Warnings:Sex. Drugs. Alcohol. Violence. Language. Multiple parings. Generally, a dark theme because it seems that I cannot, for the life of me, make anything lighthearted. Please adhere to warnings. Mature audiences only.

Fairy Tail belongs to Hiro Mashima

Heartbreak Grows in the Garden

Chapter 1: It's going to break my little heart

The roar of Cana's salvaged 1939 Harley-Davidson F-Head engine was loud enough to drown out her thoughts. She still had Whitehorse's Nighthawks blaring out of her earbuds, though. Needed to, because as she rounded the corner toward the old movie theater, she cut the engine and rolled her motorcycle through the abandoned street and it was when it was quiet like this that she thought too much.

The soles of her leather boots tread over the ground without sound and shadows hid her progress. The only noise to pierce the early fall air was her fingerless leather gloves clenching and unclenching on the handlebars.

The theater, and thus her destination, came into view. It was grey brick, single storey, and older than time. Fifteen years ago, when a larger and more state-of-the-art theater was put in the next town over, the owner had boarded up the windows and split. Cana supposed if she'd been older at the time, she would have been sad. As it was, she grew up with the abandoned building and loved it as such. It had done well by her just as it was.

The Harley went beneath the awning, its red and chrome shining in no light; the theater was dark and two years ago, the streetlight adjacent to it had burned out and the town had still yet to fix it. Cana swung her satchel over her shoulder and then touched the front door and checked the lock. It had been broken ages and ages ago and still remained that way. She pulled on the handle and the door swung open silently, considering. She'd been one of the ones to bring a can of WD-40 out this way and spray it. The cops didn't typically bother them there but there was one surly old woman that would listen for the squeal of the theater's door and then she'd call. Cana had no interest in cutting out early tonight.

Scarlet carpet had dulled to grey. Movie posters had curled and bubbled—Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Lilo and Stitch, Men in Black II. Time took everything new and used it until it was torn and frayed and worthless.

Cana went for the theater that had been playing Lord of the Rings. She knew that when he came here, it was to lose himself in a fantasy and Elfman had a poet's heart. He'd find something perversely perfect about stewing in his own angst in that room.

This door was a little louder. Cana peeked down the long, dark aisle and saw the candle flickering near the big screen. She felt relief she didn't think she would feel and went to him. He was lying flat on his back with his hands locked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The dark jeans and black long-sleeved T-shirt he wore almost made him invisible and Cana thought maybe that's what he wanted. His hair stood out, though, taking that away from him.

"Hey." Cana crossed her legs and dropped down beside his hips, close enough that she could feel the heat coming from his body. He was the only warm thing in this place; her breath was on the verge of showing itself.

Elfman didn't look away from the ceiling. "Hey."

Cana squinted. His cheek looked bruised. "Fighting again?"

Elfman grunted noncommittally.

"One day they're going to catch on and kick you out of the bars before you can even get in."

"Already got banned from Fairy Tail," he said.

Cana thought about all the things she could say. Should, if she was a better friend. Things like, 'fighting isn't going to bring her back.' And, 'You're just punishing yourself, not solving anything.' Or, 'You need help, Elfman. You need to see someone.' "Drink with me?" didn't make the list, but that's what she said.

Elfman sat up on his elbow and Cana took that as acceptance. Her poison of choice was vodka. Not because it tasted good but because she could pour it into a water bottle and most of the time, no one questioned her. It got her dizzy and falling down in no time. It made her thoughts quiet without much effort. She took a sip and shivered. Elfman took one and sputtered at first. Another shot dulled that and on the third, he didn't even flinch. By the seventh, he'd dropped his dour mood and laughed and Cana joined in. The ninth had him grabbing her jeaned hips and pulling her into his lap. She went because this was what she'd come for. She didn't need a drinking buddy; she could get wrecked all on her own. She couldn't fuck herself with the same skill, though.

Elfman tasted like vodka and his hands were a force of nature, large but not clumsy. There was something to be said about being handled like that. It made Cana wet and a little bit giddy, too, to feel like she was in control of all this. Everything in her life was spiraling down a long, dark rabbit hole but in this, she held the power.

Her music changed to Lana del Rey's Carmen and she closed her eyes, numb even when Elfman took her by the hips and lifted her to her feet. Numb even when he pushed off her leather jacket and tugged down the straps of her white tank, numb even when he undid the button of her pants and yanked them down and off one foot. She came alive only when he lied back down and pulled her down on top of him. He was in a condom. That was good. One of them had to be responsible and Cana hadn't ever been that person.

Elfman was a panter. Even when he wasn't doing the work, he made small noises that let her know he was enjoying himself, and when he orgasmed, he all but growled. Not today. Today, when it came, he wrapped his arms tightly around her middle and both sat up and pulled her down. He'd kissed her mouth and between her legs before, he'd groped her and had her in so many ways, she'd lost count, but it was then, embraced, when he arched into her and looked up from beneath his lashes that Cana knew that somehow, somewhere along the way, they'd crossed the line from 'just fucking' to drown out the ghosts that haunted them into very, very dangerous territory.

Elfman's hips slowed and his palms splayed out on her back; they were warm, though his hands were rough. His body twitched deep inside of her, still spreading her so, so wide. She still liked it, though her libido was slowly being smothered by that look Elfman wore. "What does that look mean?" Cana heard herself ask. Why did she ask? She didn't want to know, not really.

Elfman's chest rose and fell twice and then he blurted, "I think I love you."

Cana laughed first. "I think you're drunk."

"I thought it before I was drunk," he replied.

"No, you didn't, Elfman."

"Yes, I did. I was lying here, looking at the ceiling thinking that the theater is a pretty good place but it's not the same, Cana. Not when I'm here on my—"

Cana broke his grasp and stood. She almost couldn't find her pants and then remembered that they were still trapped around her one ankle. She yanked them on but forgot about her underwear. They bunched up just below her crotch and Cana didn't bother to fix it.

Elfman stumbled to his feet and spent the time taking off his condom and finding his own pants before saying, "Where are you going?"

"Home," Cana said.

Elfman sighed and that was all. He didn't ask her to stay or hold her hand and sell her more lines and that was fantastic in Cana's opinion. She left him in the theater and pretended that she didn't know what the forlorn expression on his face meant. What did Elfman Strauss know about love anyway? Most people had to cultivate it; fertilize, water, tend, but it seemed like for the Strausses, it had always just grown in the garden.