Disclaimer: Own Attack On Titan, do not I.
It is everywhere. Syrupy. Warm. Wet.
The grass is covered it. No blade is spared from the onslaught. Green dyes red.
It splays along the buildings. Crimson against wood and stone. High impact splatter.
We never had a chance.
He stands above. One leg is nearly limp, but his condition is unknown to him. His mouth rushes. Spits. Urges. Begs. No sounds tumble or rip from his throat. The world buzzes with silent. Crickets hum their tune in memory. The song of summer plays in the deafness. Usually so cool and calm, panic commands his eyes. Wide with fear. Glistening with loss. He lunges forward. Arm out. Hand extended.
The scene is from the past; only before I was in the man's stead, reaching for another. Yes, the situation was quite similar. I saved one precious to me. Now, I would be rescued by a man who holds me dear. And just like the past, we would live to fight another day. We could be together for yet another moment longer.
Skin touches skin. Calloused palm against calloused palm. Fingers interlocking. Hand in hand. A death grip. Just as they should be.
Movement comes from the corner of my eye. A muscled being moves quick when tempted by rage and loss. The tan and pink blur rushes past. She should have been dead. A name dances on the tip of my tongue but is swallowed- lost to the horror before me.
He's gone; his hand is still in mine. It is warm. It is wet and sticky. There's blood everywhere.
And he's gone.
Dead.
Just like that.
Eren flung forward. Eyes encrusted and burning with with salty tears and discharge, he gasped. Air refused to remain in his lungs; the tissue sacks inflated and deflated without consistent intervals or a care. In response, oxygen was the lone thing he craved. "Oh God," he heaved. Clear snot dripped from a nostril, spit and drool dribbled down his chin and onto his t-shirt, and a thick layer of sweat covered his face with a greasy residue. Worst of all, the tears wouldn't stop coming. The betrayal of bodily function continued with a trembling sob.
A knock rang from the door. The sound was light, hesitant. "Eren, Sweetie, are you alright? I thought I heard a shout," his mother called from outside the room. Her voice was ethereal and sweet like maple syrup and candied apples crafted by an angle's loving touch.
A sideways glance at his alarm clock told his the whole story. Six-thirty had just passed. He should have been up at least fifteen minutes ago. "Damn it." A large gulp of air was inhaled. With his lungs extended as far as they would allow, he held the breath for twenty seconds before hissing it out between clenched teeth. The technique (normally used to slay hiccups) worked well enough to steady his breathing. When he said, "I'm fine, Mom," his voice only came out a tad strained. As he continued with, "just slept in a bit; I'll be down in a minute," there was no variation from how he normally sounded. What a surprise.
When he heard her footsteps retreating, his wiped his face with his t-shirt. Almost automatically, regret sunk to the bottom of his stomach. "I'm going to be scolded," he sighed, staring at the stained cloth. Wait, what? Scolded? By who? Eren did his own laundry; he had been since he entered middle school. No one would know about the snot infested clothing but himself. Again, a sigh came from him. "It's going to be one of those days."
Kicking the blankets off his legs, he stumbled out of bed.
The bedroom wasn't too large, but from the carpet to the ceiling, the room said "Eren." No part of the walls were visible. Each and every inch was covered in some sort of poster: images of the constellations, star maps, Gundam posters, images of the aurora borealis as viewed parallel with earth, images of the aurora borealis as viewed from earth, the planets, the different types of galaxies, photos Eren had deemed bad ass enough to post, and more. Not even his ceiling had been spared from his nerdy wrath. Gundam model kits and planet models made of Styrofoam and spray paint hung suspended in midair from floss-like string, and a poster of Saturn with its moon Titan was stuck right over his bed.
Shoved into a corner of the room, between his dresser and the wall, laid a telescope from his childhood. The device hadn't been used in years now (not since Eren learned that E University allowed the public to use their observatory every clear Thursday night), but the plastic still shined with polish and care nonetheless. Next to the telescope, a camera snuggled into its case, equally as cherished as the device it neighbored. The only difference between the two was the digital camera was still used more often than not.
Little tubes of paint littered the carpet like ticking landmines. At least once a week, one of the tubes was crushed beneath a misplaced step, and colorful blood squirted out in every which way. Despite steam cleaning the carpets twice a month, the once white flooring looked more like a Jackson Pollock painting than anything else.
Yup, his room most definitely screamed, "Eren."
Eren changed into a thin hunter green v-neck sweater, white skinny jeans, and brown combat boots. He had a slight debate over pulling on his army styled jacket, but it wasn't that cold. Yet. His interesting fashion choice would certainly earn him a few extra long stares. The insult "military hipster" had been shot at him more than once. However, after seventeen years of gawking and confused smiles, he'd gotten mostly use to it.
By the time he was finished getting ready, the remainders of his dream had all but vanished, lost to a sea of consciousness. But something, some lingering feeling, forced him to focus on his hand. The lightly tanned skin was stained by paint specks of blue, white, and grey. Ink wormed its way under his nails. But, the flesh itself was soft, feathery to the touch as though he hadn't worked a hard day in his life. The sensation of labored hands engulfing his own waved over him. His stomach rolled.
"Eren, breakfast's ready," his mother called from downstairs. With that, the unnatural feeling was gone. Hunger grew in its stead with a whiny moan.
He snatched his camera and rushed down without a second thought. He saw the look his mother gave him and grinned. "It feels like a good day to take it with me," he said, lifting the camera as some sort of explanation. He snapped a hasty picture of her; the flash filled the kitchen with blinding light.
"Knock it off," she admonished with a gentle laugh. "Hurry and eat. Armin's waiting for you."
At her urging, a pile of scrambled eggs were wolfed down without being tasted, and icy cold orange juice followed soon after. Stomach ache be damned, he had to move quick. Eren shoved his dishes into the waiting sink. Soapy water sloshed out in protest without him noticing. Locating his backpack took a moment (somehow it managed to hide behind the couch), but once the bag was in place, he ran out of the house, yelling his goodbyes behind him.
Outside on the sidewalk stood Armin. The teen was a year older than Eren, making him a high school senior. Despite this, it was difficult to tell that he was the elder. Armin was shorter than Eren by three inches with a slight built. This didn't stop him from having a round face with a pudgy nose and wide, innocent eyes. Normally, blond hair framed the teen's face, but after being called He-Man and Coconut Head one too many times, his sunny locks were captured into a loose pony tail. Somehow, the feminine style came out with less insults.
"Morning, Eren." Armin's greetings were always delivered with a shy half-smile.
"'Sup," he responded, popping the 'p' like bubble gum. Eren's greetings were delivered half-assed. Always.
Armin rolled his eyes and gave Eren a one over. "What," he sighed, shaking his head with mock shame, "are you wearing?"
"Hush up. You know I rock white better than anyone else."
"Sure you do," Armin chuckled. Thus their morning routine began and ended: they greeted each other, Armin gave Eren crap for his outfit, and they both got a little laugh out of it. After twelve years of friendship, it was a miracle they still manage to find the exchange amusing. He clicked his tongue. "So, I'm guessing there's photography club today?"
Photography club was one of the two clubs they belonged to, the other being astronomy club. Eren was the proud president of both clubs, and why shouldn't he be? They were his babies, his creations! In eighth grade, he had come to the decision that high school severely lacked any strong clubs that nourished artistic and scientific curiosity. When he went about trying to make the clubs reality, he soon discovered that one actually had to be a high school student to be a member of any clubs.
So, he waited a year. Then operation "Make School Awesome" was in full steam. Eren worked his ass off going from teacher to teacher, searching high and low for someone to be the clubs' advisers. He created countless of fliers with intricate and beautiful designs, encouraging others to join his merry clubs' activities. After months of struggle and dedication he finally had the end result: Armin and him would be the only two members of the school's best and most secretive of clubs. Sure, they didn't get their pictures in the yearbook or whatever, but somehow, it made going to the observatory every week a little more exciting.
Eren grinned. "Come on. Look around, Armin. Look at all these gorgeous trees..." Eren trailed off for a moment. Somehow the words felt strange in his mouth, like they didn't belong to him. Had he heard them before? Or something similar? He shook his head and got back on track. "It would be a waste of autumn not to capture their likeliness. In fact, it would be denying the artist within me-"
After the fall of Maria, we came to know hunger.
A skeletal frame rests against a tree. Motionless remains his body. Clouds hover over his eyes, turning sky blue irises milky. Lips are parted, split and chapped. A single ruby runs down his chin. The drop cascades down, tainting the snow below. The fire's warmth can't reach him. He's too far away. He must be cold, frozen to the bone. Hunger must gnaw at his gut.
Little remains, but I gather what I can. Sasha doesn't peep as I take the scraps of her bread. How unusual. For her at least. The bread is stale. Stones in my hands. I go to him and say his name. I try to hand him the morsels. I try to force them down his throat.
He doesn't move. He stopped moving long ago.
After the fall of Maria, we came to know hunger.
After the fall of humanity, we came to know starvation.
"Eren!" Armin gasped.
The sidewalk stared him down from eye level. Why was he on the ground? Oh, that's right. He fell. Simple as that. Pressure met his shoulders; Armin's grip was stronger than expected. His chin was raised, so he didn't have to look at the nasty ground. Instead, he gawked at Armin's eyes, his bright and beautiful and living eyes. When was the last time he'd seen them gleam so vividly? It had to have been before the fall of...of what? He saw Armin everyday. And the teen looked the same everyday.
"Eren, look at me. Can you hear my voice? Speak to me. How many fingers am I holding up?"
Weight shifted, pulling him to his knees. A steady hand kept him from falling forward once more. Three stubby fingers hovered inches from his nose, wiggling like flags in a breeze. He wanted to wave the hand away, snap at Armin, tell him he was fine. However, his body was tense, muscles on edge and clenched. He couldn't move no matter how hard he willed himself. His stomach trembled and quaked; if he opened his mouth, the contents would gush up and out, tainting the sidewalk with yellow, semi-digested eggs and gastric juices.
Armin unearthed his cell phone and dialed Eren's mother. He gave her all the details he could gather (which were mostly "he passed out" and "I have no idea what's happening"). Instructions were given and received eagerly. With the situation fleshed out and explained, the shorter teen worked at getting Eren to his feet. Stepping back, he quickly realized he had to keep Eren from going into shock. If he shut down, there was no way Armin could drag his limp body back. He lacked the muscle structure needed for such a predicament. A stream of cooing and encouragement bubbled out of Armin's mouth. "It'll be alright, Eren. We'll be home soon. Your mom will know what to do. You'll be alright. You will be alright. Alright?"
Eren's lips fluttered. "I'm fi-" Vomit spewed down his chin, plopping onto his shirt and jeans in thick, frothy chunks. Automatically the acidic scent of bile rose up, instigating another round of abdominal eruption.
Had Armin a sympathetic gut, they would have never made it back to the haven of Eren's house. When they finally returned, Eren's mother jumped to action. Medical training and a nursing degree led her to go through the most basic of tests. She ran through lists of multiple symptoms for multiple issues ranging from the common cold to deadly viruses. Eren's temperature and heart rate were monitored. Water was pumped down his throat to keep him hydrated. An hour later, Eren was back to normal, and she deemed her son simply needed more rest. "Something must have triggered a traumatic memory," was her attempt at an explanation.
Thus, the bed became his captor and Armin his guard. Armin was propped up at the end of the bed, looking back at Eren. "Eren, what happen?" With the previous flames of panic smothered, the question was safe enough to ask. This didn't save Armin's voice from wavering.
Pride held his tongue for but a moment before surrendering. There was no way to hide it anymore. Eren's shoulders slumped. "I've been having nightmares for awhile now. Before, I'd have one once every four or five months, but steadily they've been increasing. Once a month. Once every two weeks. Once a week..." He trailed off and shook his head. His hair flew about him in a brown halo only to fall back into place. "This was the first time one's happened while I was awake. I didn't think it was possible."
Armin's mouth pressed into a hard line. "Perhaps, you're having flashbacks?"
"Flashbacks?" Eren's head shook violently. "Not possible."
"Why not? If these terrors have been going on for a long period of time, they may be a symptom of Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. There have been cases where childhood injuries resulted in intrusive memories later on in life. I just read a case study on children who were secluded from any form of love through the first years of life. They're tragic but fascinating." If not stopped, Armin would have continued on his nerd-rant for hours, indulging in his odd obsession with the cause and effect of damage to the human psyche.
"Armin, the things I see aren't real. They can't be," Eren spat, shutting the other up. Brilliant teal eyes widened; tears prickled at corners, growing into reflective crystals.
A moment passed before droplets evaporated. Armin asked, "what do you see?"
A manged laugh jumped from Eren's throat. The chortle rang through the air with a dull clang. Funeral bells. "What don't I see?" he questioned, grinning like mad. "I witness the death and carnage of my loved ones. I suffer through their hardships. I taste their blood and hold their lives in the palm of my hand." His plump hand wasn't worthy to hold something so valuable. He wasn't strong enough to be humanity's hero; everyone knew it, yet no one stopped him. Why didn't they stop him? His twisted smirk faltered into a grimace. "At least, I think they're my loved ones.
"They come in flashes. Names. Faces. They're hard to remember, but if I focus hard and long enough, I can almost spit them out. Mikasa. Jean. Marco. Whatever. I almost wish I could forget them. Forget how my chest aches each time I see them. Forget how I fear they'll be eaten alive right in front of me." A shudder ran through his body, starting at the feet and racing up to the spine and ramming into his head.
Horror showed on Armin's face. "Eaten alive?" he asked. "By what?"
"Titans."
The word hovered in the air and crashed down like a rain of bullets. An uncomfortable warmth settled in the pit of Armin's stomach. The image of Saturn's moon crawled into his mind, but the liquid methane rich body didn't hold enough weight to satisfy a reason behind the lingering dread.
Eren met Armin's eyes and held contact. "I see you in that world. You're the only one who I know for certain; you're almost exactly the same there as you are here. It's sort of amazing, actually." He turned and leaned back into his pillows. Eyes fluttered shut. A sigh hissed through gritted teeth. "In one scene, I try to go to you. You're dead, though. You starve to death, and I can't do a single damn thing to stop it from happening. Every time I see it, I just have to sit back a watch like some bad movie."
Somehow, Armin kept a straight face. Any panic he may have felt from the ominous statements was hidden by eyes drowning in concern and lips offering comfort words. There was no way he was the cause of Eren's disturbances. Sure the two might have to occasional tiff, but none of their arguments burnt deep enough to leave lasting scars. "Is there anyone else you see? I mean, someone you see more often than me?" Fear oozed out of his voice, yellow pus infecting light discussion.
The movement was slight, but Eren's head bobbed. An affirmation. "There's one man." His speech came out with a gossamer touch, whispers to be lost among empty air. As he continued, the pronunciation strengthened and grew more certain. "He's different from the others. Short. Quick-tempered. Unapproachable. Rude. Vulgar. Loyal. Warm. I see him over and over again in countless situations and scenes. The one that occurs the most is how he dies."
Eren's description flew over Armin's head. He knew everyone Eren knew, and Eren hadn't lost anyone—friend or family or acquaintance—who matched the image painted. "How did it happen?" he asked, feeling more confused than before.
"Not sure." Eren shrugged. "I can't quite remember much about him. Not even his name. The knowledge is right there: inescapable but impossible to reach. No matter how hard or fast I chase, I can't grasp it. When I wake up, I forget almost everything but the feelings he left me with. The feelings and the grief. They always stay."
Armin moved closer. Arms encased Eren in a tight embrace. The attempt was all Armin could to do ease his friend's troubles, and it didn't do a thing.
A/N: Chapter One has been re-written. Honestly, I enjoy re-writing stories more than I do the original. This version added a little over 1,400 words, more character dept (I hope), and an overall attempt to explain Eren's flashbacks. I hope you enjoyed it, and if not, please inform me on how to make it better. I know the idea of reincarnation has been beaten to death and there are better stories on the topic, but I'd like to make this the best it can be. Thank you!