When he finds her sitting at the table, head cradled between two slender hands, he thinks he's never seen her look more breakable.

He knows the dark circles under her eyes come from weeks of sleepless nights. He knows the birdlike bones of her wrists result from eating less and less in an attempt to stave off her addiction. He knows that the tremors wracking her slight frame represent much more than the chill only she seems to feel.

He remembers the first time they went down this road. She'd gone out drinking with Bacchus, had drunk more than she'd ever before, had drunk more than she'd ever wanted to before. She'd passed out, overwhelmed by the amount of alcohol in her body, in a gutter outside of a bar. She hadn't known where she was or what she was doing. I was scared, she told him later. She didn't think she would ever have woken up.

You found her just in time, the doctors warned him at the hospital as he paced outside the room. If not for you, she wouldn't be breathing.

Bacchus had challenged her, she'd slurred when Laxus found her. She hadn't wanted to lose. After Tenrou Island, she'd never wanted to lose again.

She'd sworn she'd give up drinking after that. She'd grinned at him and tossed her thick curls over her shoulders, snarking at him that I have more willpower in my little finger than in your entire body, Laxus— I can certainly give up alcohol. It's just a drink, after all.

He remembers the first time he watched her shake and shiver and cry out in pain. The blanket scratches my skin, she'd gasped, crushing her knees to her chest as she lay on their bed. What's happening to me? she'd choked out between bouts of nausea, kneeling in front of the toilet as he pulled her hair away from her face. Please, it hurts, she'd wept as he'd held her and murmured helpless words of love. Hours of her fevered hallucinations had sapped his ability to withstand her cries, and when she'd begged him for relief, he'd stood up and backed quietly out of her room. She'd called for him to come back, but he dropped his forehead to his knees and waited outside her door, listening to her heavy sobs until his heart shattered apart.

Why did you leave? she'd asked him afterwards, nursing a chipped porcelain teacup.

I couldn't stay, he'd replied sadly, it hurt too much.

It hurt me too. She'd gazed at him with red-rimmed eyes, turning her head quickly away. I wish you'd stayed. She'd refused to look at him when he left the room.

He remembers the first time they fought. She'd stayed sober for almost three months before he found her empty bottles, hidden underneath the cabinets in her bathroom. She'd told him they were for medicine. She'd sworn to him that she had headaches, and that only the alcohol numbed the pain. He'd nodded and agreed and hugged her before he left.

Porlyusica's eyes had filled with sadness when he'd asked if the bottles were for medicine. No, she'd whispered. There is no medicine for this, brat. There is only time and strength.

He'd waited to put his hand through a window until he exited the healer's cottage.

He remembers the first time he left her. He'd opened his front door to find a haggard Macao cradling an unconscious Cana to his chest. She'd reeked of booze. She wouldn't talk to us when we asked her what she was doing, the older mage had muttered as Laxus settled Cana into her bed. She kept saying she wanted to feel it again. Get it back.

Feel what? he'd asked desperately, hoping against hope that the answer he'd hear could justify her actions. Get what back?

Macao had looked him straight in the face as he said, her happiness.

Laxus had tasted the tears on his face long after he'd taken his things and left their apartment behind in the early morning light. The salt trails had glimmered on his cheeks for hours.

He remembers the first time she tried to show him she'd changed. She'd come to his room at the guild, jaw clenched and eyes determined, holding a box of everything she owned that was alcohol-related: shot glasses, barware, bottle-openers. She'd told him she was trying, that she'd found a program and had refused to see Bacchus again. She'd told him she was occupying herself with kickboxing and yoga. She'd told him she'd make him proud.

You've already made me proud, he'd whispered to her, taking this first step.

She'd smiled back at him, the same gleaming, joyous smile that had ensnared his heart in the first place. I love you.

And I love you.

He'd thought they could move on. He'd thought she could resist her dangerously seductive habit. He'd thought their love could overpower anything the world threw at them. It's just a drink, she'd told him when he'd moved back in. I won't let it control me. Trust me.

He'd drawn her down into a kiss. I trust you.

Good things are made to be broken, he realizes as he looks at her, crumpled over their table. As if for the first time, he sees the dark circles under her eyes and the gauntness of her cheekbones. Her wrists seem reed-thin to him, delicate as bird-bones against her hands. When she shudders, it's in a wind only she can feel, threatening to tug her away.

"Laxus," she says quietly, letting her hands fall limply as she raises her head to look at him. Her hair falls in dark curtains around her pale, drawn face.

"I'm leaving," he says simply.

She looks at him with dark violet eyes. "I know."

He turns his head away, choosing to stare instead at a dark patch on the wall. "I'm not coming back."

Her voice is a soft whisper, blown away by the wind. "I know."

There's a cut in his chest, and he can feel it tearing open, deeper and deeper, as he picks up his bags. "I loved you, Cana. So much I would have ended the world for you. I would have torn anything that hurt you into pieces."

"I would have loved you for it," she murmurs, and for the first time he sees heat in her amethyst gaze. "But it's hard to tear apart something that's already broken, Laxus. Sometimes putting it back together achieves the same thing."

It hurts more than he expected, taking the few steps needed to open the door. His hand twists on the doorknob. "You weren't broken. You were perfect."

She swipes angrily at the two crystalline drops that roll gently down her cheeks, and for the first time, he sees a hint of the old Cana in her tears. "Sometimes the most perfect things are also the most broken."

"I loved you like a storm," he whispers, "like my thunder and my lightning. Like my breath. Like my heartbeat."

Her wrists seem delicate as bird-bones. "Lightning breaks whatever it strikes."

He remembers the first time he saw her punch a dark mage. The criminal had grabbed her, held a knife to her throat, and demanded that she surrender. She'd elbowed him in the gut, kneed him in the groin, and, before he could fall, landed a right-cross square on his jaw. She'd had bruised knuckles for days, but when he'd fretted, she'd laughed it off and claimed them as a badge of honor. Proves that I can throw a punch, she'd grinned at him. Proves that I'm not a damsel in distress. Proves that I can recover from anything these idiots throw at me.

He'd complained that she'd break her wrist, bare-knuckle fighting. He'd taken her out to the field one day and practiced with her, extending his arms alongside hers to hone her technique. Thumb on the outside, he'd murmured in her ear, savoring the feel of her body against his. Hit with your first two knuckles. Keep your wrist straight. She'd followed his directions, running through the form slowly and deliberately. They'd sparred. She'd hit him immediately with a perfect jab-cross, knocking him onto his back.

Am I doing it right yet? she'd taunted him, leaning over his prone form with a mocking grin. Think I can punch someone correctly?

You can certainly throw a punch, he'd admitted, but you'll still bruise.

It's a bruise. She'd held out a hand to pull him back up to his feet. With time and caution, it'll heal.

"Sometimes it's only bruised." He holds her gaze with his as he takes a step back. "With time and caution, it'll heal."

Her eyes widen, and he knows she's thinking back to the same moment. "How do I know if it's a break or a bruise, Laxus?" Her voice echoes in his ears, lonely and small. She sounds so young, so vulnerable.

"You don't," he breathes. His heart is bleeding in his chest, but he knows that the gash will congeal and close. With time and caution, it'll heal. "But you'll never know for sure unless you get up and try again."

The door shuts behind him with a soft click. He stands outside, letting the soft breeze ruffle his hair. He wonders, if he taught her how to throw a punch again, if she could still knock him down with one blow.

Bruised, not broken.

He thinks she could.