Erza never says a name. Sometimes, Lucy thinks when Erza's mouth opens, she will call out for who she really wants in bed with her. Jellal, Jellal, Jellal, Erza will chant, just because she can't help it anymore and Lucy knows Erza is thinking about him, and Erza knows Lucy knows but the both of them never say anything about it, anyway.
Maybe if Lucy is someone kinder, or someone more foolish as to step aside for a fucking ghost of a man, she'll let Erza say it. Cry out his name, Lucy will urge, close your eyes real tight and imagine he's the one with his fingers in your cunt and his mouth on your breast. If Lucy is stronger than the fragile little heart that she is, she might just allow it. If she doesn't love Erza with the force of supernovas as she does, she might just tell her, go say his name, baby, I don't mind, even when she does.
For some glorious and perhaps merciful occurrence, Jellal's name is not uttered. Instead, Erza exhales: it's drawn out, tired, thankful and it spells a whole script of pleasure. It's the deep kind of sigh that makes her belly quiver and her legs shake. Her back is arched so her nipples point skyward but with that breath her spine relaxes until she is supine on the mattress, molten from orgasm and soft with delight.
It's the kind of outbreath that is freed in place of another lover's name. Lucy doesn't mind, or maybe she's just lost the sense to have all of Erza to herself.
Talk afterwards is always sparse. Most days the room is so palpable with shame that it leaves no room for conversation to flow. The two girls get dressed, faced away from each other as if they haven't spent the past moments devouring each square inch of skin the other had; as if they haven't used the bodies they refused to look at as some convoluted opioid for the heart.
It's rare that they luxuriate in bed like this, inhaling the scent of sweat and musk off Lucy's downy sheets. Erza has not moved from her spot by the headboard and Lucy lays on her front, parallel to her. It's rare that they might talk so they will talk, Lucy decides.
"Do you remember that scene from Deathly Hallows? When Ron left and Hermione was grieving?" Lucy's voice is thin as she asks. She and Erza loved Harry Potter as children. She thinks back on it now, after years of shelving it at the back of her mind. For a moment she tells herself how odd it is, to rabidly love something and have that passion temper into tepidness over time. She can't even recall when she stopped the cycle of reading the books over and over again or when Erza stopped her yearly Hogwarts-themed birthday parties. Maybe it was during college when there was no room to indulge happiness. Maybe it was when they started working and sleep became a priority over books. Maybe it was when they started dating people and they started changing into different people.
"The three of them were too young to deal with all of that." Is what Erza choses to say.
"Right. Ron wore that Horcrux around his neck and it pushed him over the edge." Lucy feels bad about not remembering the details better. What had been said in that tent? What had made the faces of three teenagers contort in anguish? All Lucy can remember is how she had felt about that moment. "He left and Hermione mourned. Harry made her dance with him. They laughed again, after so long."
"Yeah." Erza's answer is short, which begs the question if she knows where this conversation is heading, what it really means.
"How did you think Harry felt back then?" Lucy's fingers twists in the sheets, a low-burning anxiety churning behind her chest cavity for a reason she can't name.
"I don't know, Lucy. I still rather feel worse for Ron at this point."
One time, during a similar scenario that is, the two of them having sex because life isn't pleasant Lucy says I love you.
She doesn't mean to, and immediately, she regrets it. Today it's Erza with her face between Lucy's legs and at the peak of pleasure, Lucy says the damned words.
She's always been noisy in bed. Where Erza gasps and moans and never articulates her thrill, Lucy is a practician of positive reinforcement. But calls to god or breathy yes' turn into what's forbidden. She only realizes what she's done when Erza tenses up, brows furrowed and shoulders hunched.
Immediately, Lucy takes it back: "That's not " or so she means to continue but Erza does, too. With a renewed vigor Erza finishes the job of eating Lucy out and for a while, Lucy forgets her careless candor.
Though after that, when Erza leaves, it's the last time Lucy sees her.
It's been days and there's no sign of the redhead come knocking on her door. Lucy's calls are collected by an automated voicemail so she resorts to texts, and over the course of 3 weeks, they are as follow:
I didn't mean to say that. I was caught up in the heat of the moment.
I didn't mean it.
Erza never replies. And while it hurts to give up, it did hurt more when she was trying too hard. And so Lucy doesn't bother anymore.
note: I was watching HP6.1 and the Harry and Hermione dancing scene was what really got me moving for this. It's been 87 fucking years since I read that scene from the book and I still don't know how I feel about it.