Ah, how immensely amusing, infinitely rewarding, and, at times, rather dangerous it was to be me. Sometimes. Especially when it involved teasing, confusing, and leaving a certain, stubborn, strong, and irritatingly captivating Erza Scarlet speechless, even if for a few brief, precious moments. That, indeed, was a pastime worth diligently cultivating.
I descended the stairs of Fairy Hills with the silent grace of a nocturnal predator on the prowl and the affected elegance of a bored nobleman forced to mingle with the common folk. My lupine tail, that furry extension of mine with a personality all its own, swayed gently behind me with each step, a pendulum of mystery and restrained power, or perhaps just morning boredom.
The unmistakable smell of something vaguely resembling charcoal, existential despair, and possibly sulphur was already sneaking down the corridor, a not-so-subtle but terribly familiar omen of what I would likely find in the kitchen. My noble, self-imposed mission for the morning: to prepare a minimally edible breakfast for myself and my favourite redhead and, who knows, in the process, discover what kind of new, horrifying culinary calamity my lovely, well-intentioned, and generally utterly disastrous dorm-mates were perpetrating this time.
After all, someone had to ensure the group's survival in the face of such gastronomic threats, and it clearly wouldn't be by trusting their questionable abilities to even boil water without causing a small fire.
[Ah, the noble and selfless morning food rescue mission. So heroic and inspiring, Azra'il. Almost as thrilling and perilous as that memorable time you bravely fought the fearsome, insatiable Cosmic Toast Devourer to save an entire galaxy's breakfast… or was it to steal his secret blackberry jam recipe? The details are a little hazy,] Eos commented in my mind, with her usual, irritating tone of appreciative sarcasm and a selective memory for my failings.
(At least the Cosmic Toast Devourer, despite his questionable diet and anger management issues, had a certain… style and impeccable presentation. Whatever is happening in that kitchen right at this moment, I'm sure, is just sad, chaotic, smelly, and with a high risk of food poisoning,) I retorted mentally, already psyching myself up for the worst and seriously considering the possibility of just stealing some fruit and fleeing into the forest.
When I finally reached the kitchen entrance, the scene that unfolded before my ancient, already dreadfully tired eyes was… well, it was a true, inspired work of art of the purest, most absolute culinary chaos. An abstract, expressionist painting of acrid smoke that would have made my eyes water if I were the crying type, pots of various sizes scattered across the floor as if they had been victims of a small explosion, some of them still emitting a bubbling, suspicious sound, and a general atmosphere of contained panic, resignation, and the unmistakable smell of burnt dreams. And in the centre of it all, like an unholy, failed offering to some forgotten god of bad cookery or a void entity with particularly bizarre taste, was a solitary plate on top of the marble counter, which had once been white.
'Plate' was perhaps an overly generous, optimistic term to describe it. That… thing resting with a sinister dignity upon the once white, pristine porcelain was a dark, shapeless mass, with a texture that varied erratically between dangerously slimy, suspiciously bubbly, and completely carbonised. And, to my growing horror and morbid fascination, it seemed to… move subtly. It pulsed. With an unholy life of its own. As if a lost fragment of the abyssal Void itself had decided to take an unscheduled holiday in our humble kitchen and materialised in the form of a particularly failed, possibly sentient omelette.
I had seen indescribable horrors, nightmarish creatures, and cosmic abominations in my many and varied lives, but that… that was definitely in my personal top five of the most visually offensive and potentially dangerous things I had ever witnessed. And mind you, the competition was stiff.
[Preliminary analysis of the unknown substance on the plate complete, Azra'il. Composition: indeterminate, but with significant traces of carbon, despair, and what appears to be… burnt waffle soul? Movement detected: yes, subtle, but present. Danger level: surprisingly high for something resembling a failed breakfast. I recommend maintaining a safe distance and, if possible, not making direct eye contact. It might be contagious. Or hungry,] Eos commented, with a seriousness that only made the situation more hilarious and unsettling.
The proud, likely entirely oblivious culprits of that masterpiece of gastronomic terror, I soon discovered upon entering the room with the caution of one entering a minefield, were none other than the ever-so-elegant, occasionally demonic Mirajane Strauss, who had a suspicious smudge of flour on her nose, a maniacal glint in her eyes, and an expression of one who has just accidentally summoned a low-ranking minor demon and now doesn't quite know what to do with it.
Beside her, little, intellectual, usually so sensible Levy McGarden, was staring at the 'creation' on the counter with a complex mixture of morbid scientific fascination and genuine, entirely justifiable fear, probably trying, in vain, to decipher the ancient, possibly cursed runes that seemed to have spontaneously formed on the burnt, bubbling surface of that unholy thing.
Completing the trio of culinary disaster, sweet, gentle Lisanna was trying, with a heroism bordering on insanity, to fan the dense, suffocating smoke with a small, entirely inadequate tea towel, sporting a nervous smile, a restrained cough, and an expression of one trying to maintain optimism in the face of the imminent culinary apocalypse. Poor dears. They really hadn't a clue.
And as if the universe, with its peculiar, frequently sadistic sense of humour, had decided the scene wasn't yet chaotic enough, it was at that exact, entirely inopportune moment that the rest of the hungry, noisy, likely still hungover cavalry of Fairy Hills decided to grace us with their presence.
Cana Alberona, already sporting with almost maternal pride her inseparable, probably magically refilling tankard of ale in hand (despite it being absurdly early for such, and she only being, if I recall correctly, about fourteen or fifteen too – ah, Fiore's wonderful, flexible laws on underage drinking, always so… progressive and unconcerned with future liver damage), entered the kitchen, stumbling, with a yawn so large, sonorous it could easily have swallowed a small village whole.
Bisca Connell, with her vibrant green hair, her practical, direct gaze of one with no time for fuss, came right behind, already sniffing the air with an expression of suspicion. Followed closely by Laki Olietta, who was already gesticulating animatedly with her hands, enthusiastically describing to no one in particular some new, revolutionary wooden furniture design she had dreamt of the night before.
And, to complete the picturesque scene of morning despair, frustrated expectations, even the elegant, haughty, usually so superior Evergreen had deigned to descend from her royal quarters, likely drawn irresistibly by the unmistakable smell of imminent disaster, the promise of more material for her gossip.
"What is that smell, for the love of all the spirits of the forest and my lungs which are starting to protest?" Cana asked, with the delicacy of a troll with a headache, wrinkling her nose with a grimace of genuine, deep disgust that would make a skunk envious.
"It seems someone here tried to cook an old boot, stuffed with sulphur and dirty socks, on a toxic waste bonfire. Is breakfast going to be long? Or shall we have to resort to hunting and gathering in the forest? I'm starving, and I urgently need something solid to absorb this… peculiar 'aroma' before I pass out."
"Yes, exactly! When's it ready? My stomach is already having a serious, rather depressing conversation with my ribs about the possibility of cannibalism," Bisca added, with her usual practicality, her experienced eyes already quickly calculating the statistical probability of finding something remotely edible, non-lethal in that cursed kitchen.
Evergreen, with her usual, almost unbearable pose of royal superiority, a fan elegantly positioned in front of her nose to filter the offensive odours, just twisted her thin lips into an expression of pure horror, aristocratic disdain.
"Is… is that thing on that plate," she indicated with a visible shudder at the pulsating mass on the counter, "supposed to be food for human beings? Or is it some sort of particularly failed alchemical experiment, an attempt to create artificial life from spoiled food scraps, or perhaps just a joke in very poor taste?" Her voice dripped with contempt.
A true, glorious, entirely expected morning kerfuffle at Fairy Hills. I could almost appreciate the intrinsic beauty, the chaotic poetry of it all, were it not for the persistent stench of something burning now mingling with the smell of despair, the growing, alarming probability I would have to, somehow, feed this band of hungry, likely-on-the-verge-of-a-caffeine-deprived-riot mages.
It was then that Cana, in her instinctive search for something remotely alcoholic to start the day, or perhaps just trying to escape the sight of that culinary abomination on the counter, turned to complain a little more about the lack of coffee and… saw me.
I was there, standing at the kitchen entrance like a privileged spectator to the gastronomic apocalypse, dressed in my celestial blue silks, with my silver hair impeccably tied, an air of one who has just descended from some classic oriental painting to judge their poor morning habits.
Cana's eyes, normally so focused on her next tankard, widened like saucers. The said tankard, which she balanced with impressive skill, slipped a little in her hand, spilling a few drops of a suspiciously dark liquid onto the floor. And she, the queen of taverns, creative swear words, almost choked on her own air, letting out a sound that was a mixture of surprise, disbelief, perhaps a slight whistle of admiration.
Consequently, her dramatic startle, like a stone thrown into a calm lake, drew the noisy, immediate attention of the other girls, who, one by one, turned in my direction with expressions ranging from curious to utterly shocked.
And what followed, my dear, imaginary witnesses, was a chorus of reactions so delicious, so satisfying, so predictably exaggerated it would have filled my ancient ego with an almost childlike joy, if I, of course, were the sort of entity who remotely cares about the opinion of mere mortals on my appearance. Which I totally, completely, absolutely am not. Of course not.
All of them, without the slightest exception, were momentarily, hilariously paralysed, as if a beautiful, noble, mysterious, utterly unexpected immortal prince from some distant, magical, probably very chic eastern kingdom, the kind straight out of the pages of an epic romance full of dangerous adventures, palace intrigues, forbidden passions, had magically appeared from absolute nothingness, right there, in the messy, smelly, chaotic kitchen of Fairy Hills. And, to be fair, considering my current attire, my natural, undeniable beauty, the comparison was not entirely unfounded.
[Visual impact level: High. Observers' physiological reactions: Surprise, admiration, slight tachycardia, pupil dilation, in some cases, a notable facial flush. Data analysis complete: You have, once again, Azra'il, managed to leave a group of hormonally unstable teenagers completely speechless, possibly questioning their own preferences. Mission 'Dramatic, Ego-Crushing Entrance' successfully accomplished. I recommend moderation in future to avoid incidents of mass fainting or unsolicited declarations of eternal love,] Eos commented, with the coldness of a scientific report, but I could detect a note of smug amusement in her mental voice. She knew the effect I had. And she loved to record every detail for future reference, teasing.
It was a delicious, priceless mixture of reactions I would fondly file away in my vast collection of others' awkward moments: Laki Olietta, in her astonishment, loudly dropped the small, intricate block of enchanted wood she was proudly showing to Bisca.
Bisca Connell, the pragmatic, always-hungry sharpshooter, completely forgot about her hunger, her search for something edible, just blinked repeatedly, incredulous, as if her eyes were having difficulty processing the image before her.
Sweet, gentle Lisanna, ever so adorable, let out a small, audible 'oh!' of pure, innocent surprise, admiration, her cheeks gaining a slight rosy hue. And, much to my particular, immense delight, even the usually so haughty, imperturbable, ice-queen Evergreen, with all her studied pose of superiority, her habitual disdain for everything not herself, was visibly, utterly stunned, her normally narrowed, judgmental eyes now wide in a rare display of shock, her small, perfect mouth slightly agape in an expression bordering on awe. It was glorious. I should dress like this more often, just for the entertainment value.
But the most… interesting reactions, certainly the most amusing for my cynical soul, were, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, those of Cana Alberona, the infamous Strauss demoness, Mirajane.
Cana, the incorrigible boozer, the queen of misbehaviour, inappropriate comments, was surprisingly, adorably flushed, a rare phenomenon I hadn't seen happen with such intensity since that memorable time when she, in an advanced state of intoxication, bravely tried to flirt with a life-sized stone statue of Gildarts Clive, said statue, either offended or perhaps just unstable, nearly fell on top of her.
And Mirajane… ah, the divine, demonic Mirajane Strauss, queen of subtle provocations, personification of unshakeable confidence, stunning beauty, calculated seduction. She, with her constant attempts to get a rise out of me, seemed to have completely, totally, absolutely lost her usual, teasing, irritating composure.
Her cheeks, normally a pale, flawless shade, now sported an adorable, revealing rosy hue that reached the tips of her ears. Her large, expressive blue eyes, which usually shone with an amused malice or a demonic coldness, now shone with an entirely different intensity, an intensity that was not in the least bit demonic, but rather… surprisingly admiring, almost… shy? And she, the master of rhetoric, sharp retorts, couldn't, much to my growing, immense delight, stop stammering disjointed, utterly meaningless phrases.
"A-Az… Azra'il? Y-you… What… Wow… I… I don't… W-what are you… wearing?" Finally, after what felt like an eternity of awkward silence, fixed stares, she managed to articulate a few words, albeit with a difficulty almost painful to watch. And absolutely hilarious.
Ah, yes. That was my cue. The perfect opportunity to inflate my already considerably large ego with the silent (and, in Mirajane's case, not-so-silent) admiration of these young, easily impressed mages. I took a slow, calculated step into the kitchen, with the natural grace, innate elegance of a hunting feline, a smile I knew, from vast, painful personal experience, to be absolutely charming, a little dangerous, utterly irresistible.
One of those smiles that promised thrilling adventures, mortal dangers, deep secrets, who knows, a broken heart or two in the process.
"Good morning, my lovely, talented (at least in some areas not involving morning cookery, apparently), surprisingly silent companions of Fairy Hills," my voice sounded soft, velvety, with a subtle touch of amusement, a hint of that polished, somewhat archaic eloquence I, modestly, reserved for special occasions, or simply for when I wanted to manipulate, impress someone with my superior intellect, undeniable charm.
"I humbly beg your pardon for my sudden, perhaps rather… dramatic intrusion upon this… morning culinary spectacle of yours, which by its peculiar aroma, seems to be of an experimental, possibly dangerous nature." I made a small, elegant flourish with my hand, as if presenting myself at some ancient, forgotten royal court, my lupine tail, ever so expressive, swaying gently behind me with a calculated elegance, a touch of conceit.
"I see the benevolent spirits of the kitchen, or perhaps some cosmic entity with a particularly sadistic sense of humour, have decided to grace this humble abode with an offering… shall we say, peculiar, visually intriguing." I indicated with an amused glance, a slight shudder of disgust, a perfectly arched eyebrow at the dark, shapeless, still subtly pulsating mass on the counter.
"I sincerely hope I am not interrupting any ritual for summoning primordial entities from the abyssal void through the improper use of dubious ingredients, a clear lack of adult supervision. I just thought, in my infinite wisdom, my boundless generosity, my stomach rumbling in an audible, entirely justifiable protest, to come down, prepare something minimally edible, possibly tasty, most importantly, entirely safe for human consumption, for our much-needed, now slightly delayed communal breakfast. Before any of us here present, I'm not pointing fingers, lamentably succumbs to excruciating hunger, acute food poisoning, or, which would be even worse, more tragic, the terrible, irresistible, potentially fatal temptation to taste… that."
A shocked, admiring silence hung in the kitchen for a few seconds, broken only by the sinister bubbling of the 'thing' on the counter, my own, satisfied smile. Then, as if finally waking from a trance, the girls began to move, a little awkwardly, a little embarrassed, but with a new, palpable energy in the air.
"Now, my dears," I continued, in a tone both authoritative, charming, like a general giving orders to his troops, a conductor leading his orchestra, "so that I may perform the miracle of transforming this scene of near-disaster into a memorable breakfast, so that we may all eat something that won't give us instant indigestion, visions of the beyond, I will need a little cooperation, a lot of space. Therefore, Mirajane, Levy, you two, who have demonstrated such… peculiar enthusiasm in the kitchen, could you please take charge of cleaning up this small… war zone? Pots in their place, counter clean, please, give a dignified, safe end to that… entity on the plate. A burial with military honours, perhaps? Or just chuck it in the bin, but carefully, so as not to contaminate the rest of the city." The two nodded vigorously, a mixture of relief, shame on their faces.
"Cana, Bisca, Laki, Evergreen, my dears, could you please set the table in the dining room? Clean tablecloth, cutlery for everyone, some glasses… perhaps some flowers from the garden to add a touch of civility to this chaotic morning? And, Lisanna, you, my small, efficient helper, could you help me sort out some fresh ingredients from the larder? I have some… delicious ideas in mind."
And so, with the grace of an immortal prince leading his subjects, the efficiency of a Michelin-starred chef (with several lifetimes of experience), I began to orchestrate the preparation of our breakfast.
My hands moved with a skill, precision almost hypnotic, grabbing ingredients, chopping vegetables, mixing spices, all with a lightness, confidence that belied the complexity of what I was doing. And, much to the growing astonishment of the other girls, who now took turns between tidying the kitchen, spying on my movements with an almost reverent admiration, not a single drop of sauce, not a single grain of flour, not even a stubborn wisp of hair dared to soil my pristine robes, my regal posture.
I cooked as if conducting a symphony, each precise movement, each ingredient a note, each aroma a melody.
Whilst Mirajane and Levy, now with renewed fervour, clear admiration in their gazes, cleaned the culinary crime scene, occasionally shooting me furtive, wonderstruck glances, the others set the dining room with surprising enthusiasm, I began my magic.
"To start this breakfast which, I assure you, will make your taste buds sing arias of pure bliss," I announced with an enigmatic smile, "we shall have a classic of morning comfort, but with a twist I learned in my… wanderings through diverse, demanding kitchens. Prepare yourselves for Eggs Benedict with a Hollandaise sauce that is pure silk, a special little secret in the bread." The name alone seemed to whet their curious appetites. "They will be light, yet substantial, perfect for starting the day with energy… and a little decadence."
Then, to harmonise with the aesthetic of my own attire, add a touch of eastern elegance to the meal, I decided to also prepare a dish requiring precision, a delicate balance of flavours, a recipe I had 'developed' after observing some master chefs in distant lands, during my many, varied 'extended holidays' from my past life. "And, to accompany our more eastern-inspired delight, we shall have a delicate Japanese Frittata, with thin layers of egg, sautéed shiitake mushrooms, fresh spring onions, a subtle touch of dashi. Light, flavourful, I dare say, poetically delicious."
Lastly, as the final note of a gastronomic symphony, I thought of something light, refreshing, surprisingly healthy to cleanse the palate, sweeten the day, perhaps even inspire some good deed (though I wasn't counting on much from Cana).
"And to finish our little morning celebration, my dears, a small, delicate gift for the senses, something to prepare us for the numerous, inevitable adventures this day certainly holds for us: an energising, vibrant Tropical Smoothie Bowl, made with the freshest fruits of the season, a crunchy homemade granola I prepared last night while you were all snoring, a generous drizzle of rare, wildflower honey, harvested by particularly grumpy but very talented goblins. A small explosion of flavour, vitality."
As I worked with serene concentration, but with a speed, precision almost supernatural by normal standards, the girls, having finished their respective, now insignificant tasks in the kitchen, dining room, now gathered silently at the kitchen door, like a small, mesmerised audience, watching me with a palpable mixture of deep admiration, genuine astonishment, absolute disbelief, a growing hunger almost tangible in the air.
They saw my fluid, precise movements, the way I handled the knives with the dexterity of an experienced master swordswoman, the intuitive, almost magical way I combined the most disparate ingredients with the confidence of an alchemist about to turn lead into gold, all while remaining impeccably clean, without a single stain on my blue robes that billowed gently with each elegant movement, exuding that same, unmistakable aura of enchanting presence, restrained power, a beauty that, to them, certainly seemed to be of another world, or at least from a very, very chic kingdom.
They weren't just admiring my obvious, superior culinary skills; they were, I knew with an almost sadistic certainty, completely, utterly hypnotised by the figure of the 'gallant, mysterious, exotic prince who loves a dangerous adventure, apparently, is also a divine chef with excellent taste in clothes' that I had so carefully, intentionally, with considerable narcissistic pleasure, constructed that morning. And I, I must confess only to myself, the irritating Eos, was loving every delicious, gratifying second of that silent admiration, their wonder-filled gazes, their literally dropped jaws.
My ancient ego, sometimes, needed a small, well-deserved stroke. Or, in this case, a true, sumptuous banquet of adoration. Whatever. The result was the same: I felt fabulous.
"Well, my dears, now visibly hungry, impressed spectators," I announced with a final flourish, a smile that could melt glaciers or start small civil wars, depending on my mood, as I artistically placed the last, strategically positioned bright red fruit atop the Tropical Smoothie Bowl, which now looked like an edible, likely very expensive work of art.
"I believe our humble, yet I hope transcendentally delicious, breakfast is finally ready to be devoured, or rather, reverently appreciated. And before any of you, in your understandable state of ecstasy, growing starvation, has a lamentable collapse from low blood sugar, or, worse still, tries to eat the sophisticated floral kitchen decor, I suggest we take this modest but certainly memorable morning offering to the dining room. There, we can appreciate it with a modicum of civility, decency, who knows, with a bit of luck, no one starts a food fight."
With surprising efficiency, a speed that would be enviable for a group of particularly motivated worker ants – likely driven by excruciating hunger, the subtle but ever-present fear of my possible, creative culinary critiques should they show any lack of enthusiasm – the girls quickly mobilised like a small, noisy army.
They helped carry the steaming, aromatic platters, delicate plates, mugs of exotic fruit juice (and, in Cana's particular, entirely predictable case, her faithful, inseparable tankard of something suspiciously resembling morning ale, because some things, apparently, never change) to the large, now impeccably tidy dining room table.
They had, to my slight surprise, secret approval, arranged everything with almost professional care, likely motivated, as I've already mentioned, by gnawing hunger, anticipation of my gastronomic abilities.
In a few, efficient minutes, the table was set, a vision of pure, crystalline abundance, a promise of morning delight, the delicious, complex, absolutely irresistible aroma of the different dishes mingling in the air, creating an almost palpable atmosphere of anticipation, a gastronomic tension that could be cut with a bread knife.
I, of course, sat with the dignity, naturalness of one born to it at the head of the table, a position of honour, power I had subtly but firmly claimed as my right of conquest (by being the only one who could cook something other than burnt toast) since I began to grace this band of hungry, unsophisticated-palated mages with my culinary creations.
I watched with an internally satisfied smile, the benevolent condescension of a queen observing her loyal subjects (or perhaps a hungry dictator with excellent taste in silverware), as the girls noisily, with a certain anxiety settled into their usual places. Their eyes, without exception, shone with an almost childlike excitement, a greedy anticipation, their stomachs, I could almost hear, rumbled audibly in a polyphonic chorus of approval, impatience, pure, simple biological need. We were all, without exception, ready for the glorious, well-deserved morning assault.
The cutlery, in our eager hands, seemed almost weapons of war, ready for battle… against the perfectly poached Eggs Benedict.
When the dining room door opened softly, revealing Erza, I stopped the spoonful of soup halfway to my mouth – a feat of self-control that should have earned me a medal. It wasn't the Erza in armour, with a spartan plait, who descended for breakfast as if for a military inspection. Oh, no. This Erza looked as if she had been sculpted by some elven artist with a fetish for redheads, an excess of white, gold fabrics.
The scarlet hair, normally a declaration of war on combs, fell loose, tamed by delicate little plaits at the top of her head, lending her an air of a warrior princess who has just awoken from a hundred years' sleep, decided the first order of the day was to look absolutely stunning. And the dress… ah, the dress.
The very same one I had casually pointed out in a shop window two months ago, commenting, with my usual, disastrous lack of filter, that 'it's not half bad, might, just might, look decent on you, little redhead'. It was white, pure, with golden details that seemed to mock my preference for more… practical shades. And on her? It looked like a direct provocation to my already battered self-control.
[Imminent Azra'il system collapse alert! 'Oh-by-the-gods-she's-lovely-and-I'm-lost' levels reaching red! Pupils dilated, heart rate doing a macarena, a sudden, inexplicable urge to write bad poetry! I recommend deep breathing, possibly, a bucket of cold water. On your face, of course,] Eos, that electronic traitor, whispered in my mind with a tone that was 90% mockery, 10% genuine concern for the integrity of my emotional circuits.
I ignored her with the dignity of one who has faced worse. Like, a zombie apocalypse. Once. Or twice.
Erza, noticing the sepulchral silence, the stares ranging from pure shock to open-mouthed admiration, stopped at the entrance, a blush spreading across her cheeks like a particularly efficient forest fire. "W-what? I-is there something… wrong with my hair? Or is it the dress? I knew I shouldn't have…"
The other girls, realising the moment of shock, admiration had passed, began to attack her with curious questions about the sudden, unexpected change in appearance.
"So then, Erza? What's the reason for all this glamming up first thing in the morning?" Cana asked, with a mischievous smile, a generous swig from her tankard. "Got a secret date we don't know about? Some mysterious knight in shining armour waiting for you round the corner? Or did you decide it was high time you got a boyfriend, stopped being so… 'Erza'?"
"Or perhaps she just wanted to impress a certain white-haired person with a peculiar taste for eastern clothing who loves a good breakfast," Mirajane added, with a wink in my direction that made me want to throw an Eggs Benedict at her.
Levy, between bites of a roll she had nicked from the tray, just shook her head, her eyes shining behind her glasses. "It's an absolutely enchanting dress, Erza! And the hairstyle… it's so… elven! You look like a character straight out of one of my fantasy books!"
Erza, under the crossfire of teasing, turned the colour of a ripe tomato, muttered something unintelligible about 'just wanting to feel pretty now and then', 'it's no one's business why she decided to dress up more today'. She completely ignored the last, most direct question about 'impressing someone', attacked her plate of Japanese Frittata with a ferocity indicating her level of embarrassment. Poor thing. So easy to destabilise. And so adorable when cross.
With a monumental effort to keep my voice neutral, my tone casual, my heart in its place, to ignore the small, irritating pang in my chest refusing to disappear, I finally managed to articulate a few words that weren't just an incoherent grunt of surprise.
"Well, little redhead," I began, savouring every second of her discomfort, my own, secret admiration. "It seems you've finally decided to give your extensive, probably very expensive heavy metal wardrobe a well-deserved rest, adopt a slightly more… breathable look. And I must say, with all the impartiality of an experienced observer with superior aesthetic taste," I paused dramatically, slowly running an appreciative eye over her, which I knew would make her squirm inside, "that the change, however unexpected, suits you… surprisingly, even irritatingly well. The white, incredibly, contrasts almost poetically with the fierceness of your hair. And the hairstyle… interesting. Has a certain air of a lost royal. Almost… elven, as Levy said. Only the pointed ears are missing. But don't worry, you've got enough of the 'bestial' in your best friend here."
Whilst the others continued to tease her with questions about the "special reason" for all the effort, praise her in equal measure, creating a morning uproar that was the perfect soundtrack to any meal at Fairy Hills, Erza leaned discreetly towards me, her lips brushing dangerously close to my ear, making every hair on my body stand on end in a totally inappropriate, scientifically inexplicable way.
"So," she whispered, her voice low, hoarse, with a tone of mischievous amusement I hadn't expected, catching me completely off guard, "it seems the 'gallant, mysterious, exotic prince who loves a dangerous adventure, steals the hearts of noble ladies with his irresistible charm' isn't the only one who knows how to make an impression, leave others speechless this morning, is he, Azra'il Weiss?"
And then, to my complete, absolute, indescribable shock, she, Erza Scarlet, the personification of seriousness, honour, gave a small, almost imperceptible, utterly devastating wink, before pulling away with a satisfied, almost smug smile on her lips, turning back to attack her breakfast as if nothing had happened.
I stood there, momentarily, utterly paralysed, my ancient, usually so efficient brain struggling to process what had just happened. The spell. The bloody, ironic spell had, indeed, spectacularly, turned against the sorceress herself.
That small, stubborn, irritating, now surprisingly cunning little redhead… she was learning my own tricks far too quickly. And, to my growing horror, secret, undeniable admiration, I was, dangerously, loving every delicious, confusing second of this turn of events.
[Score reversal alert! Unit Erza has just scored a decisive point, with a disconcerting dribble, a spectacular goal, in the complex, unpredictable game of emotional teasing! Unit Azra'il's embarrassment level: Elevated, rising rapidly, with risk of reaching the stratosphere! This is getting more, gloriously amusing! My relationship dynamics, dramatic plot twist analysis algorithms are in absolute ecstasy! I need more data!]
(Shut it, Eos,) I thought, as I tried, with a superhuman, vain effort, to hide the stubborn, amused, perhaps slightly daft smile that, against my will, insisted on appearing on my lips. (Just… shut your bloody, omniscient gob.)
This morning, definitively, had become much, much, incredibly more interesting. And dangerous. In a completely new, unexpected, I must admit, strangely exciting way.