A/N: I became somewhat enamored with the idea of Mikasa with curled hair and a livelier personality, and then this story came about. I keep wondering what she'd be like if her parents had never been murdered. Maybe her curiosity for life and interest in things would seep out in the form of enthusiasm—although I do think she's just naturally inclined to being quiet and reserved by nature. Anyways, I kinda played around a bit with that, and took the liberty of painting her colors outside of the guidelines just to see where it would take me and this is what I got. There's a very endearing aspect to her strength and fragility, and I like fleshing her out because no time that I've ever written her has she been entirely the same.
This is certainly an AU, but I wouldn't say it's "modern". I wanted it to be either in the 50′s or 60′s, but I couldn't decide so I'll just let you guys choose for yourselves. Make it whatever time period you want, be it contemporary or whatever. Enjoy!
Note: Mrs. Ackerman is entirely OC and in no way resembles Mikasa's canon mom.
.: Drizzle :.
.: An EreMika Story :.
~For Daniela~
She's here.
She's actually here.
The wind's blowing her hair all directions, throwing it over her face, her eyes, ruffling her blouse and skirt, which she holds down with a shy paw, a tentative smile, a coy tenderness that radiates from her eyes. The baggage in her hand looks heavy, her heeled feet wobble slightly as she walks. She teeters a bit but then stands, straight, poised, elegant as usual.
She's here.
She's actually here.
"Hey, Armin."
Her voice seeps into his ears, foreign, familiar. Slithering like snakes on his skin, trailing down his back and chest and arms and covering him everywhere, everywhere. Everywhere.
It hurts.
"Mikasa! How was the trip?" Armin envelopes her in his arms, squeezing tightly, and the girl gives a small noise of surprise, patting him on the back, chuckling breathily into his unruly mane of flaxen hair.
"It was fine," she says as they pull apart. "I didn't get sea sick this time."
"Ah, that's great!"
"I guess," and she's tucking a raven tendril behind her ear, passing the tip of her tongue over the smooth redness of her lips, wobbling slightly as she takes a step back and looks at both of them.
And, to Eren, time seems to go eerily still.
The seagulls crow and scream over the dock, flying about as the wind blows and blows and blows; an endless replay of life around him and yet all he sees is how:
Her skirt ruffles some more.
Her blouse presses to her chest.
Her hair falls over her eyes and face and—
"Eren."
Dark, unlit eyes are on him. Black. Heavy. As wispy and calm as he remembers.
And they hurt. They hurt.
"Hi." He can't think of what else to say after that.
Neither can she.
They stand in silence, gazing at each other, at the ocean, at the bags she carries in her hand, at the flock of people around and at the ship that blows its massive horn, its great boom resonating through the vibrant blue of the cloud-less sky above them.
The seagull's cacophony is complemented by Armin's sudden squawk, "Ohh, man! It's so nice out today!"
"It is." Mikasa's smiling, but there's a tinge of sadness in her expression, some degree of fear present in her eyes. "I'd forgotten how windy it is here."
"Ah, yeah. Always." Armin reaches out his hands, prompting for her to hand over her belongings. "I'll take those, if you want!"
"Oh." She seems to think, to debate his capability to handle such luggage, but his beaming certainty elicits her surrender. "Thank you."
"No prob! Eren's driving us to your parents' house. We'll discuss everything about the wedding once we— Oof!" Her bags land in his hands and he grunts as their weight pull him down with such force he ends up wilting forward like a rag doll. Her belongings meet the ground with a solid thud and an exasperated groan from Armin. "Jesus, Mikasa. What'd you bring with you, bricks?"
She laughs, smoothing down her skirt and hair and blouse and everything Eren's struggling not to look at. "No. Just books."
"Of course," Armin groans, puffing his cheeks out like a blowfish. "Of course."
"Here, buddy." Eren reaches over and takes the load from him, fighting back a smile. "I'll take 'em."
"No, no, I can handle it," but his blue eyes nearly pop out of his face with gratitude once he relieves him of the burden. Eren tries not to grin at the way his best friend huffs and shrugs at his uneven breathing. His goal is not to show any emotion today. Remain ignorant, he tells himself. Go numb. Go stupid. Pretend she's not even here.
But he still catches the way Mikasa tenses up immediately, how her eyes linger on his face, glued on him and watching her belongings be carried off as he waltzes down the dock and over to the parking lot. He listens in on her quiet footsteps behind him, wallowing in every tap, tap, tap, tap of her heels. She's following with Armin by her side, who's busy rambling on about this and that and asking her questions—which she answers, concise as always.
"How's college?"
"Great."
"Any boyfriends?"
"Nothing special."
"A-ha, your mom's gonna bicker you about that."
"I know." A beat. "I guess I'll just have to lie to her, won't I?"
Armin cackles loudly at that, but Mikasa's humorless drone promptly follows. "I'm serious. You know how she gets."
Oh, yes, Eren thinks. Yes, I know exactly how she gets.
They reach Armin's chevy convertible soon enough and then Eren stuffs her baggage in the back, wondering why he even agreed to do this in the first place. He knows that seeing Mikasa again is a self-induced death sentence, but Armin's his best friend, and he's getting married, and the gigantic smile on his face when he'd pleaded "please? Pretty please? I'll let you borrow my chevy for three weeks!" had pushed him into a corner of retaliation. How could he say no? How could he bring himself to say, just tell one of your house slaves to do it or why can't her own parents pick her up? or she said she never wanted to see me again, Armin. She said she never wanted to see my fucking face. The answer to his own question is quite simple: Eren doesn't have the heart to disappoint his dearest friend. (He also doesn't have the heart to turn down three week's worth of owning a convertible chevy camaro either.)
He holds his breath because her bags smell just like her. Just like the past. Just like everything he doesn't want to be thinking about right now.
"And how have you been, Eren?"
A second. Two. It takes him three before he realizes she's talking to him.
Sighing, he closes his eyes.
Straightens.
Turns around.
Her eyes are on him. He hopes for the strength to meet them.
"I've been good," he musters, trying to sound sincere, not sure if he's actually accomplished anything.
Mikasa stands stiffly for a moment, nodding her head, running her fingers through her wind-tousled hair only to have it be tousled some more anyway.
"That's good," she breathes rather shakily, hands hoisted on her hips. She smiles at him. "I'm glad to hear that."
Eren thinks he feels a small piece of himself crack.
"Yup."
But only a small piece.
He whips right back around to pull the driver's side door open, gesturing for her to enter, saying nothing more. She complies, walking past him, bending her long legs to work herself onto the backseat and he darts his eyes away, holding his breath again, looking at some irrelevant point in space but still catching the way her skirt rides up her left thigh when she sits down by the corner of his eye.
"I'm so excited!" Armin shrieks, making his way around to sit on the passenger's seat. He's downright throbbing with joy as Eren takes his place beside him, passing him a pair of maroon-tinted shades, flipping his own pair over his eyes and turning around to grin extravagantly at Mikasa. "You excited?" he asks her.
Eren doesn't have to turn around to see that she nods.
"I'm so glad you're getting married," she tells their friend, shifting around a bit until she's comfortable between the two of them. She grips the side of Eren's seat to lean forward, and he's hyper-actively aware of her hand, of its precise movements, of how her fingers nearly brush the back of his neck. He tries not to pay her any mind, not to give in to the urge of swatting her hand away. "Especially to my best friend," she finishes saying, and Eren catches the smile on her lips by the peppy curve up at the end of the word 'friend'.
"I know. Annie's so excited to see you. God, there's so many people you have to see!" The engine revs, the eagles squawk, the endless flock of people gathers over the dock as they prepare to drive off to Mikasa's. The sun's so bright, and yet still no brighter than Armin's smile. "You happy to be the maid of honor?"
"Oh, yes!" She sounds just like a teenager again, just like everything Eren doesn't want her to sound like. Cheery. Content.
Beautiful.
Shut her off, her tells himself. Just shut her off your mind. Pretend she isn't even here right now.
"And you, Eren?" Armin turns his head to face him, permanent grin balling up his cheeks, glowing a faint hue of brown through the tinted lenses of Eren's sunglasses. "You happy to be the best man?"
Green eyes flicker up to the rear view mirror.
They find her, looking at him, waiting for his reply. Her hand's still there, right behind his neck, fingers nearly touching him.
"Ecstatic."
And he reaches up, turns the mirror away from her face.
—o—
The drive to her house is an arduous twenty minutes.
Armin talks the whole through.
About Annie. About love. About his job as a doctor. About the beach house he's looking in to buy. About everything. About anything. About his easy, wealthy, perfect life.
Mikasa's tiny chirps echo from behind him, a delicate melody consisting of "oh yeah?" and "really?" and "wow" and "that's so nice!". Pleasant, musical remarks meant to keep the conversation going without spending much effort on being too elaborate.
His best friend vibrates energetically beside him, overcome with such blissful jubilee that Eren wonders if happiness is a sickness that comes with the enamored man. Mikasa's voice is warm and loving, full of tenderness for her old friend—and in its absence, Eren finds his eyes flicking up to the rear view mirror a handful of times just to check on her, only to be reminded that he'd re-adjusted it to focus on the road that stretched out above her head and no longer on the girl whose presence he keeps struggling so pitifully to keep at bay.
Shut her off, he keeps telling himself. Pretend she's not even here right now. Pretend. Pretend. Pretend.
But time and time again, Eren catches himself failing.
"We're here."
The comment isn't necessary but he pronounces it all the same, causing two perked-up passengers to exclaim in their excitement. Her house is as tall and grand as he remembers. Three stories high, a monstrous porch, a view over-seeing the ocean, propped conveniently atop a giant hill. Basically the complete opposite of anything Eren's ever had, anything he'd ever even dream of owning.
He hears Mikasa gasping quietly behind him, her hands roving to her bags and already she's getting ready to take flight and fly over to her mother—who's waiting, waving, shouting out her daughter's name.
"Mikasa!"
"Mom!"
Eren thinks he feels another piece of himself crack a little.
"Oh, I've missed you!"
And then a little more.
As soon as the car settles on the driveway, Mikasa's bouncing up and down on her seat, fretting to run out and set free. Eren's careful to jump out and slide his seat forward quick enough that she doesn't contemplate other means of escape, but then he's forced reach out his hand to help her.
They touch.
For the briefest of moments.
She places her hand in his and he pulls her up, smooth, milky legs bursting out and landing on the gravel with one giddy hop. "Mommy!" and she's completely ignored what's just happened there.
Eren tries, too.
Ignore it, ignore it. Ignore, ignore, ignore.
But his hand itches where she'd touched him. An itch that can't be scratched.
There's the girly squeals of a daughter racing up a flight of steps to run into her mother's arms. They embrace, swaying from side to side, Mikasa's mom voicing imperceptible praises before pulling her back enough to pepper her face with ardent, messy kisses.
"Muah! Muah! Muah! Mmmmm-uah!"
"Ugh, Mom," she squirms, grasping her mother's frail wrists as she holds her face and smooches every inch of her.
Armin's laughing at the scene, galloping out of the chevy and up the steps, leaving Eren to stand behind on his own.
"No kisses for me?!"
And it's the wrong-ass question.
Mikasa's mother practically shoves her own daughter to the side before attacking Armin's face with his own share of sloppy kisses. There's giggling coming out of all three of them.
Eren can't help but laugh a little too.
"Haven't you noticed?" Armin asks her once she sets him free, anchoring her delicate hands atop his shoulders. "Eren's here."
"Eren?" Her expression goes blank, lips contorting as if his name left a sour taste in her mouth.
"Yeah," Armin smiles, jabbing a thumb in his direction. "Eren."
And then, slowly, her head turns.
And then, coolly, she looks at him.
"Oh." Her beady eyes squint down to slits, carefully groomed eyebrows raising to the top of her wan forehead and she croons, "Hello, Eren."
He waves. "Mrs. Ackerman."
"It's certainly been a long time since we've last seen you."
"Certainly."
And she smiles.
He does too.
Neither of them mean it.
"Well, c'mon! Let's go inside!" Armin shouts, beckoning for Eren to go into the house with them.
But the way Mikasa's mother stiffens at that… he sees it. Her lips curve into a smile and yet her brows come together in a frown. It's amazing. It's like she's smiling and scowling at the same time.
"Actually," he says, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. "I think just I'm gonna go head home."
"What?!" Armin's flabbergasted expression mirrors itself onto Mikasa's face. Her mother however, seems to smile a bit more genuinely now. "But why?!"
"I've got some things to take care of," and it's not necessarily the truth, but it's not necessarily a lie either.
"But…" Armin shakes his head, blinking as if he's got something in his eyes. "Agh, come on, Eren! Everyone's inside! We all want to see you!"
"I—" Damn it, Armin. Can't you see he's trying to escape? "Nah, man. That's okay. I should really get going."
"Stay with us, Eren." Mikasa's the one to squeak. Her voice yanks his eyes in her direction, cementing them to her face, holding them there for a dangerous amount of time. "It's been too long."
"I-I..."
Mrs. Ackerman's lips twitch with the urge to say something, but remain sealed. She pats her daughter's shoulders and combs her fingers through her hair, bouncing up a curl in the palm of her hand, looking at him through the corner of her eyes.
Waiting.
Eren's quiet for a moment, debating, dreading, cooking beneath the sun.
Armin's eyes are on him, gigantic, pleading.
Mikasa's are too.
Gigantic.
Pleading.
God, everything about her hurts.
She's holding her hands together over her lap, and he's suddenly aware of how her skirt reaches down above her knees, how her blouse hangs loosely on her shoulders, how her lips look a velvety shade of red even though she's scarcely wearing any makeup.
And maybe it's just the scorching heat, or the fact that he feels himself practically melting onto the driveway, but he finally pulls his sunglasses up over his head, sighing. "Fine. Thirty minutes."
"YES!" Armin's jumping on his heels, thrusting his fists up in the air triumphantly. "Whoo!"
"But no longer than that," he warns, trotting up the steps.
"Sounds fair." Mikasa smiles faintly, her voice a puny tweet below Armin's jubilant cheering. They each make their way to the front door, whence a maid goes out to fetch Mikasa's belongings and Eren swears he hears Mrs. Ackerman searing quietly—and yet loud enough for him to hear—as he walks through:
"Please."
—o—
He's aware of her presence.
The entire time.
More than what he would like to admit, if we're very honest. He sees her even when he's not looking, even when his eyes are trained on someone prettier, someone taller, some other buxom girl with better taste for clothes.
Her house is absolutely teeming with people, swimming about like fish in a pond. Usually, when Armin says people are gathered in one place, he just means that people are gathered in one place. But today, it seems, he's thrown a goddamn party.
For a long while, Mikasa's fluttering about, mingling with everyone, smiling softly but never really saying much at all. Eren knows this because he watches her no matter how many times he tries to look away. His eyes shoot over to her every few minutes, drawn to her like magnets, helpless, hopeless. Stuck to her. Stuck on her.
Stuck.
It takes him five minutes to realize she's cut her hair. It's shorter now, and it's not just because she's curled it. But it looks nice. It suits her. There's a tiny flower pin she's worked into her curls. He notices that too.
It takes him ten to see that she's gotten even prettier—inexplicably so. Her legs seem leaner, her shoulders even broader, that tiny little thing she's always had for a waist looks even smaller now, and her skin gives off a radiant sort of glow. Pure. Clean. Uncontaminated.
It takes him fifteen before he finally heaves a weary sigh, surrendering to the uncomfortable stares her mother keeps on giving him; like he's an intruder, unwelcome, a bug that's crawled into her home needing to be squashed. He decides to shorten his stay, to leave once the clock hits twenty. No later than that, he tells himself. No later than that.
But then the twenty minutes go by.
And Mikasa suddenly appears behind him.
"Hey." It's her voice.
Tentatively, Eren turns around.
He looks at her.
Something lurches in his chest.
He prays it's not his heart.
"What are you doing?" is the first thing that craps out of his mouth. He regrets himself immediately, biting down on his tongue, his cheeks catching fire over the way her cheery eyes seem to wince and her smile flinches right off her face.
"Talking to you," she replies nonchalantly though, regaining her usual composure, pulling a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her earrings shimmer slightly as she does this. Involuntarily, Eren catches himself staring.
And wow.
Just wow.
She really has cut her hair, she really has grown even prettier, she really does smell just like the past. Earthy yet sweet. Rich yet light. Spicy yet flowery. Jesus fuck. The girl's entirely impossible.
He blinks his gaze around, catching flickers of his surroundings, fearing that all eyes are on them but finding that none are.
Still, low and hushed, he chides her. "You know you shouldn't."
"Ah," she quips, revealing a row of snowy teeth. "It's so nice to see you too, Eren! Thank you for noticing that I've cut my hair. I know you always liked it shorter."
He purses his lips.
She smiles softly.
But then, embarrassed, her smile fades again.
"I've... Sorry."
"What are you trying to do, Mikasa?" Her name feels complex on his tongue, tangling it in knots, discombobulating his senses. But her answer is so simple.
"Nothing, Eren."
She says his name like it's the easiest thing in the world. Like it carries nothing, no meaning, like nothing's ever even happened between them at all.
All he can think to do is scoff. "Okay."
Then they're silent.
She's thinking.
He's thinking, too.
Time seems to go eerily still again—never in a good way.
Gradually, all the playfulness in her expression slips away. She flattens down her skirt, fixing her blouse, rolling the tiny diamond stud on her necklace along the chain a few times before pulling it up over her mouth and holding there with a sharp pout of her lips.
"I just wanted to talk to you." She's still pouting as she says this, which makes her look kinda cute, but Eren knows it's only a facade. He catches the somber drift in her voice, a hint that it's actually taking a lot out of her to say this.
It takes even more out of him not to state that there's nothing they need to be talking about. Because, hey, it's only the truth.
"About what?" but there he goes again, failing himself. He knows that it's in his best interest to flee, to get her off his side—but her smile's back, which makes the necklace drop back to her chest, which makes his eyes flitter down there, which makes him fret the fuck out.
It's like he's walking on wire, balancing his weight on one foot, the other extended out behind him and he's doing everything not to fall, not to give in to the blissful sight of her looking up at him, of her eyes glowing that impossibly dark hue.
"Nothing," she flaunts, taking the wire in her hands and shaking it vehemently. "I just missed talking about nothing with you."
"It's been two years," he tells her, even smirking a little, wobbling, feeling himself tip over, about to fall. "There's a lot to talk about."
And God, the way she suddenly perks up at that…
It's amazing.
"Then let's start with this: how are you?"
Eren rolls his eyes, but this only makes her smile brighter. "I'm fine."
"No, no. Really." And he knows he's utterly fucked. He's fallen—hit rock bottom by this point; splattered onto the ground in a broken, bloody mess. "I mean, truly, how are you?"
He looks at her, swallows dryly, drowning in the sound of her voice, in the plethora of candid answers that wash over him like a bucket of cold water thrown over his head.
Well, truly, he's quite bored. Sad. Lonely. Horny.
"Hungry." He settles for that.
"Oh, you are?" Suddenly, her hand lands on his forearm and his skin ignites, sparks shooting all across his system as she breathes, "Wait here. Don't go anywhere."
And then she's gone, just like that, lost in the throng of people, lost in the endless rooms of her childhood home. Eren doesn't have enough time to contemplate what's just happened because then, just as quickly, she appears with a small plate of food, something that looks like… wait. Hold on. Are those fries blue?
"What's that?"
"French fries," she peeps, offering him some. "I got 'em from Sasha."
Eren furrows his brows, staring at them. "But why are they… blue?"
"Some new potato that's been discovered. Eat them." She holds the plate out to him, picking up a fry and nibbling it with her pearly teeth. She chews, nods, beams, "They're shweet!"
A chuckle passes through him before he can think to stop it, and her cheeks turn a little pink. He's not sure if it's the makeup. He's not sure if it's just her blushing.
"Does she just, like, carry food around with her?" he says, which makes Mikasa giggle—a sound he's much too sensitive to hear. "Seriously, where does she get these?"
"I don't know," she shrugs, watching him bring a fry into his mouth. He hums approvingly, her eyes lingering on the vibrations in his throat.
"Well, they're good."
"Aren't they?"
"Blue french fries," he scoffs, which makes her laugh again.
"I know, right? Who would've thought?"
She's smiling so brilliantly, he's not even sorry for the way his eyes land heavily on her, watching her, trickling over her face, oozing their way down her slender body.
Her cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink.
This time, he knows for sure she's blushing.
Eren goes to open his mouth, to make some means of conversations—ask her how school is going, how her life is, if she's gotten to make any new friends—but suddenly, a figure takes form in the corner of his eye.
An instant is all it takes for him to know who's staring.
"Your mom's looking," he whispers, watching the way Mikasa's face goes stale, wiped clean of all emotion.
Except for a tinge of fear.
"Just ignore—"
"Mikasa!" Her mother's sudden belt makes them both jump. The girl turns around in a flash, opening her mouth to speak but her mother's quick to cut her off, beckoning for her to go to her. "Quickly, dear."
"Ah, yeah, just—"
"Quickly." She smiles, but her voice is stern. "Please."
Honestly, it's fucking amazing. She's smiling/scowling again, feigning an affectionate grin when Eren knows that deep inside she's seething, boiling in a pot full of her own venom.
"Gotta go," Mikasa murmurs, setting the plate on a small table beside them. "Keep 'em," she tells him, referring to the fries. "I brought them for you."
"Ah, I don't—"
They touch.
For the briefest of moments.
His words shrivel up in his mouth once her fingers brush his forearm again a second before she leaves, and her mother's watching him, watching her, watching everything.
Two seconds later, she's gone.
His skin burns where she'd touched him.
The smile she'd thrown him over her shoulder still stings.
The entire room explodes in a mirage of colors, vibrant flurries of life that palpitate and shimmer all around him, taunting him, crashing into his skull and reminding that he's gonna have to bear with this for two more weeks. Two more weeks until Armin gets married. Two more weeks until he's free to run away. Two more weeks of having to look at Mikasa, of having to be with her, of having to breathe her air.
God, he's fucked.
He's so fucking fucked and he knows it.
—o—
He goes home after thirty minutes.
Mrs. Ackerman is more than pleased with the fact that he kept his initial promise of staying not a second more. He tells himself he's pleased too.
He tells himself.
Once at home, Eren grabs a piece of paper, a pen, and sits down to make a list of all the different methods he can take to avoid Mikasa Ackerman until the wedding day—for his own mental/emotional health's sake.
He takes a deep breath.
Begins to write.
Things I can do to avoid Mikasa:
1.
But Armin telephones him before he can produce the first few words, his voice exploding out of the receiver the moment Eren picks up the call.
"I MISS YOU BUDDY!" he screams.
—o—
If you're wondering how someone like Eren Jaeger became such close friends with someone like Armin Arlert, well, it's kind of a funny story.
A wealthy kid befriending a lower class one is definitely not a common occurrence around here, but, to Armin, Eren was the absolute exception. The Arlert's family ties with the Ackerman's meant that Mikasa and him were imminent friends. From the very beginning, those two knew one another.
But how Eren ever came into the picture just sort of… happened.
Although he's always been poor, his Mom did everything in her power to provide him with the best education possible, and this meant attending school with stuck-up preteens who were stuffed up to their eyeballs with their parent's cash.
Eren hated school.
He especially hated bullies.
Poor Armin always had the misfortune of being deemed weaker than everyone else, but Eren figured it was simply because those jockey meat-heads were jealous of his smarts. He broke his front tooth once trying to defend him. Armin payed for the dental repair bills. They quickly became friends after that, despite their tremendous differences.
From then on, beating up his bullies became somewhat of a routine. It's not that Eren was necessarily even good at fighting (and his mom sure as hell wasn't pleased with her constant summons to the principal's office), but being friends with Armin meant having a friend at all. And that, to him, was special. That, to him, was literally worth fighting for.
But then, one day, an overwhelming flock of the meat-heads had ganged up on them both. Restless and helpless, Eren fought and fought until his vision went black and his body lost all feeling. He was numb and frayed and bleeding, and like a cornered animal he fought, he bit, he clawed.
It wasn't until everything was over that he noticed a girl with silky black hair rising to her feet like smoke wafting off the smoldering aftermath. Amazed, he realized she'd joined in too, given everyone the best beating out of the two of them.
Panting and sweating, and with not a single scratch on her marvelous face, the girl brushed her sweaty bangs to the sides and looked at him, smiled, stretched out a bruised hand.
"I'm Mikasa," she said. Armin was crying by her feet.
Falling in love with her just sort of happened too.
—o—
Things I can do to avoid Mikasa:
1. Avoid her.
—o—
The next few days are torture.
Rehearsal dinners. Parties. Figuring out where to find a tux.
Noticing more and more things about her.
Noticing her more and more.
He's noted that her hair falls exactly an inch below her jawline when it's natural and straight, that there's a glint that passes through it every time she turns her head, that her smile lingers on her mouth after she speaks for a few moments, like a plagiarized painting that's been plastered on her face. It never seems genuine unless she's talking to Annie, or Armin, or her mom.
Or him.
As the days go by, Mikasa contrives more and more ways to close in on him, lingering by his side, stealing his attention, laughing a nuance too loudly so that he's turning his head to glance her way. She's constantly loitering around him, slithering closer.
Closer.
He's going nuts.
Each time she does this, Eren clambers frantically for methods of escape (his previews listing having turned out quite unsuccessful), and riots to keeping himself ripped away from her. But the girl—always, the girl—she finds a way. She finds it.
He's a helpless victim, drawn pitifully to her traps. Her presence works like magic. He's talking to someone and then next thing he knows? Voilà! She's right there behind him.
And his heart—oh, his fucking heart—it's left bruises on him from how hard it's rammed against the walls of his chest, trying to burst out of him and run for its life. He's a mess, an ungodly mess, chipping away little by little as the days grow longer and the conversations duller and Mikasa merely flourishes and he feels himself breaking off in pieces.
She talks to him? There goes a piece.
She looks at him? There goes a piece.
She smiles? Oh, his chest.
She's gone for a while and he catches himself looking around to see if he can find her? His soul momentarily departs his body.
It takes him a whole damn week to muster up the courage to say hi to her, to stop pretending like she's not even there.
And the way she smiles at him.
The way she smiles at him. Every. Damn. Time.
She waves, says hello, puts her hand on his forearm, brushes her fingers on his skin, smiles and Eren feels himself chipping, his chest bruising, his heart crapping its fucking pants. The control she has over him is mortifying. A string of raven hair fallen over her face renders him speechless, the careful shape of her nails leave him in awe, the burgundy color of her lipstick, her unique, haunting smell, the mildness of her quiet voice and it's taking everything in him not to split wide open and bleed to death on the floor.
"Hello, Eren," she tells him one day as he's sharing a beer with Armin, already working on his second gulp when she comes up with this unrequited shit: "You look nice today. I really like your shirt—blue. The color suits you!
"It brings out your eyes."
You can bet your ass he choked.
God. It's like she doesn't even realize what she's doing to him.
—o—
Things I can do to avoid Mikasa:
1. Avoid her.
2. Cry.
—o—
One night, circa the beginning of week two, Eren finds himself staring at her.
This time, on purpose.
There's the usual carousal of their wealthy friends, drunk on love and booze and money. Armin's boasting about his promises in life with Annie listening attentively beside him, and there's such warm radiance spilling out of her, quiet murmurs that say more than any shouted words.
He's reminded once again of why she's so close to Mikasa—arguably, her only female friend. They're so much alike. So much. It makes him question why she's not there with her.
There's something vital missing that night. In the swarm of blondes and brunettes and plates carried about full of Sasha's blue potatoes, a particular mop of raven hair is nowhere to be seen.
Does anyone else notice?
Can't anyone else see?
Eren's out looking for her before he even realizes what he's doing. He doesn't care enough to reprimand himself. He doesn't even bother taking in a breath.
Because all air's suddenly sucked out of him the moment he finds her, standing in the balcony, staring out at the ocean and the stars, arms propped over the veranda, a fist pressed under her chin, her back to him and even from this angle Eren sees she's fucking gorgeous.
This is the part where he catches himself staring at her.
(On purpose.)
"Hey." It's his voice.
Tentatively, Mikasa turns around to face him.
His mouth goes dry.
His heart—and yes, this time, he fully admits the organ that corrodes him—gives a violent somersault, wanting to leap out of him and jump into her arms.
"Eren," she smiles dimly. Everything about her looks a bit… turned off.
"You okay?"
Another broken smile, then nothing more.
Her silence. It's daunting. It says more than any words.
Warily, carefully, he brings himself to stand beside her. The veranda's cold in his hands, cold on her forearms. The pallid moonlight illuminates her face, shadowing and highlighting her points and contours, the distant hissing of the ocean stretched out before them adding to the sparkly sheen of her eyes, like they hold the sea, and the stars reflect over the water.
Eventually, she answers, "I'm okay." But Eren frowns, knowing better. Still, too cowardly to prod for more, he settles.
"'Kay."
Then he's silent. She's silent. Neither of them know what to say.
There's so much that she could tell him, there's so much that he could tell her—so much that he wants to. And yet the words stay glued to their tongues, doubt hindering his fortitude, the fragility of each other's company crippling them both. Fear strangles him in a very odd sort of way. There's still that initial notion that he shouldn't be near her, but there's also an inexorable longing in his being that simply pulls him to her, like he can't function is he's too far away from her, like he can't function if he's too close. He maintains a safe distance, eyes straining to hold still, heart fluttering with nerves, stomach turning and flipping and he thinks he feels his hands shaking too. Standing quietly beside someone has never been such a strenuous task.
"I saw Sasha brought some more of those french fries," she says suddenly, snorting gently, turning her gaze his way.
"Ah." He darts his eyes away, realizing he'd been staring at the bare skin of her shoulder. "Yeah."
Mikasa snorts again, shaking her head, swiping her bangs away from her face. "She's funny."
"Yeah. She is."
She hums.
And that's it. They're back to where they started.
Silence.
Silence, silence, silence.
Eren heaves out a breath, the fluttering in his chest shifting to his lungs and eventually to all his organs. There's the hissing of the ocean, the hush of the wind, the stars dotted all above and the twinkling reflections in her dark eyes. Eren blinks a few times, looking at her, the jittery beating of his insides coiling at the tips of his fingers, wanting to reach out, touch her, feel if she's actually there.
"Anyway," he sighs awkwardly, pulling himself back to reality. "I think I should go back now."
"Wait." She reaches out—but doesn't touch him. "Can you stay? Please?"
"Wha..." Eren's mouth drifts open dumbly, unsure of what to do. "Uh..."
"You don't have to talk," she tells him, her voice a mere hair above a whisper, the crashing of the waves in the distance nearly swallowing it whole. "We can talk about nothing. I just don't want to be alone right now."
His lips press together into a thin line, senses wailing for him to run for his life but he—
"Okay."
He gives up fighting.
"Thank you."
"Sure."
And it's very simple. They don't talk any more after that.
He hears the muted laughter of everyone downstairs, cheering on God knows what, screaming and whooping with a few squeamish shrills that sound a lot like Historia being subjected to one of her girlfriend's bouts of drunken revelry where she lifts her off her feet and literally flings the poor girl over her shoulder to carry her around for no particular reason. There's more laughter and squeals and then the blondie's screaming, "Annie! Help me!" and Ymir's roaring, "No! You're mine!" and everybody's howling again.
Eren chuckles quietly, staring out at the sea, imagining the scene playing out downstairs in his head. But then he notices…
Mikasa's very quiet.
He turns his head to look at her, scrutinizing eyes disliking what they find. She's not laughing. She's not smiling. Her expression is frigid, frozen features carved from stone.
Suddenly, his hand itches, that pesky itch that can't be scratched. It wants to reach out, feel her, shake her from her trance. He sees it again: that tinge of sadness in her face, the glum presence of some sort of fear. Her eyes are clouded with worry, a cumbersome brooding of her mind, an aimless wandering. It's like she's not even here right now.
What's wrong with her?
He stares at the whiteness of her hands, at the lankiness of her fingers, at the arms that look meager but he knows are even stronger than his. A fascinating display of contradictions, a perfect presentation of everything he's ever loved in his life. She's still fascinating, she's still bright, but in her darkened silence Eren can't help but wonder:
What is she thinking?
What are her thoughts?
Tell me, Mikasa, where are you?
—o—
He's ripped the list to shreds now. Twice.
He did manage to accomplish one of the two methods he'd written down, though.
Guess which one.
—o—
Flash forward a few days, and it's finally the wedding day.
Eren wears a burrowed tux.
Mikasa wears a pink dress. Satin. The silky fabric wrapped all snug around her frame. Neckline dipping low in between her breasts. Thin spaghetti straps clinging to her shoulders. A large flower adorned in her hair. No necklace, no rings, no earrings. Just simple, perfect, radiant her. She looks absolutely stunning.
Eren thinks he's going to cry (again).
Two beers and a shot of some questionable liquid are enough to fend the tears away, but not enough to wipe her off his mind completely. If anything, the images of her merely worsen, her presence screaming with lights and colors like an endless beacon of feeling that never shuts off, that never stops; she never stops haunting him.
He can't help but replay the balcony scene over and over again in his mind, obsessing over every tiny detail, driving himself mad. How the moonlight had bathed her face, how the wind had kissed their skins and clothes and hair and how her fingers kept fiddling and twitching, fretting over something unknown. They'd "talked about nothing", stood in silence for a few minutes until she'd finally released a long sigh, turned to him, smiled—that cracked, turned off smile—and told him it was time to go back before the others started worrying. Eren had agreed.
They haven't talked since.
The wedding day goes by smoothly enough—it's mostly all just a big blur to him, really. There's drink, food, people, Armin's family attacking his face with smooches (seriously, what is it with rich people and kissing people's faces?) until he's sure Mrs. Arlert's left permanent lipstick stains on his skin. His best friend's cackling like crazy, watching him wipe the red paint off his face, pointing it out to everyone and laughing. Laughing. The guy's so overcome with happiness, it's insane.
For a while, Eren thinks he's even enjoying himself, despite the fact that Mikasa hasn't talked to him in days. She keeps glancing his way though, but as soon as his eyes meet hers, she blinks hers away and goes on about her business like nothing, pretending he doesn't even exist.
Honestly? It pisses him off.
And the fact that it pisses him off only pisses him off more.
Some minutes into the wedding, she diligently waltzes right past him, engrossed in conversation, slapping him across the face with her spicy yet light yet rich yet earthy yet flowery yet oh my god someone choke me now please scent. Her dress hangs down all the way to her ankles in a cascade of rosy frills, swaying to and fro as she moves, splaying open like damn curtains drawn back to reveal the sinful view of her bare legs gliding underneath her as she walks.
He can't help it. He peers at her over his shoulder once she's a few feet behind, scrutinizing her with his eyes.
The dress is backless.
Fuck.
Eren takes another shot, then another, until soon there's a comforting buzz through his system and he feels the liquid warmth coursing through his body. An extra shot later, and his eyes blink a little slower, his head feels too heavy for his neck, his thoughts float about aimlessly in his cranium like helium inside a balloon, filling him, but not really doing much else.
Ah, yes, he thinks. Thank you God. Finally.
He's tipsy.
Armin's long past the tipsy point though, high off love's ecstasy and fucking screaming at the tops of his lungs that his wife is on her way. Before Eren even knows it, the wedding ceremony's about to begin.
He traipses his way over to the entrance, thankful to be only half-sober when he's forced to slink through the line of bridesmaids and groomsmen to stand in front, next to Mikasa, and wait for her to slip her arm through his.
"Hello," she whispers to him, hooking their arms together. Her breath smells sweet. Like honey.
Groggily, Eren blinks, looks down at her, acknowledges her presence with a nod.
"Are you…" she gawks at him for a moment, furrowing her pretty little brows. "Are you drunk?"
"Aha," he smirks, even snickers a little. "Yep."
There's a moment of startled silence. She gapes at him, shocked.
Aaaaaaaand he really has to pee right now.
"Oh. I see." Eren barely processes her voice, focusing on the aisle stretched out before them, wanting to get everything over with so he can go take a piss. He scolds himself though. That's not an appropriate thought to have about your best friend's wedding.
A few uncomfortable moments pass in utter silence, so he pops his jaw, rolls his shoulders, closes his eyes and turns his head to the sides to crack his neck and he knows, he knows Mikasa's staring at him the entire time. She's motionless beside him, completely still. He can't even hear her breathing anymore.
Suddenly, her arm gives his a tug, telling him it's time to move.
His eyes flicker over to her.
She's staring straight forward, serious, not a trace of emotion on her face. God, she looks so scary like that. Has anyone ever told her she has the resting-bitch-face? Where she looks like she's angry even when she's—
She tugs again.
Oh. Right. Walking.
One foot after the other, Eren starts to move, feeling her arm through the barrier of his clothes, attempting to ignore her presence beside him and finding it as possible to accomplish as if someone were shouting at him through a megaphone "DON'T LOOK AT HER DON'T LOOK AT HER DON'T LOOK AT HER!"
Obviously, he's gonna want to look.
And he does. Many times. Nearly tripping on his own two feet because of it.
The arduous march down the aisle is a giant blur too, since he just keeps thinking of how bad he wants another shot, how nice Mikasa smells, how everyone keeps smiling at him—or her, he doesn't really know—and how brightly Armin's beaming at the two of them and how her hair's curled so neatly and beautifully like there's not even one strand that's out of place and whoa her tits look really nice in that dress, holy shit.
No, Eren. Stop it. Don't look at that. Just think of how bad you have to pee. Yeah. Do that. Focus on your bladder.
(God, this day is terrible.)
Honestly, they don't reach the altar soon enough. But when they do, Eren releases Mikasa's arms as if it were on fire. She shoots him a questioning glance. He pretends not to notice it.
He takes his place near the Armin, bumping their fists together when the blonde turns around to give him a humongous grin. The rest of the bridesmaids/groomsmen waltz in, and then it's the ring bearer and the flower girl and then, finally, what everyone's been waiting for.
Annie
She looks like a majestic fucking swan, floating down the aisle with such ethereal grace that Armin's wiping away a few awe-struck tears from the corner of his eyes.
"That's my wife," he whispers over to Eren, crying.
He can't help but laugh at his best friend. "Yeah, it is, buddy."
Annie takes her place before him, and then the wedding ceremony begins (HALLELUJAH! screams his bladder). It's mostly just mindless talking, as far as Eren is concerned. He folds his hands over his front, staring at the back of Armin's head, at the ceiling, at Mik—
Nope. Nope. Don't look at her. No.
Bladder. Bladder. Think of your bladder!
They start saying vows, Eren silently thanks God. The sooner the wedding's over, the sooner he can get away from Mikasa. He slides his hands into his pockets, sighing, when suddenly he feels something…
Sharp.
Prickly?
Smooth.
He frowns.
Paper?
His fingertips run along the mysterious item's surface, feeling it. It's crumpley—no. Wait. No it's not. It's folded. It's… neatly folded. Shit, fuck, hold on…
He probably looks like such an ass, squinting his eyes into the distance, scrunching his brows together in concentration, trying to gauge what the fuck is in his pocket but his brain cells are swimming in vodka and rum and some other shit he's doused his liver with that he's not even remotely aware of what it—
It's a note!
There's a note in his pocket!
He fishes it out and holds it up against his thigh, unfolding it with his fingers and boring his eyes through the text written on it. He has to read the message twice before his brain fully processes it.
Meet me in the gazebo at seven thirty. Sharp.
He gasps, and judging by the way his eyes feel like they nearly bounced right out of his head, he supposes all of his features look like they're gasping. He knows that handwriting. He knows that handwriting!
It's her.
HER.
MIKASA FUCKING ACKERMAN.
MIKASA FUCKING ACKERMAN WANTS TO FUCKING SEE HIM!
(Cue the loud internal screaming.)
(He suddenly doesn't have to pee anymore.)
(And no, it's not what you're thinking. He doesn't actually pee himself.)
(Only metaphorically, yes.)
His eyes bounce up to look at her. She's already staring. He gapes at her. She looks away. There's nothing. Nothing. No expression in her face.
After a beat, Eren closes his stupid mouth, realizing what's just happened, shoving the note back in his pocket and feeling all the alcohol in his system rushing to his head, pooling on his cheeks and he knows for sure he's blushing.
Remember how his heart had lurched, somersaulted, rammed, whatnot? Well, now he feels it do all of the above. All at once.
It makes him very dizzy.
—o—
It's seven thirty. Sharp.
And now, of course, he's on his way to see her.
The vodka/rum/whatever else have left his body—whether from the shock of it all or because he finally relieved himself, he doesn't know. Either way, he's completely sober once the time comes to trudge over to the gazebo, and she picked the perfect time for this… meeting or whatever. The whole backside of the venue is empty, save for a few drunken guests blubbering about. Everyone else is busy dancing to some headache-inducing jazz back inside. Truly, honestly, she picked the perfect time.
His heart beats crazily, overcome with nerves and fear and excitement. He can't possibly fathom what Mikasa might want. He can't possibly fathom why he even wills himself to see her—why? Really. Why is he even going to the gazebo right now? Just about every fiber in his being is wailing for him not to, not to see her, not to talk to her, not to suffocate in her air.
But he's so hopeless, he's so weak. He can't resist her.
His mind wanders, venturing to how she looks today. Her hair, her dress, her heels. So flawless, she's so flawless, everything about her hurts so much.
Now he'll get to see her up close.
Now he'll really get to talk to her.
His feet walk the trail path to his destination, the gazebo being hidden wittily under a fucking wonderland of flowers, an entirely unnecessary garden of roses and hydrangeas and whatever the heck—just a big monstrous assembly that makes him thankful he's not allergic to pollen because this place would sure as shit be the death of him.
He's close enough now to the place that he smells the roses, the hydrangeas, the girl. Just around the curve, he'll see Mikasa. The gazebo is right there, right there around the corner and he can almost see—
"Mom."
He stops. Frozen on his feet. Nearly tipping forward from coming to such a sudden halt.
He clutches his chest to keep his heart from dropping to the pit of his stomach because he knows it's her, it's her, there's no fucking denying it.
Mikasa's voice is soft, shaky. There's a tremor in her tone and he can't understand it.
"He's slime."
Oh, shit.
And that's her mother. Her mother's voice, her mother, her fucking mother's voice—there is no denying it!
His heartbeat shoots up to his ears, thumping, thumping, thumping and he's nearly blinded. He closes his eyes and blows out the breath he's been holding, turning to hide behind a bush, feeling his insides whirl with panic and adrenaline and something very close to fear. His heart's so loud it's nearly deafening, but he still hears them well.
"Mom, please."
"No!"
Oh my God.
Are they arguing? They're arguing. They are so fucking arguing.
"Stay away from him. How many times do I have to tell you that!?"
Oh my God.
Him.
They're arguing about him.
"Can't you see he's getting in your way? I keep telling you but you don't listen! For the love of God, Mikasa."
Eren thinks he's going to faint.
Yup.
Definitely arguing about him.
"Mom…"
"I knew he'd try to talk to you. I knew it. I knew he'd try to mess with your head."
"He hasn't done anything."
Eren's brows raise, eardrums still thumping along with his heart, a flicker of hope blooming in his chest.
She's defending him.
Mikasa's defending him!
"Oh, don't even try to defend him."
"I'm not. It's the truth, Mom. He hasn't done anything wrong—it's me! Me. I'm the one who's going after him."
Oh my fucking god ohmyfuckinggodohmyfiuckinggod—
"I should hit you."
"Go ahead."
OHMYFUCKINGGODOHMYYFUCKINGOHMYFUCKING—!
"I don't deserve this."
"And neither do I."
"He's ruining your life."
"He is not!"
"Do you know how embarrassing it is for me? When you're sneaking around behind my back—when you're still sneaking around behind my back to see him?"
She doesn't answer her.
Eren thinks he's going to be sick.
Jesus Christ, please, let this be a dream. He doesn't know what to do. What should he do?
Should he run?
Should he approach them?
Should he pop out of the bushes and wail at the top of his lungs or something?
Mikasa's voice is a catty squeal, squashed under her mother's worsening, thunderous booms.
"I'm not a little girl anymore. I can—"
"No. Stay away from him! I'm not telling you again. I don't want you talking to people like him."
People like him?
People like him?
Eren feels his fists clenching, anger bubbling up inside him and he knows that he should flee but his stubbornness holds him in place, it makes him listen. He tortures himself with more.
"People like what?"
"Poor. Filthy. Disgusting. People who need to scrape by because they're too lazy to make a decent living."
Poor.
Filthy.
Disgusting.
Each word a different dagger drawn into his heart.
"He's not lazy."
"You think we don't all know what his mother used to do to support him?"
His mother?
What the hell is she saying?
"Mom. Please."
He holds his breath, the same way one would when expecting a lethal blow.
"She was a whore."
A fatality.
"A whore."
Slowly, Eren closes his eyes.
Takes a deep breath.
Relaxes his muscles.
He doesn't hear Mikasa, or her mom, or anything. He just feels.
Eren feels his blood boiling.
"What is wrong with you?" Mikasa's voice is brittle. It sounds like she's crying. Her mom's insensitive tone promptly explodes:
"You are dirt! Dirt! Both of you! I didn't raise you to swoon over a prostitute's rat!"
That's it.
He's going to wring her fucking neck.
His body darts into motion before he even knows it, tromping, carrying him forward and he can't see anything, only red, only anger and fire and his mom's precious face, her tender smiles and the calluses and blisters on her bony hands from working too hard to raise him right and the long nights she stayed up doing homework with him only to work all day the next morning, never dating anyone because she didn't have the time and because you're the only man in my life, Eren, you're the only one I need and then this dumb fucking bitch is calling her a goddamn—
"Eren?"
His emotions are all clumped into a knot in his throat. He chokes on them.
Mikasa's eyes are red and moist with tears, looking at him.
Gigantic.
Pleading.
He breaks.
Her dumb cow of a mother's staring straight at him with her empty holes for eyes, devoid of all feeling and so cruel he wonders how someone like Mikasa could ever come out of a person as vile as her.
He opens his mouth to speak—fuck you, you're horrible, you'll never be even half the woman your own daughter is—but something stronger than anything he's about to say strangles him.
Shame.
Shame.
It throttles his throat.
Humiliated, Eren swivels around in his heels, stomping off the scene and punching a hydrangea so hard on his way out of the garden that if the poor thing were literally alive it would've shed all of its petals with a wheezing cough and died.
He's practically flying through the venue to make his way out to the parking lot. His legs take as long a strides as they possibly can and yet he can't move fast enough. He needs to run, he needs to run—now, truly, he is fleeing for his life, getting as far away from Mikasa as possible.
He's so blind with rage he crashes into something, nearly stumbling on his feet before he realizes it's Armin.
"Eren!" He holds him by the forearms, looking up at him with those giant, pleading eyes. "Hey, are you alright?"
"I'm sorry, Armin." He slithers out of his grasp, trying to walk past him.
"Hey, wait!" His friend grabs him again, blue orbs shrinking with concern. "Where are you going?"
"I just— I-I can't"
"What's wrong? What happened?!"
"I'll drop your car off at your house," he raps, doing everything in his power not to meet his worried face. "I can't do this."
"Wait!" His heart hurts as he leaves him. "Eren!"
The music grows steadily quieter behind him, Armin's shout dissolving into the air until all he hears are his shoes over the gravel, the crunching of the pebbles beneath his steps, his thoughts whirring and provoking him: idiot, idiot, idiot. Eren, you big fucking fool. What were you expecting? What more do you want? Idiot. Idiot. Always hoping for too much and then you wonder why they break your heart.
IDIOT!
It takes him five minutes to reach the chevy, open up the door and make his way inside. Thankfully, he left the top on, so he's hidden when he has to wipe away a few pathetic, angry tears. He doesn't even bother buckling his seat belt, he's jabbing the key into the ignition and turning it to rev up the engine, setting the car in reverse when…
"Drive."
He turns his head to find Mikasa.
Mikasa.
She slinks onto the passenger's seat, throwing the door shut, an undeniable hunch lading her shoulders and Eren has to blink a couple of times to realize that it's really her.
He shakes his head, flabbergasted.
"What are you—?"
"Drive," she spits, closing her eyes, clenching her fists. She looks like she's about to punch something—the car, him, anything. Through her teeth, she grits, "Just drive."
Eren gapes at her. He's so confused, so startled, and yet his arms and feet move under her command. It's like he's watching his own body as an outsider, helplessly complying to her orders, pulling out of the driveway and then next thing he knows, they're already on the street.
His reality hits him piece by piece, coming together gradually like a puzzle. It takes him a while to process that Mikasa's right next to him, and he's so direly torn between driving on forever so that she can never escape and just throwing her door open and kicking her out onto the street so that he never has to see her again. He knows he should be angry at her—he wants to be angry at her.
But she's crying.
He hears her.
Her whimpers and snivels puncture right through his ears and immobilize him. He's not even sure he's breathing anymore, her pain affects him that much. Seeing Mikasa cry is just so weird—he's never known what to do when she gets like this, especially when it's regarding her mother. And it's always regarding her mother.
They're already coasting through the mountains before he musters up the strength to talk.
"Where should we go?"
"Anywhere."
His knuckles bleed white from how hard he grips the steering wheel. Hesitantly, he bolts his eyes in her direction, only to look away just as quickly, barely catching sight of her at all. Just the feeling of her being there beside him makes him unnaturally car sick.
All his previous anger leaves him in one big sigh. "Mikasa…"
"Please," he hears her choke, and his eyes drift over to her again, seeing tears rolling unremittingly down her face. She looks so vulnerable, so small. Part of him just fucking tears. "Take me away from here. Take me far, far away."
Over her lap, her hands are shaking, and he sees that the skin below her knees have been scraped raw, like she's fallen on them. His heart sinks in his chest, crumbling entirely once he notices the hand print on her cheek, red and ugly, her mother's lanky fingers painted across her face. He balks, thinks he's going to start crying with her. A million different thoughts are pounding in his brain, a million different questions fighting to be heard, but he chooses not to voice them, he keeps them in his mouth. Eren doesn't do anything, for there's nothing he can really do.
He drives.
Just drives.
And feels himself shatter.
—o—
Things I can do to avoid Mikasa:
1. Avoid her.
2. Cry.
3. You don't.
You just don't.
A/N: Please leave a review if you would be so kind. It's pretty much the only profit I get from writing fanfics so share your thoughts!
