Disclaimer: I don't own SnK
"Explain." Rivaille's very irate voice sounded over the phone.
"Explain what?" Mikasa responded, trying to balance a load of laundry on her hip while pouring out detergent into the washing machine.
"What did you do to my house?"
"... Nothing?" She offered, putting down the bottle of detergent quickly.
"Then why is everything out of place?"
"I don't know what you're talking about,"
"You're the only other person who has the key to my house."
"Uhm, look, I'm busy right now, but I'll call you back later and you can complain some more to me about how a few chairs are a few millimetres out of place, OK?" Mikasa said quickly, before hanging up as fast as she could. She let out a great breath of relief and leaned against the washing machine, slowly pushing her clothes in and ignoring the insistent vibrations of her phone.
It was the 25th of December: Christmas, and her boyfriend's birthday. Unfortunately, he'd vehemently denied all her requests to go to any parties with him, which had cumulated into a massive fight with lots of things being thrown around (in her house) and lots of words being tossed out at each other (in his house). In the end, they'd decided she'd go to the parties herself, then go by his house at night to celebrate his birthday. He hadn't even wanted that simple celebration, but she'd forced it on him. After all, she was already giving in to him by not making him go to all those parties with her.
But maybe it was fortunate after all, she reflected, climbing onto the washing machine and pulling out a book to read. His abrasive attitude could be difficult to deal with (was definitely difficult to deal with); even Eren, her adopted brother and the most easy-going person she knew, had trouble talking to him.
So since she couldn't really spend time with him on his birthday (because he still insisted on going to work and she had to attend three different parties in one night and still make it over to his house) she figured she'd surprise him by hiding a few different gifts for him throughout his house. No one turned 25 twice in a lifetime, did they?
But in retrospect, this might not have been the best way to express that sentiment. Rivaille was a neat freak—he had a penchant of cleaning things up and liking things a certain way (which meant that things could be done in no other way to gain his approval). Whenever he came to her house, he'd start packing up wherever he could—stacking up the magazines in a certain order, or wiping down the coffee table and arranging the cushions in 'a civilised manner'. She might very well have been joking about him noticing the furniture was a few millimetres off their original placement, but she wouldn't be surprised if at the end of the night, he presented her with a list of which piece of furniture was out of place, and by how much. She'd tried to put everything back in their exact position, but it seemed like her estimations were a little off, and that he was going to find everything in very quick succession.
Her phone continued vibrating next to her on the machine as she tried to concentrate on her book, and it eventually fell off the surface and landed on the floor with a loud tack.
"Shit," she mumbled, clambering off the machine and picking it up. There weren't any cracks on the surface, at least, but there were 27 missed calls and several very irritated messages from him. She sighed, then climbed back onto the machine, sitting cross-legged like they did back in school, and scrolled through the messages. Most of then ran along the lines of "Why is my furniture out of place?" or, "Call me." or, "I would assume that your life isn't in any danger right now, but if you don't return my calls within the near future I assure you that it will be."
She unlocked her phone and sent a quick text about how she was busy and that she'd see him later that night, and set it back on the machine. It didn't look like she was going to be able to focus on her reading in the near future, so she put the book back down and wandered aimlessly around her house, tweaking things and poking them back into place, her phone limp in her hand. It was a relief when the washing machine finally whirred to a stop and she pulled out her clothes to hang up on the clothesline.
At six she left her house, and drove down to one of her ex-classmates' house. They hadn't seen each other in years, but a recent run-in at the grocery store, and a parting with many dropped hints on her ex-classmates' part that they should see each other more often, ensured that she was in attendance at her Christmas party that night. After all the promises she had made haphazardly, in an attempt to get away before her ice-cream melted, it would have seemed rude to ignore the invitation, or to not turn up at all. And so it was that at six thirty on the dot she arrived at Christine's house, wearing a simple black dress with a too-bright smile pasted on her face. She spent most of her time there in the shadows, counting down to a quarter past seven when she could finally make her excuses and leave.
At eight she was in a colleague's house, with a more genuine smile this time when she was greeted at the door by one of her more enthusiastic colleagues. She allowed herself to be led around the room, and to be introduced with other people she was supposedly working in the same building with (she didn't leave her office much, and didn't know anyone else who didn't work in the same office as her.) She took glasses of wine, and ate when she wasn't trapped making awkward and meaningless small talk with someone else. She left at nine fifteen with several new acquaintances and the hope that they wouldn't remember her the next time they saw each other at the lift lobby.
She got to Eren's house at ten when his party was in full-swing. The house was filled to the brim with people in various forms of festive clothing, dancing to very loud music and attempting to talk over it. She squeezed her way in amongst various throngs of people, nodding and smiling to some of her friends that Eren had introduced over the past few years. Unlike her more reserved self, he was extremely sociable and had no trouble connecting with other people, and had a vast reserve of friends which expanded every year. When she finally located him near the kitchen, her hair was already sticking to the back of her neck and the room was getting strangely hot for this time of the year.
"Hey," Eren shouted over the music. "I'm glad you could make it,"
"I told you I'd drop by, didn't I?"
Just then, someone called his name from the other side of the room, and Eren turned, waving enthusiastically, before turning back to her. "I've got to go talk to him; he owes me a favour and I want to call it in. Try to have fun here before leaving, okay? I think I saw Annie and Sasha around," he flashed her a quick smile, before disappearing off into the mob.
Mikasa sighed after him, then pushed her way to the back door of the house where the music was quieter and there were fewer people about. She checked her phone quickly, and the screen flashed to show that there were no new calls or messages, which surprised her. Rivaille was usually very vocal, and didn't hesitate to make his displeasure known even if she dodged his calls and messages.
"Ackerman,"
"Hi, Annie," Mikasa turned, with a wry smile on her face. Like herself, Annie didn't do very well with large groups of strangers, preferring instead a smaller gathering with people she actually knew.
"You got roped into coming here, too?"
"Well, adopted as I am, I'm still the sister," Mikasa sighed. "Did you get emotionally blackmailed into coming here, too?"
"No, I volunteered to come here," Annie snorted, looking completely disgruntled.
"Bertholdt here?"
"Yeah, he dragged me over; I lost him somewhere in the crowd back there. He'll call when he's ready. Rivaille didn't make it here with you?"
"He refused to make it here with me," Mikasa corrected. "Do you want some alcohol?"
"Yes, please. I think I saw Sasha guarding the wine; if you play nice with her maybe she'll give us extra rations,"
She spent the rest of the night near the wine with a few of her closer friends, occasionally glimpsing Eren and giving a smile and a wave to let him know that she hadn't done a bunk on him, and was still there. When midnight finally rolled around, she was more than ready to leave, but Eren held her back.
"Just stay for a while more," he told her with a winning smile, prompting her to stay back with her friends and texting Rivaille briefly that she'd be late. Her screen flashed minutes later with an unreadable "OK" and she put it back into her purse and tried to prevent her feet from cramping in her heels.
At one, the party was winding down, and people were making their slow way out of the house, with drunken calls of "Merry Christmas!" and "See you later!" hanging from their mouths. By the time Mikasa helped Eren kick the rest of the stragglers out of the house, it was half past one in the morning, and she was feeling less than charitable towards her brother.
"Thanks for helping me back there, sis," he grinned at her. "You sure you'll make it home ok?"
"I'm not going home—but I'll be fine," she smiled wearily at him, before getting into her car. "I'll see you next week, okay?"
As she climbed the stairs and rounded the corner to Rivaille's flat, she noticed that his lights were all off, cloaking his home in darkness. She belatedly wondered if he was asleep already; it was late, after all. But then again, he kept strangely irregular hours for someone so obsessed with routine and schedule, and expecting him to be awake at 2 in the morning—especially when he knew she was coming over—wasn't a very far-fetched thing to do, either.
She slid her key into the lock and let herself in quietly. He had this thing about burglars and thieves, and more than once she had almost been on the receiving end of a well-placed kick or punch when she'd let herself in uninvited without informing him beforehand. To her vague surprise, the living room was lit up, the warm orange glow fading into the shadows before her. It was little wonder that she hadn't been able to see the lights from the corridor; the room was blocked away by the kitchen.
"Rivaille?" She called, softly.
"In here," came the crisp answer, his tone unreadable. She couldn't figure out if he'd uncovered his gifts—it was more than likely that he had, given his sharp nature, but then again, he could also be rather stupid sometimes when he put his mind to it.
She made her way to the living room where he was slouched over in a small red armchair, a book in his hands. He continued poring over it as she walked in, studying him. He was wearing a forest green sweater over a crisp white shirt, over black dress pants. The small table next to his armchair was cloaked with a soft light from the lamp next to it, with a mug of tea sitting pretty on top of a coaster, next to a pile of gifts which she recognized as the ones she had hidden.
"Merry Christmas," he said softly, smiling at her, finally putting his book down on the table next to his tea.
"Happy Birthday," she agreed, walking over and giving him a peck on the cheek. "I see you moved everything back into order."
"Not really," he smirked up at her. "I think they look better the way you left them."