It was 3: AM, and Erwin's last candle was burning out. The flame slowly devoured the wick, the wax dripping into the cheap copper candle holder.
The door to Erwin's office creaked as it opened. The man mused that he should really stop procrastinating and get some oil for the hinge.
His gaze caught Mikasa's for one sorrowful moment before it fell back to the parchment on his desk, and the ink on his fingertips.
Caught in the moment, Erwin pressed the quill to his lips, the quill that was quickly becoming dull from frequent use.
Setting a teacup a pile of crumpled of papers, Mikasa walked over to drop her hands on his tense shoulders.
"I brought something to drink - tea with a splash of whisky." She ran a fingertip down the side of his neck, where his short fingernails had scratched even after the itch had faded. The skin was raw, but he didn't even flinch at her touch.
The man bowed his head, his voice raw when he groaned, "why doesn't it get easier, Mikasa? I've been doing this for years." He gestured helplessly at the lists and lists of names - last names, because the families would need to be contacted.
The woman sighed. She was only twenty-five, but Mikasa had long since been worn down like a river rock under violent water. She hardly knew what the word easy even meant anymore.
Mikasa did not answer, but Erwin hadn't expected one.
The commander had ugly bags under his eyes. "At least I don't cry anymore." Erwin tipped his head back to look up at his lover. "There's no use in bawling; a sore throat and red eyes never helped anything."
Mikasa looked back at him. "If you don't cry, then what do you do?" Why is it that you always wear long sleeves?
Shaking his head, Erwin rose to his feet. He wrapped his arm around Mikasa's shoulders, rubbing the wings of freedom on the sleeve of her jacket with his thumb.
"Promise me something," he murmured, his breath caressing her ear.
"...what is it?"
Erwin's voice was raw. "Don't ever make me write Mikasa on one of these damn lists." He didn't come out and say it, but they both heard it anyway: there's no need to write the last name if there isn't any family to contact.
Mikasa simply looked into his eyes, his broken, broken, broken eyes. "It's late."
Picking up the teacup, she downed its contents in one desperate gulp (the tea was cold, but it was more whisky than tea anyway) before blowing the dying candle out.
"Let's go to bed."