Many times, Macbeth had invaded her bed, her covers, her space ─ and many times, she'd dealt with it just like this. She'd always liked to hug something - anything, while she slept. Often, that task had fallen to her collection of pillows ( which, nowadays, ended up on the floor thanks to the cats, or Macbeth himself ).
Macbeth was a deeply fascinating person, however infuriating it felt to try to comprehend him. He was a man of few words in her experience ( was he different with Crime Sorciere? ), and had a plentiful supply of audacity. Lucy must have been better at not giving him the reactions he sought to bait out, and perhaps that was why Juvia herself had become his favourite person to torment. It made sense. Lucy was one of the smartest in their own guild ─ she'd always had a talent for pattern recognition. And thus, Lucy had masterfully evaded Macbeth's interest.
Unless, Lucy was simply too polite to vent to Juvia about her own experiences, but... She doubted it was quite the same as having an overgrown cat in the form of a man.
Because, it had to be that, right? She reacts to his pestering, and he delights in it.
As she watches Macbeth's chest rise and fall with each breath, she dares to wonder if perhaps, this is his way of being her friend. But something inside her shuts that idea out. Macbeth had friends. He did not have access to them freely, which was another matter altogether. If she dared to ask, would he laugh at her?
A logical part of her tells her that it's normal to be saddened by the prospect of her simply being an entertaining acquaintance ─ not a friend.
Macbeth was acting like a friend. Is she childish, to make such assumptions? Does an acquaintance ask about your day? Well, yes. Do they offer to look over your academic papers, when they have far more pressing matters to tend to? ... If it's truly effortless for them, or at least a very minor inconvenience, perhaps...
But does an acquaintance hold you? No. Not like this. But friends do. Gajeel, as long as she had known him, was not always kind. Not for his own faults entirely, but when they were younger & isolated, he had offered her kindness in the form of letting her curl up in his lap to cry. And often, she would wake to find herself tucked in - and Gajeel absent.
Juvia thought she understood Macbeth's boundaries, because he was very firm about them. He did not like being touched, but it was alright if he was doing it. That's what Juvia had come to understand. But sometimes, there were exceptions to the rule, and he did not explain them. They existed only in his mind, and Juvia could accept this. She had learned ( slowly ) how to mirror others, but he was complex. Even so, she thought she understood.
As her arm lay across his chest, her finger twitches - wanting to touch a lock of his hair, too, but she freezes as a reminder echoes in her head:
Juvia rests her hand against his chest again, relaxing it there, when he asks the question. Blinking away her drowsiness ( at least for now ), she peeks up to try and get a good look at him - but from her angle, and their current position, all she could see was the curve of his jaw and chin - and strands of his hair scattered. Still, she smiles.
"... It's probably easier if I tell you what types I don't like," she admits, her hand shifting again, this time to absentmindedly trace circles over his shoulder. "I do not like white chocolate at all, and I dislike chocolate-covered raisins, but any other fruit is okay. I also don't like it salted..."
She was sincerely hoping that she was not giving him ammunition.
"But it's the thought that counts." She hears herself say, to reassure him.
Friends are considerate. He is being considerate. Perhaps, in the present moment where at the very least, they were killing time before sleep could claim either of them, she was brave enough to ask the burning question.
There's a long pause before she asks, "Are we friends, Macbeth?"
She expects her heart to start racing in anticipation, at the possibility that he tells her no. But it doesn't. For some reason, she's calm. There is almost an instinct to quickly tell him that it's okay if he is not her friend, because she is. No. Gray had taught her valuable lessons in their friendship, and one of those was not to accept less than she deserved. Not to pour into someone's cup without ensuring her own was full.
"If you are not ready for that, it's alright. Maybe we will get there."
There. A compromise. Balance in all things.
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