A/N: It was actually during the writing of this chapter that I came up with the title. I found it very fitting that the majority of this was written when I couldn't fall asleep at night.


2. I THOUGHT I WAS TEACHING HIGH SCHOOL, NOT RELIVING IT

He's embarrassed more than anything else. Had he known it was her banging on the adjacent wall, he definitely would have been less of an ass, wouldn't have thought his very intentional parking jobs to be quite so hilarious, wouldn't have countered the intrusive hum of her early morning routine with the over the top music late at night. His face still burns red when he thinks about that morning: standing, still groggy, a fool in her doorway, while she stared at him wide-eyed, too, that certain look seeping into her eyes when she finally got over the initial shock. She'd looked sorta pretty standing there. He'd noticed it many times before at school, but damn, she wore the I-just-rolled-out-of-bed look well. Yup. Pretty pretty looking. But mostly pretty angry looking.

They'd stood in silence, and he couldn't bear to meet her gaze—he hadn't felt that guilty and childlike in the longest of times. And when she opened her mouth to speak, the tone of her voice wasn't harsh or fiery, but utterly calm and unwavering: "Park in your own parking spot without being an ass, and don't blast your music past ten," she had said.

Eren had resisted the urge to curse, because he knew his cheeks were burning. The words came out slow. "Yeah, I'm really sorry about that. It won't happen again."

She inclined her chin, somehow looking at him down her nose despite being quite a few inches shorter than him. "I'm sorry about the poop," she said, and then she closed the door.

Slinking back to his apartment, he invested in a good pair of headphones later that day.

At school, he sees her around the usual amount, locking eyes with her in the break room before quickly tearing his sight away, spotting her in the hallways, unsure of whether or not to greet her. He alters his routes from class to class, sometimes in hopes of running into her, sometimes to avoid her at all costs.

And then on Wednesday, during the passing period between sixth and seventh, after his fifth cup of coffee—it had been a rough morning—so maybe it's the caffeine more than anything else, he's hit with an overwhelming surge of courage and confidence. He could dive into battle right now if he had to, or, at the very least, engage in the circumstantial equivalent.

Eren flies down the hallway, dodging the students that congest the floor as he makes his way to the science wing. Up ahead, he spots her: the back of her head, dark, chin length hair bouncing lightly with each step, posture perfect and upright, steps careful and precise. And before he can stop himself, he shouts across the hallway: "Mikasa!"

She stops and turns to face him, expression slightly alarmed, and so do a few other students, who look about frantically for this "Mikasa". Her eyes, dark and shining, turn to his. "Yes, Mr. Yeager?"

And just like that, his mind goes blank. He can't look away from her ebony eyes, heart pounding and cheeks burning, it's like he's back in high school—hell, he is in high school

A mess of stuttering ensues, rambling nothingness and mumbled gibberish. "I'll, uh, see you later," he stammers before running off.

Fuck. Nice one, Yeager.

He cringes his way through his seventh period class, shuddering every time the moment enters his mind, giving his regular freshman English class the option to either prepare for tomorrow's discussion or to catch up on reading, because he really can't deal with anything else right now, deciding that grading papers would be the best way to get his mind off the series of unfortunate incidents plaguing his life right now.

The essays are satisfactory—nothing unexpected from a regular English class in the beginning of the year—though there's one girl whose writing reflects that she should definitely have taken the honors course, and another surprising abnormality from Koen.

The paper is riddled with run-ons and fragments, incorrect homonyms, good ideas and points that are just not quite developed enough. Eren looks up from his desk. There's a decent amount of chatter flying about the room, most of his kids working diligently, one or two scribbling away at what looks like bio, the usual four in the back corner snickering at something definitely not English related, and Koen sits in silence, lost in the world outside the window, lined paper on his desk blank save for a few doodles.

"Hey guys," Eren calls out, "make sure to stay productive. Feel free to talk to a peer to toss around ideas for tomorrow's discussion or test your comprehension of the text."

Koen remains lost and thought, and not wanting to single him out in front of the entire class, Eren decides to drop it.

. . . . .

He goes the rest of the period not thinking about how he made a fool out of himself in front of her once again, until the end of the period bell sounds, and the memory, triggered somehow by the shrillness of the ring, hits him hard. Eren audibly groans, face contorting as if he tasted something foul-because he basically just did-fingers flying up to grasp the bridge of his nose.

"You all right, Mr. Yeager?" It's Koen. He peers at him, concern knitting his brow together while the other students push and shove their way out of the door.

Eren forces a grin. "I'm fine. It's just one of those days, you know?"

Koen nods his head, and turns to walk away, but not before Eren calls him back.

"Hey, Koen, about your essay—make sure you do some editing in addition to using a word processor."

"Yeah, sorry, I'm bad at this stuff."

"Why don't you stop by the English Department during your lunch tomorrow. We can look it over together," Eren says. He looks him in the eye. "You're a smart kid, Koen," he tells him. And he means it. He really does.

Koen purses his lips, and, with a quick nod of the head, leaves.

. . . . .

"Koen Klaus," Eren sits next to Armin during lunch the next day, careful to avoid all eye contact with Mikasa, "he's one of your students, right? Does he have trouble in your class?"

Armin chews his food thoughtfully before speaking: "He really seems to struggle with focusing and work completion. But he's an intelligent kid—creative, too. For the diorama project, his was by far the best I've ever seen. Absolutely beautiful. You'll have to come stop by my room to take a look—"

"Ha," Jean interrupts, leaning over and emphasizing each word with the point of his fork, 'Does he have trouble?' More like, 'does he give me trouble?'—that kid's really something."

Eren flicks his gaze over to Jean; he folds his arms and sets his jaw. "He's a good kid. He's trying."

"See, that's just the problem. He doesn't. Yeah, he's a smart kid, I'll give him that, but he doesn't turn in homework, doesn't pay attention in class, hell, I get his quizzes back, and half of it's blank. He's not even making an effort. Of course he's 'struggling.'"

Jean says it so matter-of-factly, nose in the air as he sips from his drink. Eren leans in closer across the table, ignoring Armin's quiet plea to change the subject. An uncomfortable tension grows in his chest and neck. And it's as if he's back in that conference room all those years ago with his third grade teacher and mother, except this time, instead of shame, he's brimming with disgust.

"He just needs some extra guidance. Some help to keep him on track."

"I shouldn't have to put on a horse and pony show to keep my students engaged," Jean says with the wave of his hand, rising to throw away his trash. Eren stands to level with him, shaking the table as he does.

"But we should have the decency to alter our teaching strategies to help out our kids—it's our goddamn responsibility!"

"Look, Yeager, you're new to this whole teaching thing. It's okay. You don't know yet."

Somehow, Eren's finds his pointer finger jabbing itself to Jean's chest, and a certain shadow crosses Jean's face, his figure seeming to stretch taller over Eren's head. "No, you look," Eren hisses. "I know the signs. You're too ignorant to see it, but I can recognize it for what it is—"

"This isn't the place," a voice from the table behind them interjects.

Eren turns. Sandwich half finished, and red pen and papers out, Mikasa sits alone, seemingly engrossed in her work as if she doesn't notice a thing. If he didn't know the sound of her voice, he would've thought someone else had spoken. "What?"

"I said," she lifts her chin up to look at him, voice stern, but face calm, "this isn't the place to argue and talk about an individual student in this manner. It's actually rather inappropriate of you."

He's brought back to the room, becoming acutely aware of the various pairs of eyes on him and Jean, noticing how forks and spoons stay frozen in air, the lack of conversation. Eren dips his chin and drops his gaze, unable to meet her eyes.

"I know you mean well," she continues, "but, Eren, I'd advise you to express your concerns to Ms. Petra Ral, the social worker in Student Services, if you want to be of any help." With that, she returns to her work.

Jean smirks, beginning to walk away. "See ya, Yeager."

"Jean," Mikasa calls out again without looking up. "Don't be an ass."

Someone taps on Eren's shoulder. It's Armin.

"She's right," he mouths, not unkindly.

Face burning once again, Eren takes a seat, and returns to picking at the food in front of him.

. . . . .

Eren lies awake in bed, watching the ceiling fan spin round, and round, and round. No music fills his apartment tonight, his headphones rest at the other side of his bed, his father's specter absent. Tonight is plagued by different ghosts.

He remembers second and third grade well—angry tears dotting the pages of a book as he struggled to reason why everything made sense to the other kids, but not him, the frustration of having all of these stories swimming in his head and lacking the means to share them. Eren stretches out, his foot grazing something; he reaches down and grabs a book, the cover bent and torn in places. A smile twitches at the corner of his lips. He remembers hating reading.

And he tries not to think of the words that fell from Jean's mouth, poison, echoes, tries not to think of Koen, can't bear that he can still see his own reflection in the window the boy looked out of, can't bear his own self-centeredness.

He tries not to think of her. He tries not to think of how she's woken his insecurity from its slumber, a dormant monster that lay locked deep within him for years, though he'd thought he conquered it, liberated himself, banished it from his body entirely. This stuttering and stammering, this constant foolishness in her presence, ears burning red and heart racing, relentless—a part of him resents her for it, and the other yearns desperately for her approval.

With a frustrated groan, Eren passes a hand over the wall that separates his apartment from hers, wondering if she knows just how often she's crossed his mind these past weeks, made him cringe at his own vices, his cheeks flushed with juvenile bashfulness. Her voice, always so level and controlled in the way she's regarded him since they discovered the close proximity of their living arrangements, and her face, her eyes, divulging not the slightest hint of emotion—it's only natural that he should want to return to those small smiles, those small little waves of her hand across the hall.

Rolling over, he checks the clock, jumping to his feet when he sees that it's only eleven. He doesn't think much of it, doesn't consider the complexities, or possible outcomes, doesn't even really know what he wants to say, but whatever he's about to do, he needs to do it. He feels it. And that is reason enough.

Barefoot, he knocks vigorously on her door. "I'm sorry," he blurts out as soon as she stands before him.

"For knocking so late at night?"

He takes in her slightly disheveled appearance, the way she leans on the door for support. "Shit. Yeah, I-I'm sorry about that too," Eren says running his fingers through his hair. "But I'm sorry about today at lunch, and all last week with the noise and the parking, and I know you're still mad at me, and that's okay, I just want you to know that I really am sorry," he takes a breath, and silently thanks the darkness for obscuring the redness of his face.

And then she laughs. It's brief. He thinks, for a moment, that he imagined it, but then her hand flies to her mouth as if she's spilled a secret that wasn't meant to be spilled. And he silently curses the darkness for obscuring the pink blossoms that bloom on her cheeks.

"I'm not angry," she says.

"You're not?"

"I mean, I was. I was angry Saturday, and a little bit Sunday. But not after that, and not today—just a little annoyed—and not right now," she yawns.

"Then how come—why did you? In school..." He tries to refer to every broken glance, the cold reservation in her greetings.

"That was," she averts her eyes, looking at her feet, "that wasn't your fault."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

The light in the corridor flickers, and an autumn breeze sends the both of them shivering, perhaps reminding them that the night only grows later and later.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow then," Eren says.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she repeats.

He turns to go, and she begins to close the door, but before it shuts all the way, he calls out one last time, "Mikasa?"

"Yes?"

"Goodnight."

Long after she closes the door, long after Eren returns to bed, long after one in the morning hits, and he still lies awake, the ceiling fan spinning round, and round, and round, he still recalls that the small smile on her lips as she closed the door at last, more than certain, that it was no trick of the light.


A/N: My intention wasn't to make Jean into some sort of heartless villain—that wasn't the case at all, and I certainly do not think of his character in that manner in the slightest. Rather, I wanted to portray one of the many challenges that children with learning disabilities or conditions that interfere with their education face. From my own experience, sometimes otherwise wonderful educators can misinterpret an individual's circumstances.

I've posted a few links to some resources on my profile.