i.
She doesn't know what the words are that spin through her head, only that they are all that are left keeping the panic from seizing her whole. Another time, she presses her hands against his chest to let the air leak out of his lungs and presses her mouth against his cold, cold lips to fill his being with a desperate breath of life.
And another time, he does not stir.
Again, a voice in her head might have whispered.
Misaka curls her fingers into a fist, blunt fingernails tearing into ghost white skin, and it takes a great deal of shaking inhalations and quivering shoulders to suck in the air that he'll never get to taste again.
It tastes like blood.
—
She tastes blood for the first time, and it is metallic and horribly cold. It's the foul metal spoon her mother would feed her medicine in, the bitter of desolation, the unripe lemon picked too early in the iced spring; she wants to throw up.
The men discuss a few feet away, their murmurs forming nothing solid— only a murky puddle of flittering panic and unnerving omens that easily drown her prone form. The world feels muffled, and yet Mikasa can't move, forced to lie motionless and let the blood pool in the hollows of her slack cheeks.
A single thought rings constantly in her mind, intermingling with a series of glinting silvers and teardrop blues, bruising purples and gates of white.
Is she going to die? Is she going to die here and alone with no one to mourn her, no one to know that she'll no longer breathe and no longer dream?
Something warm collects at her eyes, tumbles down her cheeks, trailing tingles and sudden coldness across her face.
The realization hits her; that it's probably blood falling from her eyes, painting her face with damnation and scarlet because she's dead, dying and inarguably long, long gone.
A childish thought flits through her mind, inane and pointless, but she questions not the logic of crying tears of blood, because a knock at the door wrenches her attention back to reality. The blood is still just in her mouth, still metallic and bitter with desolation, and her blood drop tears do not wash the taste away.
The scene that proceeds to play out before the girl numbs her from head to toe. She's unsure of what to do, of what she's seeing and what she should think; everything is a shell-shocked blank, and her eyes do well to show the speechless and freezing incomprehension of the fiery boy blazing before her.
His hands are warm as he cuts her loose, she notices. The heat feels like an electric jolt, and she swallows sharply; the taste of cold metal recedes, fading away to the back of her throat. He speaks softly, a stark change from the burning screams he had held just moments earlier, and the warmth plays at the hardened steel collecting in her throat.
"You're Mikasa, right?"
She manages a weak nod and a shaky inhalation, only to smell the color staining her hands and her dress and the entire room scarlet. He gingerly runs his fingers over the raw rope burns on her wrist, and she finally rasps, "There was a third."
ii.
Something hot, searingly tangible and painfully wet, cuts down her cheek. She feels the new line marring her blood and dirt stained face like a scar, a sharp line from her charcoal eye and down her cheeks.
She refuses to touch the tears, to wipe them away— wipe away the last remnants of emotions she has in a world without feeling.
—
A hand rests gently on her shoulder, and she flinches. She feels them twitch, an action full of wary unease, but they relax just as quickly and squeeze comfortingly on her sore shoulder.
"He can't exactly thank you for real if you're up here, you know?"
She turns her head toward her opposite side, wiping the last of her sticky tears on the fabric of her jacket. It's soft and light, smelling faintly of the city and reminding her of fresh spring. The soft caress almost feels the same as a long gone pair of hands tenderly thumbing away the watery residues of bruises past. Almost.
It's not the same.
A sigh breaks the melancholy moment of anamnesis. A second attempt brings about small fingers rubbing small circles against her jacket.
"Mikasa, it's dangerous up here. Come down, please."
He tugs gently at the fabric, bringing her about to face him, and crystal lake eyes dull under stormy clouds.
"Why were you crying? Eren's alright, you know. He's awake now, wondering where we are!"
She nods numbly, a quiet sniffle and a rustle of fabric as she paws at her eyes all there is for a moment. Armin carefully climbs down the rafters first, as slowly and carefully as his eight year old limbs can carry him, and Mikasa takes the time to steady her breathing and calm her heart.
Eren had fallen off a tree whilst trying to retrieve a red scarf that had been spitefully thrown into its high branches by a boy Mikasa had punched for trying to hurt Eren as he fought to rescue Armin. Eren has gotten himself into trouble many times before, really, but this time is different— at least, in charcoal grey eyes.
Mikasa feels personally responsible for the sickening bend of his arm and the coagulating scarlet that clung to his hair as he curled tearily into himself with a scream that held so much more pain than she'd ever wanted to hear again.
Her eyes burn again and she blinks away the heat, refusing to let her tears— her tangible sadness, liquid emotion— escape again. It's a childish thought, crying out emotions so that soon one might be empty, but illogical thoughts, charcoal eyes and raven black hair are still that of a child's, still intense and untouched by age.
Armin calls her name from down below, and, with a deep breath, she finally begins to make her way down.
When they return, Eren is insistent on standing on wavering feet just to wrap the scarlet scarf around her with his one good arm, still managing to look proud of his heroic accomplishments with a cast and a blackening eye.
If tears did brim, she imagines they'd glint in the sunlight like his eyes always did naturally, and for once, liquid emotions might not just be sorrow.
iii.
Her fingers wrap around the worn fabric of her scarf, knuckles turning a snow white as her fingernails dig into skin past a layer of cloth.
Charcoal eyes stay fixed on the material, tracing the lines and folds and threads in the fabric, so perpetually scarlet— like the wintertime fires burnt from wood they both shared, like the bond they had built from the moment they met, the color of his hand in hers for the first time and his red, red blood staining every inch of the ground.
—
She's sure that he must be impossibly grateful to finally be out of the underground bunker he's forced to sleep in.
The Lance Corporal is yet to return from his meeting and with no official authority figures, teenagers are very unlikely to follow any rules, even in the midst of this unfair battle that might be called war.
Such heavy thoughts are cast aside, tossed into the crackling fire and wafted away with the swirling, grey smoke. The wood pops and sizzles quietly, the radiating warmth a perfect combatant to the cold night air that surrounds their castle of a base.
The heavy, wooden door leading up to the roof is bolted from the outside, but Mikasa is sure that they aren't missed, what with the loud commotion and excitement that floods the building over ancient musical instruments found in the castle's countless rooms.
Armin has long since left their little rooftop campfire, and the raven haired girl is sure that her brunet companion might be lost to sleep himself.
She traces shapes in the twinkling stars to herself, letting the sound and heat of the fire lull her until she hears him shift and feels those bright eyes on herself. Mikasa shifts to meet their gaze, turning to see Eren looking at her upside down, but still meeting her gaze ceaselessly.
It's a bit odd, watching him talk upside down, but she's too comfortable in her position to move from their odd location of sitting upside down and parallel to each other, bodies close and near to the fire.
Eren sits up, playfully tapping the toes of his boots against her shoulder as he begins regaling the names of constellations that he so pridefully remembers; she knows them all, too, but lets him continue nonetheless. She eventually lays her head on his restless feet, stopping their incessant movements, and her eyes drift shut as his voice calms her to sleep.
"Oi, Mikasa?"
He stops his tales for a second, and her eyes fly open.
"I'm listening, Eren; continue."
A toothy smirk pulls up at his lips and he has the audacity to scoff, although it lacks true malice and rings with playful challenge; he doesn't believe her one bit.
"Go on, then," he eggs her, "Point out the constellation I was just talking about."
She shoots him the best look of indignation she can muster— it's flawless, of course— and turns her gaze skyward. The stars are numberless and she blinks a few times, lips tugging down into a frown as she tries to pull at nonexistent memories of the words Eren had just spoken.
A moment passes, and he laughs— albeit, at her, but it still lightens the frown of her lips— scooting down to her side and grabbing her hand to point it skyward. He's comfortingly warm, and she lets him use her fingers to trace out the shape of an eagle soaring across the starry sky.
"Aquila, Mikasa," he says softly, and he's all soothing heat and familiar gentleness, the red of sunsets and scarves and his ever burning flame. Her sights are on him as his is aimed wistfully upward; the situation is still all-consumingly perfect to her. "If only you'd listen; it wouldn't kill you to know."
"Mhm," she hums in acknowledgement, starting to feel a bit sleepy once more, and he lets their hands drift down, but he doesn't let go of her's quite yet.
His warmth is comforting against the cold of outside, and she holds to him tightly as he lullabies her to sleep with stories of the stars and a gentle squeeze of her hand as he doesn't jolt her awake.
iv.
With her eyes closed, the sound of waves rushing against the rocky cliffs below her is almost soothing. The rhythmic shush and the measured crash of each tide lulls her into a calm, and Mikasa is sure that this is as close to at peace that she'll ever live to experience again.
—
Titans never stray too close to the chilly sea, so the base camp is set up by the water, a little inlet of sand backed by a cliff and unreachable except during low tide. The waves lap at the ground barely a few feet away from their tents.
The constant crash of the waves is a perfect distraction from horribly pessimistic thoughts and fearful dreading, but sometimes the din chases away sleep, too. It's either rhythmically soothing or ear-piercingly cantankerous, but tonight, an in-between has yet to be found.
Mikasa looks intensely up at the green ceiling of her tent with an impassive stare. She remembers opening her eyes maybe an hour or two (or three) ago, but the memory of falling asleep to the noise outside escapes her. The novelty of the smooth green has long since worn off, as well as the dark scarlet that fills her sight when she closes her eyes.
Time seems to be nonexistent in her sleepless world, and in her ennui, the girl slips the blanket off herself, cold air relentlessly barraging her and almost forcing her back into the safe recesses of her blanket. She's shivering by the time she manages to pull her boots and jacket on, and her fingers are impossibly pale and stiff as she fumbles with the scarf around her neck.
It only gets warmer from there, thankfully, and Mikasa stealthily makes it outside, jogging to keep up the production of body heat. The sun hasn't risen yet, and everything appears cloudy grey in the pre-dawn gloom. The absence of low tide makes going any further out impossible without possibly contracting hypothermia, and the only other way away from the living silence and watery din is up.
Her 3D Maneuver Gear is left behind, and Mikasa tugs at her scarf, panting and wiping sweat off her brow, by the time she pulls herself onto the flat top of the cliff. A few minutes are spent resting on her thighs to regain her breath, and for the first time today, she relishes the chilly breeze. When charcoal eyes gaze out at the edge of the cliff overlooking the horizon, Mikasa is almost sent careening down the cliff again.
A boy sits alone, hands propped behind him and legs dangling precariously over the edge. He wears the jacket of the Survey Corps, the insignia emblazoned across his back, and he doesn't seem to have noticed Mikasa just yet. His laid-back posture is familiar, as well as the rustle of his brown hair as the wind gusts through it; she can almost see the Training Cohort's insignia on his back, and to his left, a blond boy and to his right, a short haired girl with her scarlet scarf flying in the breeze.
The image sends a pang to her chest, and she stands up with shaking knees, approaching the boy warily.
"So, you guys finally made it, huh?" he asks, not turning around to face her.
If the distant memory of three young kids is a punch to the stomach, the sound of his voice would be enough to stop her heart's beating right then and there.
"It's more amazing than any book could've described, no offense to Armin, of course."
Mikasa stands frozen mid-step, unsure of whether to flee or bring herself closer to him. The boy's eyes are still trained toward the ocean and the slowly brightening horizon, but everything about him, from his tousled brown hair to the messy stitch up job over a tear in his jacket's left shoulder, was undeniably—
"Eren."
He doesn't confirm the statement, but his slight change in posture is confirmation enough. The burning behind her eyes is all too noticeable as she tries to rapidly blink tears away, and it's when her knees fall to the ground with gravelly thuds does he finally turn around to look at her, cascading tears and all.
She can see him, of all people right now, looking lost and unsure in the moment he sees her face; then he blinks and regains himself, walking the few feet over and kneeling beside her. He takes her hand carefully, bringing it up to her face and clumsily wiping the tears away for her, leaving heat and tingles where his own skin brushed hers.
When her tears are dry and and her breathing is calm, she looks up to meet his eyes, only for him to ask abruptly, "Why are you crying, Mikasa?"
A hundred answers flit through her mind, some more unnecessarily bitter than others; she clenches her fists and grits her teeth, tearing her gaze away from his to glare at the ground, feeling suddenly fired up and tense. She briefly entertains the notion of punching him and chalking her hallucinations up to sleep-deprivation, but Eren is too attuned and leans down to look up into her downcast eyes.
"Don't even think about punching me, Mikasa. You know it won't end well, and I know you're smart enough to know it's not what you need right now."
His voice is stern, yet infuriatingly soft, and when her arm lashes out, he dodges quicker than she would've thought possible, grabbing her wrist and pulling her down face-first into the ground. The stinging pain is nothing as she rolls around, leaping at him and pinning him beneath her; he clenches his teeth as she punches ruthlessly at his chest, screams almost as intense as the tears that fall down her face.
"You... You promised, Eren Jaeger, you liar!" He hisses as she smacks her hand across his cheek. "As many... As many times as you have to, my fucking ass!"
Another punch to his stomach forces a small groan from his mouth, but Mikasa doesn't notice his resolve to stay silent, not does she take heed of the trembling of his fists as he steels himself for another hit.
"You left us! The squad. Armin. Me. You left us without saying goodbye or anything, like a fucking, stupid hero!"
Mikasa slams both her fists onto his chest and he winces audibly. Her hands don't move, instead opening up and grasping desperately at his shirt as she collapses into him, the faint murmur of waves merely an insignificant background to her weeping into his chest.
"Why did you have to be the hero?" she whispers hoarsely, a question which Eren doesn't answer. "Why did you have to leave?" He wraps his arms around her, smoothing down her hair gently and rubbing circles along her back.
It's when her sobbing quietens does he sit up, pulling her into his lap and easing her face toward the horizon. She stares at it blankly.
"Tell me, Mikasa: does it look like I'm gone?"
Mikasa turns her head to look at him, but he places a familiarly warm hand on her cheek, directing her gaze back toward the ocean.
The sun is starting to rise and she gazes out at the unending sea— at the teal-blues and grey-greens that water has never been before— and she realizes that ocean is the colour of his eyes.
Eren's hands are delicate as he tenderly fixes the scarf around her neck, but Mikasa barely registers it as she watches the sun cast its new golden rays across the sea.
Falling asleep isn't something she recalls doing, but she's soon shaken awake, met with the sight of blond hair and sky-blue eyes.
"Mikasa, everyone's been worried sick about you," Armin chastises. "Why're you up here?"
She doesn't answer him, charcoal eyes searching for a familiar head of brown, only to be met with nothing.
"Mikasa? Ready to go back?"
Mikasa stands up, pulling a familiar strip of scarlet over her mouth. She turns around to cast one more glance at the sea-green horizon, then gives her companion a resolute nod.
i.
The sun is high up in the sky by the time she's back in camp, but it's when she looks the ocean— ever-moving and ever-sea-green— that she realizes he'll never really be gone.