REMNANTS

Requested by Anonymous: Eren and Mikasa as newlyweds, after a while they considered divorcing due to irreconcilable differences, then the little things happened that made them realized why they got married in the first place, there's tons of fanfics about them raising a family together, but not much about them separating and being together again

A/N: This is probably one of the best prompts I've ever received. I'm not quite sure if I'll be able to do it justice, but I still hope you're able to enjoy it.

Warmings: a crass joke or two, implied sexual content

1. BENEATH A SUMMER SUN

Lying together beneath the skeleton branches of a dead ash tree, so reminiscent of that day eight years ago, they decide to get married under a summer sun, in a moment caught between blood-red days and tear-filled nights, because they're in love, so completely in love, and have been, perhaps, since before the very first moment they met, and because they're scared, always utterly terrified, of the promise of tomorrow.

"I'm afraid," Mikasa utters into his neck, because tomorrow they head out back to reclaim Shiganshina, where the ghosts of eight years ago still play jacks in the street and wash their clothes in the river amidst the rubble, still wander the broken alleys. It's a long ride by horseback, and they've stopped measuring miles by meters, instead end up counting the bodies left behind.

I'm afraid, she says, and he is too. And he's always been the impulsive one out of the two of them: the one with the brimstone eyes and forest fire heart, so quick to catch, so quick to burst into flames. Feeling his way through the dark has always been reaching out for a hold on what felt right, and holding on to what was dear, and this is both of those things: reaching out and holding on. "Marry me," Eren whispers back, choking on his words with a sob he didn't know resided in his chest. "Please, please marry me." He pulls her tighter into him, links his fingers with hers, and doesn't let go. How could he ever let go? She whispers yes into his skin, whispers it over and over at the same rate tears spill from her eyes.

. . . . .

They decide to get married under a summer sun, the sky a clear, cerulean blue, with dream-like clouds sailing past like massive ships upon a different sea. It's a moment of peace and lull, caught between days of blood red and bone white, and nights lit aglow by flame of funeral pyre, and they're young, perhaps too young—barely seventeen and eighteen, not fully grown (for just the night before, Levi remarked with the tap of his finger to Eren's chin how there's nothing there to shave) but still far from children. They haven't been children in a long time. And it's hard to pick a point in which they stopped being young, because they've always, in a sense, been old souls—troubled, damaged souls trapped in bodies much too young. Was it the first day they met, five corpses later and two still walking? After their first battle? The second? The third? All their lives they've been forced to make adult decisions. Finally, this is one they choose.

When they tell their friends, the one's that remain, a couple cheer and offer their jubilant congratulations, some of the older soldiers smile bittersweet smiles, remembering with nostalgia the soft lips of past lovers and halcyon nights spent gazing up at the moon, and the rest give short nods of comprehension and begin to organize the rest into ranks to assist in preparation. The men sweep Eren away, and the women, Mikasa, break the couple apart to attend to them separately; Mikasa and Eren's hands break apart from one another like roots from the earth, and the sight of the other being carried away by a herd of their peers is such a comical sight they can't help but laugh. And the preparations begin.

The boys sweep Eren off to the lake, just stripping him bare before tossing him into the frigid water, despite his many protests.

"Who's got the soap? Someone toss me the soap!"

The boys laugh, good humoredly shoving Eren's head beneath the water as they soap him up, jeering as they poke fun at his body, making the most vulgar of comments:

"So you do have hair down there. I had my doubts…"

"That's all there is? Guess not everything about you is exactly titanic, ey?"

Leaving no trace of dirt behind, they scrub his skin raw, their hands so rough on his body, Eren wonders if they'll bruise or tear skin. He makes a show of throwing back a retort at their teasing, lunging at Jean when his ass gets slapped, shoving Connie and Armin off of him and down beneath the water after they crack a particular comment, but it's all in good fun, and even he finds himself grinning at a few of the jokes made at his own expense. He wonders if this is how it must feel to have brothers.

After the washing, and cleaning, and splashing, after Eren finishes drying off with an old cloth, suffering a few lashes from a towel whip from Jean, one of the older men come by with a crisp white tunic and grey pants.

"These should fit you perfectly," the man says, sizing Eren's naked body up as he stands with Armin, Connie, and Jean on either side of him, shivering, both hands strategically placed to preserve some semblance of modesty. "Alfred was always so meticulous about keeping sharp," he adds as the boys revel at the quality, the cleanliness. "He would've loved to have been able to wear these out to a wedding."

The ensemble is, as promised, a perfect fit, and though the pant legs are a bit long, his boots do well to conceal it. He combs his hair for the first time in forever, and allows Armin to trim it in the places it needs to be trimmed. Memories from his childhood have always been a bit fuzzy, seem to dissipate over time like ripples upon water, but as he looks upon his reflection, he realizes he resembles his mother. He sees her in his eyes, in the shape of his jaw, his bangs, and he doesn't remember her often—at least, not as often as he should. It's hard when in the background of every summer's day, every field of white linen, the silhouette of a body goes limp in giant hands, the sky bleeds crimson tears. He sees his father, too, but in a very different way—sees his father's killer in window pane and drinking glass water, has tried, for years now, to clean the killer from his skin. But there are things that can't be washed away with soap. Both parents stand beside him, with him, today. His chest hurts, and the wind blows in a way that pricks tears at his eyes. They would've loved to see a wedding.

. . . . .

"If only I were the same size as you," Historia says, her worried hands knotting together flower stems, "I could lend you one of my dresses or skirts."

Mikasa shakes her head. "There wouldn't be enough time to the city and back for them anyways," she comforts her. "And this is fine. Perfect, actually. Thank you, you two, for helping me."

Across the property and also newly washed from a bath, Mikasa sits upon a rock in the field of flowers with Sasha and Historia. With their limited resources, they decide to dress her in a nightgown, for no one's seen her in it but herself, and it's the closest thing they have. They cinch the waist with an ivory ribbon Historia had stowed away, the hem falling to her ankles, and the embroidery at the bodice delicate and neat. It's the purest of white, ethereal, and the sun filters through it the way it does the leaves, fabric but a whisper, a sigh in the afternoon light.

"All the same," Historia says, "I wish I could be more help. A wedding should be perfect. It is one of the biggest days of your life. I used to think about mine all the time when I was younger," Historia sighs wistfully as she lets a ladybug crawl across her index finger. The spots remind her vaguely of freckles. "I still do."

They gather asters, and bellflowers, marigolds, and daisies, and primroses—a bouquet for her hands and a wreath for Mikasa's head. And today should be a happier day, but there's something about breaking flowers at their stems that does the same to her heart. Mikasa avoids Sasha's questioning gaze. "Me too," she says as she adds an aster to her bunch. Mikasa wonders how many days will pass before they all wilt. "I used to think about my wedding when I was younger, too." She thinks about the flowers, she thinks about tomorrow, the mission, how broken bodies resemble fallen petals—and this is why she is getting married: because she loves him, because she can't do without him, because if tomorrow comes and goes taking one of them with it, they'll at least have had one another like this only if for a night.

"Your not happy?" Sasha whispers.

Mikasa shakes her head. "I'm the happiest I've ever been," she says. And it's the truth. She's never been this happy in her life. Never this happy, but also never this scared, never this hopeless. Perhaps that's all love is in the end: happiness amidst fear, happiness despite the ending world.

"You look beautiful," Historia and Sasha tell her as she stands before them, bouquet in her hands and flowers in her hair. They lead her back to the cabin and shut her up in one of the rooms, and tell her to wait here, despite her protests, while they prepare for the rest of the wedding. On the wall, a broken pane of mirror hangs, and in its frame a single shard of glass. She catches a glimpse of her appearance: the light white dress, the flowers in her hair. She raises a hand to brush a fallen petal from her shoulder just to see if her reflection does the same, because she feels half bride and half ghost, as if she's fading, evaporating into thin air. She imagines Historia and Sasha coming back to fetch her and finding the bouquet of flowers on the floor next to her white dress pooled upon the floor, flower crown above it.

You look beautiful. She searches her reflection, but she doesn't see it. All she sees is tomorrow, and the vacant spaces that come after.

. . . . .

They marry under a dying summer sun beneath the skeleton branches of the dead ash tree. Their few friends gathered round to bear witness, and Erwin at the head to officiate, Eren waits, beads of sweat trickling down the back of his neck and collecting at his underarms. He's getting married. And he always imagined it'd be to her, dreamt about a cottage surrounded by white linen and tiny sets of feet running and laughing in the yard. He dreams of growing old with her. He's getting married, and imagine it as he might, he never expected it to be quite like this—thrown together in an afternoon, in clothes that aren't even his—but they leave tomorrow for uncertain doom, uncertain ends. Children, a house of their own, growing old: there are some dreams meant only to occupy the space of fantasy. At least this is one part of that dream they can realize.

When Eren finally sees her, his heart stops. To the summer's cicada chorus, an owl adding its drowsing hooting, Mikasa processes down their makeshift aisle towards him, the orange light of the sunset filtering through her white dress. He feels a lump growing in his throat as she draws closer, and he can pick out every petal on every flower between her hands, around her head, and even if they had forever together, forever would be too short.

"Eren," she whispers when she reaches him, her thumb wiping the tear on his cheek. "Why are you crying?"

He takes her callused hand in his, and has not the heart to tell her how she reminds him too much of the flowers between her hands, and how flowers and dreams get trampled so easily on the battlefield. "You're beautiful," he whispers back. Absolutely beautiful.

Erwin goes through the ceremony, speaking with a practiced voice accustomed to listening ears. This voice isn't austere, isn't the one used to send swords skywards and horses whinnying into combat, but projected, and soft, meant to stir hearts with a different kind of battle cry. But that's about all that Eren registers. He hears not a word nor a phrase, because her hands are in his, and his thumb is rubbing circles over her knuckles, and why isn't the route to peace ever peaceful? Their children would be beautiful. Give them all her soft eyes and night sky hair, give them her gentle voice and dandelion lashes. Make them all their mother without a trace of him. The world deserves to be beautiful.

"Do the bride and groom wish to exchange a few words?" Erwin asks, arresting Eren from his thoughts. And so Eren and Mikasa draw close, forehead to forehead, speaking loud enough for just one another to hear:

"Mikasa," Eren says, his voice already on the verge of breaking. "I don't know how much time we have together. I don't know if all this ends tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that, but I want you to know...god, I need you to know that even if I had a thousand lifetimes each just like the last, I'd find you, and love you just the same." The tears from her eyes fall to his skin the same way rain falls to a desert.

The bridge of her nose slides against his, and he doesn't care that everyone else is watching them, he wants her close to him, his arms wrapped around her body and hers around his, and why was he ever ashamed of loving her?

"With you," Mikasa whispers back, "I'd travel to the ends of the earth and back again. To be by your side—that's all I've ever wanted." She holds on tight to him. "Please don't go where I can't follow."

And this world, in all its vastness and all its splendor, its oceans, and mountains, and deserts—how could he ever walk it alone?

"The rings," Erwin asks softly, and from behind Eren, Armin produces a copper band, but not before pulling Eren into a teary-eyed embrace; on the other side, Levi hands Mikasa hers with a squeeze on the shoulder and a nod of the head, his body going rigid when she throws her arms around him, eyes wide with the closest thing to panic that Eren's ever seen the man wear, before, amazingly, his expression and posture soften, surrender, and Levi returns the embrace. "Take care of him, Mikasa," Eren thinks he hears Levi say.

And when they slip the rings around each other's fingers, Eren remembers that night they first met, wrapping his scarf around her neck to stop the cold that came from inside. He remembers that day when they'd lost yet another piece of their family, and they thought they'd be next, the promise he'd made her so desperate and resolved—even back then, he may not have known the words, may not have even thought himself capable of love, but even back then he loved her. He has always loved her.

Erwin asks them if they take each other as lawfully wedded husband and wife.

They lock eyes. "I do," they both say. And they don't even wait for Erwin to speak before they kiss.

. . . . .

"It's not much," Amin says as he throws open the barn doors, "but we figured it'd be better than one of the cramped rooms at the cabin." Eren and Mikasa, attacked by the fingers, usher inside.

It looks as if someone's taken the time to sweep out the hay and ol animal feed, and dust the cobwebs from the rafters. A mattress, outfitted with blankets, sheets and pillows, lays in the center, propped up by some crates. Suddenly all the knowing looks, the snickering and the ambiguous teasing from dinner makes sense. Eren and Mikasa both blush.

"Goodnight, you guys," Armin says, "and congratulations." They thank him, and he takes his leave.

The barn seems so big for the two of them, and Mikasa's hand slips from his to wander over to the bed and sit. With a sigh, she removes her wreath, placing it in her lap.

They did it. They're married. And they didn't have to do it this way, would've stayed by one another's side, loved each other, with or without a ring, but they want this. They want this minute semblance of normalcy, to pretend they have the leisure of a domestic life, a peaceful life ahead. Where is the sin in that?

Eren wanders over to where she sits, tilting her chin up to kiss her, deep and wanting, and she returns in equal passion, their arms finding each other the same way ivy finds its anchor, the same way waves find the shore. They kiss with the intention of surrender, touch with the desire to burn. The flowers in her lap fall to the ground at their feet.

"It's strange, isn't it?" Mikasa murmurs as the tip of his nose trails along her jaw to kiss her behind the ear.

"Nothing we haven't done before," he says back, leaning down to sit beside her. His hands travel through the black depths of her hair. Years ago he'd told her to cut it because of training, because of hazard. When they settle down one day, perhaps she'll grow it out, let her hair cascade past her shoulders, her hips, billow out behind her like a swatch of the night sky.

"Yes, but this time everyone knows we're doing it." she giggles.

"Kind of takes away the thrill of secrecy, doesn't it?"

"Maybe so, but I'm sure we'll manage just fine."

His mouth finds hers again, and it feels so natural—kiss after kiss, sigh after sigh, her hands tugging at his shirt and his at her dress as they fall back into the sheets together...

. . . . .

With one last kiss, Eren rolls off of her, breathing labored. Together they lay in breathless silence, fingers laced together. And it's only when he turns in towards her to whisper he loves her that he sees the tears.

"What's wrong? What's wrong?" He showers her cheeks with kisses, tries to kiss away whatever it is that hurts.

"If tomorrow goes wrong..." She begins. And if it's not tomorrow, it's the day after, and the day after that, and they're much too young to be so afraid of dying—too young for the weight of their own mortality to be so heavy.

Perhaps in another lifetime they'll lose track of the summers and springs, won't count the days on their fingers and toes, and plant trees to watch them grow. If only he'd learned he loved her sooner. If only they had more time. Eren pulls her shaking body into his arms. "Then at least we have tonight."

They married under a summer sun, lying awake long after it set. And at least they have tonight. One night to keep each other, to lay bare bodies and naked hearts out on the bed. One night to share a lifetime, to love, and live, and grow old together beneath the light of the waning pale moon.