A/N: This entire story started out on a whim, a very random whim. I thought, what about a 'reincarnation' story? And then I realised, 'Everyone is doing that. It's like FF7 time travel stories. So unoriginal!'
So then I thought, 'What if Eren was the only one? And what if he remembered every single reincarnation?' and that's how this started.
Also, potential for manga spoilers. And I started this story before I read chapter 50, onwards. So, AU from that point onwards.
Thanks for reading!
C/N: Short. The next chapter is longer, and the one after that, even more. I hope to continue increasing the length.
The sky was grey.
Dreary and dim, clouds casting everything into a dull, slow sort of haze, the kind in which people feel a bit muffled and damp, and claustrophobia slowly begins to set in. Often a furtive glance is spared upwards. Wary, perhaps, of the very real potential of rain. Regret, maybe, that the washing on the line was still out. Or worry, even, that one may catch a cold without their umbrella.
This city was different.
Gazing down from the roof of a skyscraper, he pondered this.
'They don't look up. They don't seek to fly.'
And so he extends his hand and feels the wind.
He flies.
That day began as any other day.
That morning was like any other morning. He was asleep, his limbs sprawled across the bed, pillow tucked up in his arms, and the faintest sound of a snore escaping his mouth. Brown hair was messed and in tangles.
Since this morning started all other mornings, it continued as his usual mornings did.
His fists clenched into the fluffy head receptacle, teeth gritted, before a few low, snarled words escaped his lips.
"I'll… Kill them all!"
And then, he'd shoot up, breathing fast, eyes wide, his body soaked with sweat and an outstretched hand, grasping at something that was no longer there.
For a time, he'd just sit. Staring at something unseen with that wide eyed, searching look. He'd slowly relax to a haunted gaze, riddled with guilt and tainted with regret as he stared down at his hand. And then he'd go slack, as if someone had cut his strings, eyes glazing over, staring at nothing.
He'd take a few long, deep breaths. Wipe the sweat and clinging hair from his eyes.
And move.
One would call it mechanical.
Left foot. Right. Left. Right.
Over and over. Repeat. Repeat.
Walking through the empty hallway, past the vacant rooms and unused walls.
Into the bathroom, to gaze at the mirror blankly, before slinking to the right into the shower, with scalding water and cheap soap his only company.
He'd slide out of the shower, pale skin a heated red, back into the bedroom, and to the dresser. Give the clothes in the dresser a bored look.
Briefs, slacks, shirt, jacket, and tie. Always the same. The same colour, the same style, worn the same way.
He'd dress himself, swift and fluid, honed from countless years of practice, depositing his towel in the hamper as he left.
He'd head to the kitchen. It was clean, but sparse and uninviting.
Pour out some cereal. Some Milk. Take a spoon and bowl. Slowly eat without a thought. Then rinse the bowl and the spoon and set them on the rack to dry.
With a glance to the clock, he'd rise and head towards the front door, pausing at the mirror just beside it for a short moment.
Then he'd walk out, locking the door and leaving the small, empty house behind him.
