleep, she ran away from camp to find you. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but…”
His eyes bore into Jellal. “You can’t leave until you’ve resolved things with Erza. You can’t leave without telling her—proving to her—that you’re sorry.”
Jellal stares at the ground. “We met at Nirvana,” he begins, mind struggling to catch up with all the things he could possibly say. “I tried to make amends… Unwisely… By eliminating myself from Erza’s worries completely. I see now that it would have been an unsatisfying form of closure. However, I couldn’t remember my past then, and I can’t now either. I can only wait for my memories to return.”
“She can tell you!”
“Well, we talked after that, too. I hurt Erza. I hurt you.” He remembers how Natsu rushed to choke him by the lapels, murder in his eyes. He remembers the way Erza’s earnest face burst into anguish upon seeing him, and the wetness of her tears on his face, and how much that makes him hate himself. “I may not remember my past, but that doesn’t mean I should be forgiven for it.”
“But you changed. You’re better free than imprisoned.”
As if it were that simple. Sensing a stubbornness in Natsu, Jellal decides to play along with the delusion, if only to delay the inevitable.
“Me, a free man and a personal chef? Shall I get an apron to celebrate my new occupation?” The words are sardonic to his ears, but he already knows Natsu won’t bat an eye.
“Hmmmm…” Natsu scrunches his face, accepting the hypothesis with much gravity. “An orange apron would look good on you.”
That would look horrid, Jellal thinks. Even as an amnesiac, he knows he prefers clean-cut colors. Perhaps, if he weren’t a wanted criminal, a domestic life would suit him well. It would keep him grounded enough from doing anything crazy again, though he can hardly guess why he would. Him and his orange apron, a vat of fresh fire for dinner, and Natsu.
Absurd!
Jellal changes the subject. “You saved me before, didn’t you? I remember the terror of your flame.”
“Heh. That sure was me! A beating cures everything.”
Erza would likely agree to that, Jellal thinks.
Feeling oddly at ease, he looks over at Natsu's wild face and sharp eyes, framed by a pink fringe that’s plastered to his forehead with sweat. What courtesy does one extend to their hero? Jellal can’t quite remember his etiquette, and so he surrenders himself to mania and kisses Natsu swiftly on the cheek.
The boy reddens furiously. “Wh-What are you…”
“Consider it my token of gratitude.”
“You… You’re crazy! Still?!”
Jellal smiles. “So I’ve been told.”
“You can’t do that… You… But… But Erza—“
“Sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Hey! What am I supposed to do?”
“I don’t know that, either.”
Natsu is clutching the cheek that Jellal kissed, his expression… expressive. Jellal almost feels pity, but he finds himself instead humored by the display. He has nothing more to lose, after all.