Natsu wasn't scared. Scared was for children, for the wimps and losers who couldn't handle themselves when things got a little out of control. He preferred the term creeped out. Yes, that was more like it. He wasn't shivering in a corner—whimpering and sucking on his thumb, but he couldn't deny the crawls that skittered across his skin–down his back.
Natsu wasn't scared. Being afraid meant there was something to be afraid of. A face to the fear. There was no such thing with him. Just the brash drops of temperature when coming home, like he'd forgotten to close the window earlier. It was the fatigue that hit at certain times in the night. It was the how the lights would turn themselves back on after he had flipped the switch, then off, then on again. It was the eerie sense of a presence behind him when he scrubbed the soap from his eyes in the shower.
It was how things always ended up mysteriously broken whenever he turned an eye. His microwave blaring an errored scream when too many buttons were pushed. His tv dissolving into snow when all of his cables were pulled and snapped. His plastic cups falling to ground over and over again.
No, Natsu wasn't scared. He was going crazy. That's what he told himself, anyways.
The apartment was a piece of shit. It was stationed next to an ancient railroad that flung its ancient train down the tracks every day at two in the morning. The floors were about as old as the city itself; they hadn't been redone in decades probably. Neither the walls or anything else in the building. Just the occasional appliance that was upgraded when Natsu even bothered with a complaint.
Everything around him belonged in a museum, and he was no different. Only Natsu aged much more nicely than his surroundings. Other than a few scars here and there, he hadn't a single wrinkle on him. That fact was stunning for a man his age.
Yes, he has lived long, but he was still a child at heart. He made friends everywhere he went, as well as enemies. He had the smile of the sun itself, and the glare of a demon. He was no two ways, and that was a good thing. He enjoyed his wild path of emotions, because he needed too.
Working as a hired gun was often a strain on a good mood. Though that wasn't typically what he called himself (it was more of a bodyguard act than anything), the results were all the same. If someone comes at you, get to them first.
He was a guardian. That's what he did best. He excelled at protecting things he owned, things he liked. Things he didn't want anyone else having.
Luckily, his possession could be bought for a nice price. Once the exchange was made, you were his, and he was also yours.
Though the pay was definitely sustainable, that didn't make any of his more annoying clients easy to withstand. Sometimes he brooded through the entire exchange, and sometimes his wild emotions got the better of him and he ended up doing the one thing he was hired to prevent. He never killed anyone (other than who he was paid to), but he couldn't help a good hit to the nose of a snooty brat in way over his head.
It was tedious at times, but he loved the excitement. Danger was one of his favorite flavors. Only when he knew he could win though, which he always did. The fights he fought were simple. Bad guys doing bad things that needed to be stopped.
They had faces. They had substance.
The ominous presence in his apartment now, did not.
