Chapter 4: The Weight of Eyes
Three months passed in the blink of an eye.
In that time, Magnolia shifted with the seasons, from the cool bite of early spring to the warm, bustling life of summer. The guildhall never slowed—jobs taken, brawls fought, laughter filling the air like always. And among it all, Menma Uzumaki found himself changing.
Not entirely. The shadows of his past never left, and his cloaked, guarded nature still made him an enigma to many guildmates. But he was no longer an outsider. He was Fairy Tail's enigma.
And today, he stood on the roof of the guild, staring across Magnolia's horizon, his crimson Sharingan glowing faintly.
"You're still forcing it, boy."
Makarov's voice came from behind him. The guild master was sitting cross-legged on the shingles, pipe in hand, watching him with that keen gaze that seemed to see through everything.
Menma let the glow fade, wincing slightly as a dull ache pulsed behind his eyes. "It's the only way I can make them respond."
"Mm." Makarov puffed on his pipe. "And how long do you think you'll last if you burn your magic out every time you use those eyes? Minutes? Seconds?"
Menma scowled, turning his gaze back toward the horizon. The Sharingan, the Eternal Mangekyō, the Rinnegan—they were incredible, terrifying even. Each had answered him in fragments: visions, distortions of space, glimpses of paths unseen. But controlling when they appeared… that was another battle entirely.
"I don't have the luxury of holding back," Menma muttered.
"You don't have the luxury of losing control, either," Makarov shot back, his voice sharp.
The words stung. Menma fell silent, fists tightening.
The master's tone softened. "Power like yours… it's a gift, but it's also a curse. If you let it rule you, it'll destroy you. But if you learn to listen to it, to flow with it, then it'll become more than just a weapon."
He gestured with his pipe. "Close your eyes. Breathe."
Menma hesitated but obeyed.
"Don't force the eyes," Makarov continued. "Invite them. Find the calm beneath the storm. When you feel them stirring, don't fight. Don't cling. Just… let them come, and let them go."
The boy exhaled slowly, drawing on his Slayer magic to ground himself. His mind was a swirling chaos—memories, voices, masks whispering in the dark. But beneath it, if he reached deep enough, there was a thread of stillness.
He tugged on it.
When he opened his eyes again, the tomoe of the Sharingan spun lazily, effortless this time.
And then, at Makarov's quiet "Now let it rest," he blinked—only for the glow to fade, leaving his irises dark again.
Menma's breath caught. "…I didn't force it."
Makarov smiled, wrinkles deepening. "Exactly. Control isn't about strength, boy. It's about restraint."
For the first time in years, Menma felt something loosen in his chest. Progress.
Later that evening, the guild buzzed with the usual chaos. Natsu and Gray were already trading blows, Cana was challenging Laxus to a drinking contest, and Wakaba and Macao were loudly losing at cards.
Menma sat at his usual corner table, quietly sipping tea. His chains coiled loosely at his feet, restless but calm. He practiced shifting his eyes on and off, following Makarov's advice. Slowly, the strain lessened each time.
That was when Mirajane appeared at his side, her smile bright enough to make the din fade for a moment.
"Menma," she chimed. "You're not busy tomorrow, are you?"
He glanced at her, suspicious. "Depends. Why?"
Her smile widened, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Oh, nothing too difficult. I just thought you might like to… accompany me on a job."
He raised an eyebrow. "What kind of job?"
Mirajane leaned closer, voice dropping playfully. "The modeling kind."
Menma froze. "…Modeling?"
She giggled at his expression. "Mm-hm! A magazine shoot. They want me to pose for their summer issue. But it gets boring by yourself, so I thought—why not bring a friend? You'd look good in front of a camera, you know."
Menma blinked at her, utterly unamused. "I fight monsters and bind demons with chains. I don't pose for magazines."
"Then think of it as protecting me during the job," Mirajane teased, winking. "Who knows, maybe a rogue photographer will attack."
He scowled, but the faintest heat touched his ears. Mirajane noticed, of course, and her giggle only grew.
Before he could argue further, Natsu leaned over from across the hall. "Oi, Menma, don't do it! If you go, they'll probably put you in some frilly outfit too!"
Gray snorted. "Nah, he'd probably look good. Better than you, flame-brain."
The guild erupted in laughter. Menma groaned and lowered his head onto the table, wishing the chains at his feet would drag him into another dimension.
But Mirajane only smiled softer, watching him with eyes that held more than mischief. For three months, he'd been steady by her side, a quiet strength in the wake of Lisanna's loss. She wanted him to see her world, not just the shadows.
And whether he liked it or not, she'd make sure he came.
That night, as Menma returned to his small apartment, he glanced at his reflection in the window. The Sharingan flickered briefly, then faded at will. Progress.
But as he lay down, his mind didn't dwell on Makarov's training or his magic. It lingered on Mirajane's words, on the thought of cameras, lights, her smile framed by something other than grief.
A modeling job.
For the first time in a long while, Menma almost felt… nervous.
Word Count: ~1,720