A/N: Buckle up.
TOUCH
III. Blink
2.
He blinks his eyes open to the burning glare of the afternoon sun. Squinting, he lifts a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden burst of light, momentarily blinded and unsure of his surroundings. When his eyes finally adjust to the brightness, he lowers his hand and tilts his head up to the cloudless blue sky stretching endlessly above him, rooftops and tall, stone buildings edging his periphery - and he remembers what has brought him here.
'Where is…?'
He looks ahead, and there are clotheslines and green capes and white sheets lining his path, swaying gently in the summer breeze. His feet carry him forward into the thick of the maze of clean clothing, and he is immersed in their soapy scent as he weaves through, hands gingerly pushing aside the white shirts and sheets that blow into him from the occasional strong gust.
And then, he comes to a stop before a sheet only partially hung, the familiar silhouette behind it stretching to pin the last corner to aa clothesline that is just out of reach. He stands with his arms crossed, cocking his head to observe curiously, and not a moment too soon, the wind blows the entire sheet onto into the female shadow, who in response, grunts and bats violently agai itnst it to combat the wind. He successfully withholds a snort, but cannot contain the grin that bursts onto his face at the sight and sound of one of humanity's most powerful soldiers at war with a piece of laundry.
His amusement only grows when the sheet comes loose altogether, falling to the ground slowly and carrying on the wind, about to reveal what he thought would be a flustered and disgruntled raven haired woman. But, as the sheet sinks to the ground between them, his eyes catch onto a flash of furious charcoal blues, blazing behind the blur of a fist slicing through the air in his direction. His eyes pop wide in surprise as he jerks his head out of the way just in the nick of time, just narrowly dodging the blow, his left hand shooting up to capture her wrist, as her knuckle just barely grazes his cheek.
Just as soon as he traps her, his assailant attempts to pull roughly out of his grip, and his breathing labors from the unexpected attack as he holds her wrist in place, surprised and impressed with his own reflexes - and at the fact that he is strong enough to maintain his grip. With another fruitless tug, her glare snaps from his hand to his eyes - and at the recognition, her expression instantly melts from battle-ready fury into flustered puzzlement.
Her lips part, and a sound comes up from the back of her throat that sounds like the beginning of a word, but she falls silent just as quickly, mouth closing - and opening, and closing.
They stand in silence, and as the seconds tick by, he begins to register his heart palpitating violently and thumping in his ears at the unexpected assault Mikasa had very nearly administered to his face.
Eventually, both his heart rate and breathing slow enough for him to understand what has just happened.
And he laughs.
Because, although her hair now touches to her shoulders, and she dons a simple dress and apron far more often than Survey Corps green, moments like this brought forth the merciless warrior within, and were an amusing - albeit dangerous - break from her usual demure disposition. He had to admit that he loved such moments, because they were her through and through.
She blushes as his laughter persists, her arm going slack in his grip, and the bashful frown on her face is so incredibly endearing, and she is sobeautiful , that he forgets why he is even laughing.
And soon enough, it is silent, and they are left standing close, staring at one another upon a familiar rooftop in a familiar district, and it feels like home.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi," she replies sheepishly.
His stomach flutters.
"Sorry about that… I didn't mean to hit you. I didn't know it was you," she stammers, voice dripping with guilt, eyes flicking anywhere else but his. "I thought-"
He pulls her in by the wrist and leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to her lips as if it is the most natural thing in the world. And though they have moved far beyond such kisses, her face flushes at the affectionate interruption, and it makes his head giddy with satisfaction.
"It's okay. I deserved it," he says with a lopsided grin, releasing her wrist to press his palm to the prominent swell of her abdomen, which was now snug under her apron. "I guess I shouldn't be trying to give the mother of my unborn child a heart attack."
She simpers at the sentiment, placing her hand over his.
"I'll finish up here," he says, leaning in close, unable to force the smile off of his face, and he finds himself wondering how he ever developed the capacity to be so disgustingly sappy.
"You don't have to do that," she replies, absently running her fingertips over the bumps of his knuckles, and he very quickly remembers what has reduced him to this uncharacteristic pile of goo.
He was married to a selfless and gorgeous woman, whose scowl could drive armies away, and who had devoted her youth to cleaving humanoid beasts in his name.
He wonders how there was ever a time he wasn't smitten with her.
"Well, I want to," he insists, fingers curling to catch hers between his, atop her now rotund abdomen. "You should be resting anyway."
She reaches her other hand up to nestle her fingers in his hair and leans forward, resting her forehead against his.
"Okay," Mikasa acquiesces quietly, before pressing a light kiss to his mouth. When she moves back, he pulls her in to deepen the kiss, and feels her grin against his mouth, her fingers curling in his hair just the way he liked it. When he finally lets her go, she remains against his forehead and says, "You can make dinner too, then."
He groans in feigned annoyance and butts his head lightly against hers.
"Fine," he murmurs.
His fingers intertwine with hers upon the swell of her belly, and he is suddenly overcome with emotion, and very glad their eyes are both closed so she can't catch him being sensitive about her and the life growing within her - again.
He blinks and opens his eyes to small emerald greens that mirror his , a scant tuft of raven hair atop an otherwise bald head, and the child is a warm bundle in his arms that has instantly claimed secondary ownership of his heart, and he wants to cry - and laugh, because the baby boy is just as quiet and calm as the flushed and exhausted woman in the bed before him.
"He looks just like you," Eren says, brushing the back of his index finger against his newborn son's tiny, velvet soft cheek. The baby turns into his touch and blinks up at him silently, and he feels himself beam like a fool.
"No, he definitely looks more like you," he hears Mikasa say. "He's just not scowling."
"Hey, that's..." he begins, taking offense, before looking down at the boy in his arms. Though his eyes are more slight like hers, hair a deep onyx like hers, the child had inherited his tan complexion and eye color.
"... that's… kind of true, I guess," he grumbles before glancing up to meet Mikasa's amused gaze. Eyes trained on the infant in his gentle hold, she outstretches her arms expectantly, and he smiles and rises from his seat to settle on the bed next to her, before gently passing their son into her waiting arms.
Sitting back, he watches her cradle the tiny bundle that is all their making so very gingerly, as though she is afraid she may accidentally crush it with her superhuman strength if she is not careful. He then shifts his gaze to her face, and the sight is startling and makes the hairs on his arms stand on end, because she is smiling .
Really smiling.
Though she now cracked a small smile here and there more often, she rarely ever smiled so unabashedly and exuberantly. And with the raw emotion on her face, eyes shining with unshed tears, skin glistening with sweat, raven bangs sticking to her face, cheeks flushed from exhaustion, he swears she has never looked more beautiful.
Jaw slacking until his mouth is hanging slightly ajar, he is completely captivated and unable to look away, as he begins to reflect on his great fortune - that he could live to see this moment, and watch his closest friend, protector, confidante, and lover, cradle a bundle of warmth that is equal parts him and her, and to -
"He has your eyes."
The words halt his thoughts, coming out just barely above a whisper, and it might just be the softest he's ever heard her speak.
At the sound, he finds his eyes inexplicably beginning to sting with the threat of tears, his throat beginning to close up, and he must draw in a deep breath to regain his composure, inwardly cursing himself for the strange physical reactions that are completely out of his control.
And then she turns to look at him, and he is caught in the act of gawking and being sensitive, but there is no judgement in the charcoal blues that blink inquisitively at him for his silence. He feels his face warm, and he can only smile back sheepishly and clear his throat to mask his embarrassment. He then scoots closer to her on the bed and puts an arm around her shoulders.
"Mmm. But I hope he has your patience," Eren says, poking gently at the boy's stomach, "And abdominal strength."
And for the second time that day, Mikasa renders him speechless and awestruck as she cracks the silence with her laughter - a rare and incredibly beautiful thing.
He decides that, next to the whir of blades against titan flesh, it's his most favorite sound in the entire world.
He blinks the sleep out of his eyes, opening them to the sight of her moonlit, serene face.
'She's like a fucking painting,' he muses.
He scoots in closer, careful not to make any sudden movements to wake her.
"You were a stupid, stupid boy, Eren…" he mutters to himself, raising a hand to trace his fingertips against the velvet soft skin of her cheek, trailing them down to outline the curve of her rosebud pink lips.
'This is mine,' he childishly thinks to himself all the while. 'All mine.'
His index finger trails down her chin, before he lets his hand drop back onto the bed with a sigh.
"I don't deserve you, do I?" he whispers at her sleeping form. "I… probably never have. But I'm trying to, now - trying to deserve you, because you make me so incredibly, stupidly happy… "
He raises his hand once more to brush at her cheek with the back of his fingers, and unexpectedly, she turns her head into his touch, eyes still closed, a small smile on her face. He opens his hand to cup her cheek, and she shifts just enough to press a soft kiss into his palm, before settling back into her pillow, eyes remaining closed.
"Did I wake you?" he whispers, glad for the darkness as he is certain his face is now glowing pink. While he had become used to showing his affection for her physically in their private moments - almost excessively - he still rarely ever verbalized his feelings. Despite how far they had come, he still found doing so painfully embarrassing and unnatural.
"I'm not dreaming?" she murmurs drowsily, eyes remaining closed as she places her hand on his, fingertips trailing over the sensitive ridges on the backs of his fingers. "Eren doesn't say sweet things like this in real life."
"Hey. I do. Sometimes," he whispers, and her smile stretches wider. "Didn't I just do it?"
"Only when you thought I was sleeping."
"Well, you're awake now."
"I am," she says.
Then she peeps one eye open in expectation, and he fights the grin that threatens to spread on his face, but fails to mold it into an irritated frown. He then sighs and scoots in closer, so their foreheads are touching.
"Fine," he grumbles, bumping his nose against hers, and she closes the lone eye.
"You… fight good... still, and… your abs are awesome," he stammers, and he feels her stifle a laugh at his inability to be complimentary. "What? I'm really impressed at how quickly you got them back after having Hannes."
"Thanks," she replies flatly.
He grins, and brushes his thumb against her cheek, blinking down at the bridge of her nose thoughtfully.
"Thanks for… always nagging me like you do. I'd probably be dead if you didn't," he begins.
"Mmhmm," she nods in affirmation against him, and he butts his head against her lightly with a slight pout that she cannot even see.
"Thank you for… choosing me instead of Jean, even though you probably should have chosen him and his stupid horse face."
"That was never going to happen."
His smile widens, and he presses a kiss to her nose, ego momentarily flaring.
He stares on and continues his ministrations, until his thumb catches upon the small, puckered stretch of skin beneath her eye. He pauses and shifts back slightly to stare at the scar intently, and resumes his caress, calling to mind the time he had marked her with it, and the time nearly a decade later he had finally fully acknowledged it.
She opens her eyes, likely sensing the change in mood, and in her gaze he finds concern and knowing.
"Thanks for…" his eyes flick back to hers from the scar.
"Thanks for doing… this with me," he whispers hoarsely, sliding his thumb back over the smooth line, trying not to let his emotions get the best of him.
And from the look in her eye, she understands that his "this" spans the entirety of their history together - from her following him into hell without batting an eyelash, and stubbornly staying by his side, to the ways she has let his hands rove her body, and to the reclamation of their home and their new adventure in beginning a family together.
"There's no one else I'd rather… brave it all with," he says, his face warming at the uncharacteristically tender honesty of his words because having her look at him while he says things like this makes him feel so very vulnerable and naked.
She blinks back at him, clearly taken off guard at the serious tone the originally lighthearted game has taken, because now even her eyes are shining with emotion. She closes her fingers around his hand, lifting it slightly to lean forward and press a prolonged kiss to his mouth, before settling back down into her pillow.
She kisses the the center of his palm once more before setting his palm back upon her cheek and closing her eyes, her fingertips resuming the circles they are tracing on the back of his hand.
"So… was that good enough?" he whispers in an attempt to lighten the mood.
She nods under his palm.
"Mmhmm. It was very good."
"Good."
He is staring again, relishing in her warmth and the gentle trace of her fingers on his skin.
"Now I don't think I'll be able to say anything nice to you or anyone else for an entire year," he breaks the silence gruffly.
"That's okay. We're all already used to it."
" Hey !" he whispers harshly.
She chuckles quietly, and he does too, feeling as stupidly happy as ever.
He blinks his eyes open to his ceiling, and he is alone.
A smile is fixed to his face, his cheeks wet with stray tears, and the way the cool air meets his skin tells him that he is no longer dreaming.
In his drowsy haze, a strange sense of loss is felt as he presses his forearm to his eyes to wipe away the moisture. And, just as soon as he registers his smile, he forces the corners of his mouth back down into a thin line.
"What the fuck… ?" he mutters, keeping his arm pressed to his eyes, trying his best to squash the unwanted pangs of longing that begin to swell.
The next day, when the sun is warm on his back, and his knees are pressed into the grass, hands caked with dirt, he is filled to the brim with thoughts of moonlit raven hair splayed against bedsheets, and serene charcoal blues that crinkle in gaiety, and pink lips that part to give way to a rare and joyous sound. And all the while, he is in the midst of executing one of Levi's stranger tasks (gardening, of all things) and it is so mindless that his brain has no choice but to wander towards the issue at the forefront of his mind - which, for once, had very little to do with titans.
While he still found such thoughts to be an inconvenient nuisance, their inevitability and frequency had forced him to, at the very least, be able tosit with them - as opposed to resorting to self harm to halt them altogether.
And as the day wore on, and his mind rewound his most recent dream over, and over again, he found himself comfortable enough to snort about it - mostly at how absurdly romantic he had been in it.
His dream-self was absolutely over the moon, head over heels in love with his childhood friend and fierce protector. Throughout the fantasy that had played out, his dream-self was also extremely physical and always found a way to place his hands (or mouth) on her - which he found completely odd and uncharacteristic.
'Pfft. Like I'd ever say or do all that…' he muses with an airless laugh.
While he had come to appreciate Mikasa's comforting touches and embraces, shining a more than platonic light on such interactions was a completely foreign concept to him, which rendered his dream-self's actions even more confusing.
He hadn't even ever kissed someone until that night - nor had the thought of doing so crossed his mind, aside from the times the other boys would speak about their perversions in the bunks. While his first thought was unintentionally Mikasa at such times - not at all due to some weird attraction, but by virtue of the fact that she was the most prominent female presence in his life - he quickly dismissed such acts and thoughts as a waste of time when there was so much more at stake.
But, then again, he'd had that one dream about Mikasa.
And that was only after he'd experienced the mildest level of bunker-talk with her.
And, he had thought frequently about the contents of that dream in his ensuing waking hours.
Perhaps he really was no better than his comrades, and perhaps all men - unfortunately - were someday fated to think in such away.
But, he recalls that they had focused purely on physical acts and women's outer appearances, and he had never once reduced Mikasa's value to her appearance. In fact, he had barely even taken note of it, other than the very obvious fact that she looked different from everyone else - no one else he knew had the luster and silk of her jet black hair, or the peculiar beige tone of her skin.
Though, now, while recalling all that foolish bunker-talk and reflecting on his dream-self's way of thinking, he supposed that he could agree that Mikasa was, in some way, objectively… aesthetically… agreeable.
That is to say, the more he thought of it, he supposed he preferred the… look of her face to that of other women.
Her eyes were smaller than most, and bore a distinct slant and shape that was unique to her, and her alone. And he supposed that this rare feature complimented all the rest - complimented the soft, yet pointed curve of her nose, and the rosepink tone of her lips against the very particular beige, yet snow white, canvas of her skin. And he supposed that, if he were to buy into his shallow comrades' bunker talk, and his obsessive dream-self's line of thinking, Mikasa was actually, maybe, quite… pleasant to look at.
Maybe.
He supposed.
However, one thing he and his dream-self could agree on, without any reluctance at all, was that Mikasa had an amazing body.
His dream-self's admiration of her abdomen throughout the course of the dream was somewhat grounded in truth. Even he himself did not possess the discipline she did with her workouts.
'The body of a soldier with great discipline,' he muses to himself with an impressed nod.
He exhales through the side of his mouth as he begins to dig a new hole, and the image of her bare abdomen flickers across his mind - which then rapidly dissolves into vivid imagery of his first dream of her. In response, he shakes his head vigorously and continues to dig, now all but stabbing frantically into the earth.
He focuses back on his most recent dream to will away the lecherous thoughts, and as he runs through the imagined events once more and distances himself from the thought of her bare abdomen, he takes note of one small, unrelated detail that piques his curiosity.
'Hannes.'
In his dream, they had named their first child Hannes.
Goosebumps prickle his skin, a shudder running up his spine at the homage to their fallen savior and friend.
And then he thinks of the small, imagined life he held in his arms who was named for the kind then-drunkard, but at the same time who was nothing at all like the kind then-drunkard, because the little imaginary thing already acted like her and looked like him.
It was eerie.
He reaches into the sack next to him, filled with the bulbs Levi had instructed him to plant, and plucks a bulb out before gingerly placing it into the small pit he has dug.
And as he pushes the earth back into the hole with his bare hands, he finds that he cannot stop thinking of the imaginary little boy with his eyes and her hair, named Hannes.
He wonders if, in addition to Mikasa's demeanor, little Hannes would also inherit her strength.
And suddenly, he imagines the small boy, grown to perhaps six years of age, with his face and her nonchalant expression, sauntering across a bustling marketplace and carrying a stack of crates twice his size and weight with surprising ease - and he imagines himself walking alongside the child and gazing down at him with a proud smile as others starred on.
"You know, I had heard gardening helped people relax."
Armin's voice snaps him out of his reverie, and only then does he register the intensely cheerful crinkle of his own eyes, and the wide smile that is splayed on his mouth.
He can feel his face warm as he immediately flips his expression back into an irritated half-scowl.
"Uh, what?" Eren clears his throat, while resuming shoving the rest of the soil back into the hole before him. "Oh, right. Gardening? Yeah it's fine I guess. I asked Levi to assign me a task and this is all he had left for me to do."
Eren chances a look up at his unwanted company, who is blinking down at him with an arched eyebrow.
"Interesting," the blond nods. "You look like you're in a better mood though. Have you talked to -"
"No."
Eren picks up his hand shovel and pats the soil before him flat.
"Oh. So when are you going to -"
"I dunno."
"Oh. Alright," Armin says, and Eren can hear the shrug in his tone. And just when he thinks he is safe, the blond continues on and says, "Just a heads up, we have that special ops squad meeting tomorrow, so you're definitely gonna see her."
Eren freezes, his shovel arm falling limp. He sits back on his heels and shakes his head, wiping the sweat off of his brow with his forearm.
"Shit..." he mutters under his breath.
"Yup," the blond says nonchalantly, only further contributing to Eren's irritation. "So do you know how you-"
"No," Eren says, emerald greens shooting a warning glare up into calm, azure blues.
"Well, alright, but you don't even know what I was going to say."
"I'm pretty sure I know what you were going to say."
"Okay, what was it?"
"You were gonna ask if I know how I feel about her - or, if I know what I'm gonna say to her when I see her!" he snaps back irritably.
Armin blinks back, completely unfazed.
"I was gonna ask if you knew how you were gonna avoid her, but… yeah, I wanna know the answer to all that, too."
A trap.
Eren frowns, tearing his leer from his best friend and redirecting his gaze to the sky.
Armin was just too good at fishing out information without trying to be. Or maybe he was trying and Eren was just too dumb to ever catch on.
He sighs.
"No," Eren replies curtly. "No, to everything."
"Are you any closer -?"
"No."
He sees Armin nod in his periphery.
"I see… "
Eren scowls at the sky, but the longer his gaze lingers, the more he finds his irritation slowly fading, noting that the sky is just as blue and cloudless as the backdrop of his most recent dream. And at the recognition, visions of hanging laundry and the pregnant swell of Mikasa's abdomen flicker across his mind, and before he knows it, he is uttering dangerous words.
"I had a dream about her."
Almost immediately, he regrets the confession and curses his loose tongue when he catches a glimpse of the smile that momentarily bursts across Armin's face, before he purses his lips and nods to conceal it.
"Oh?" Armin asks curiously, voice not even attempting conceal interest. "And what happened?"
Eren sets his jaw and shakes his head, turning to dig another hole into the earth.
"Nothing," he grumbles as he stabs into the soil with his hand shovel, concentrating extra hard on the action so that he would have a reason not to look at Armin.
"Ah… so that's why you looked so happy."
"Oh, shut up," Eren huffs, his stabs getting noticeably more violent, as he feels his ears begin to burn.
"You don't have to tell me the details. I'll just assume that it was a… a very good dream," and the suggestion in Armin's voice makes the warmth in his ears spread to his face, and he has to stop digging.
"What the hell, Armin?" he spits, turning to glare up at his best friend incredulously, who seems startled at the reaction. He would expect such behavior from perhaps Connie, but never Armin, and he has to wonder if he is dreaming, now, too. "It wasn't like that!"
At least this particular dream wasn't "like that".
"Not like what?" Armin blinks, feigning innocence all too well.
Unless his innocence is not feigned and he himself is actually the perverse one, imagining the suggestion in Armin's voice.
Eren glowers, frustrated at Armin's intentional - or unintentional, he's still unsure - mind games.
"Not like…!" Eren waves his hands in the air, the shovel still tightly clutched in one, as though hoping wildly gesticulating would help him complete his sentence.
He then lets out a disgruntled sigh, hands dropping to his sides, staring absently ahead at the half-empty sack of bulbs.
"It wasn't anything… perverted . We were just…"
He lifts a hand to scratch at the back of his neck.
"We were… married."
Saying it aloud is a completely different experience, because it is essentially an admission that his mind was indeed capable of conjuring such thoughts, and of viewing her in that way. He finds that the confession brings no catharsis - only regret, because he has exposed himself fully and revealed a key detail of the extremely private and confusing thoughts that he has not yet worked through, that he is certain Armin would now attempt to analyze. Now he does not even want to chance a look at Armin's expression, because he can already feel the shit-eating grin radiating off of his best friend's face.
Eren shakes his head, angry with himself for saying anything, and he continues to dig, ignoring the feel of Armin's discerning gaze on his back.
"Okay… so?" Armin presses.
"It was just a stupid dream," Eren replies, stabbing into the soil.
"Well, how did you feel about it?"
He is now more regretful than ever about opening his big mouth.
Already drained from his own inner monologue and having to fend Armin off, he sighs, chucking some earth off of his shovel, and onto the grass.
"I… I didn't hate it, I guess," he all but mumbles with a shrug.
Now he hears Armin sigh, and the sound touches a nerve.
"What?" Eren snaps. He stabs the shovel into the ground so that it is standing on its own, turning to peer at Armin, his irritation at the conversation already at its height.
"Look… I'm standing by what I said yesterday," he says, just now making the decision as the words spill out of his mouth. "I don't have time for this now. You said it yourself, right? We've got a job to do."
He watches as the glimmer of amusement in Armin's eyes fades, and the blond's face is once more neutral as he nods with a small smile.
"Yeah. You're right about that."
As Armin stares on, Eren cannot tell if there is pity in his best friend's azure gaze, or if it is just an imagined construct of his own now incredibly defensive mind. Either way, he cannot stand it, so he looks down and talks to the patch of grass between Armin's boots instead.
"Besides," Eren continues, "After we all just finish what we've set out to do, I'll… I'll have all the time in the world to work this nonsense out with her."
And here was yet another admission, which displayed his willingness to pick the topic back up someday, at some point in time.
He hopes it is enough to fend Armin off, as it is somewhat of a compromise.
But it is silent for too long, and he must look up at Armin who staring down at him with thoughtful blues, eyebrow arched inquisitively.
"Will you, though?" he asks, as their eyes meet.
The three words are jarring, and not at all the reassurance he expected to receive from Armin.
Hadn't Eren just admitted he wouldn't run away from this forever?
Wasn't that enough?
He frowns, because Armin's reply is vague enough to inspire a flurry of objections and questions within him, but before he can even open his mouth to retort and tell him to stop being so cryptic, the boy shifts his stance and says:
"Anyway, gotta get back in to go over expedition plans with Erwin. I'll see you at the meeting tomorrow, though. Have fun gardening!"
Eren's mouth hangs open, and he nods silently, eyes narrowing as the blond waves at him and makes his way back into the castle.
Staring after the receding figure, he blinks, unsure of what has just taken place. He then turns and pulls the shovel from the ground, and resumes his work.
'Will you though?' he recalls the words as he stabs into the soil with a deep frown. 'What the fuck is that even supposed to mean?'
Eren grumbles a slew of expletives under his breath, and the thoughts spinning in his head are both draining and high in volume and he finds himself stabbing the hand shovel into the grass once more, with a growl.
"Dammit Armin…" he mutters to himself.
He sleeps dreamlessly that night.
In the morning, he opens his eyes to his wall, resenting the feeling of disappointment that takes over.
He is not at all prepared.
When he sees her in the flesh for the first time, he is not at all prepared.
With just a brief glance at her side profile, visions of hanging laundry, a snug apron, a child with her demeanor and his eyes flood through his mind, rendering him motionless in the doorway.
The few others in the room are chatting amongst themselves, and Levi has his back turned to the door, and she is staring into a conversation she is not at all contributing to - until she isn't.
With the slight turn of her head, wide emerald greens meet weary charcoal blues, and his skin prickles and he feels a strange mix of fear and panic and relief, and his stomach does a violent flip, eyebrows nearly shooting up to his hairline in flustered shock, as though he has been caught doing something wildly inappropriate. As his heart rate picks up, he tries his damndest to stand his ground and fix his face to maintain the gaze as though nothing is wrong and all is well and normal - and she blinks back curiously, probably wondering why he looks as though he is about to pass out.
At this point, the urge to back out of the room and hide is shamefully overwhelming, as he is already failing hard at his mission to restore normalcy between them. Eventually, the entirely one-sided intensity of it all is too much, and he must tear away. He swallows hard and blinks a few times, feeling his ears begin to burn, and he coughs into his closed fist before sucking in a deep breath to regain his composure. He then stalks over to the table towards a seat at the corner exactly opposite of her, feeling her eyes trail him until eventually her gaze falls away.
'Yeah, totally normal. Get your shit together, Eren,' he curses inwardly.
He takes a seat next to Sasha and across from Armin, who throws him a knowing glance and sympathetic smile, at which he frowns dryly in response.
Already wanting the meeting to be over, he immediately turns to look up the table, wondering what was taking so long for it to commence. When he finds Connie nowhere in sight, he lets out a heavy sigh and settles back into his seat, leg beginning to restlessly bounce under the table.
And, as the seconds tick by, the strangely powerful desire to look up at her begins to take over.
He shifts in his seat, sighing heavily again, and the urge is like an itch that won't go away, and he doesn't comprehend it at all. The thoughts and physical reactions she incites in him by the mere fact of her presence should logically make him want to look anywhere else but her.
But, not even a minute passes before he gives in and finds his eyes wandering over in her direction once more. This time, she is sitting back in her chair, eyes closed, making it far easier to stare on.
However, what he sees as he observes her is worrying. Only now does he notice the extent of her pallor, and the sweat forming on her brow. She shifts slightly with a closed mouthed cough, and the sudden motion jostles him out of his trance and dissipates his embarassment completely, concern taking over. He leans over to his right towards Sasha.
"Is she okay?" he asks as quietly and inconspicuously as possible.
The brunette turns towards him with a slight frown.
"Yeah… kind of. She's doing much better than yesterday."
Just a twinge of dread prods at his stomach.
"Yesterday? What happened yesterday?" he asks, making every effort to keep his tone even and cool.
"She had a fever."
Given her weakened state, her falling with a fever was not entirely out of the question. However, he cannot help the pang of guilt that arises at the fact that he wasn't around to -
"... after she exercised," Sasha finishes her sentence with a grimace.
"What?!" he whispers sharply and Sasha shrugs away from him defensively, eyes wide and borderline fearful.
"I didn't know she even left her room!" she whispers back meekly. "I was just passing the training room, and there she was. I mean, her fever's gone down since last night, but she's obviously still not a hundred percent."
Eren's frown deepens. He is not surprised that she had attempted to workout in her condition - but at least when she had been injured before, he was there to limit the strenuousness of the exercises she so stubbornly insisted on doing.
The swell of guilt worsens even further when it crosses his mind that had he been there, perhaps he could have talked her out of it.
"Yeah… her workout was pretty intense too. Kind of violent," Sasha adds as an afterthought, now also turning to look at Mikasa.
"Violent?"
Sasha nods, looking back at him.
"She broke a punching bag."
"Broke a punching bag?" he whispers in disbelief, trying to keep his shock at a relatively low volume.
"Busted a hole into it," Sasha says, continuing to nod in affirmation.
His mouth hangs open as he turns his gaze back to Mikasa, who now appears to be taking a nap. He wonders how someone in her condition could manage to inflict such damage, but then he remembers it is her, and that alone is enough of an explanation.
"So, she was combat training with a cold and a serious injury," he says, not even bothering to mask his annoyance with Sasha. "Why didn't you stop her?"
She blinks incredulously at him, and he feels as though the bewildered gaze is meant to shame him, and send the message that perhaps heshould've been the one to stop her.
"Okay, I want you to think about the words you just said," the brunette says, whispering loudly while gesticulating, "and then actually picture metrying to do that. Better yet, picture me trying to come between the punching bag and Mikasa. Picture what I would look like, if-"
"Yeah, okay, I get it. She would've punched a hole through you," Eren mutters, feeling very little relief at the fact that the shaming component of her gaze was only imagined, because the guilt that bites at him is still very much real.
Sasha sighs, reverting back from animated to concerned. She then gives pause, eyeing him pensively, and immediately, his defenses fly up.
"It's weird, you know? I hadn't seen her like that before."
"... like what?"
"Ah… I dunno. I didn't stick around long because I felt like she wanted to be alone…" Sasha glances across the table, and they are both looking at the napping Ackerman. "She didn't look angry and scary like she usually does when she works out. She looked angry and… kind of sad."
And at that, his stomach sinks, because he already knows with some certainty that he is somehow connected with her irrational decision to maul apart a punching bag.
Perhaps she had even imagined him as the punching bag.
He stifles the urge to cringe as his mouth curves into a frown, guilt coursing through him. He stares on, taking in the sight of her hollowed cheeks, and the dark circles under her eyes, observing the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders and chest with each ragged breath drawn. And after a while, he is suddenly aware of Sasha's sympathetic gaze boring into the side of his face, to which he has the urge to snap 'What?! SHUT UP!'
He looks back at Sasha, hoping his mild scowl is enough to get her to stop staring. But, she opens her mouth to speak, then pauses, clearly attempting to tread very lightly.
"You should talk to her," she says slowly, the caution in her tone evident.
He finds himself feeling even more defensive, and his jerk reaction is to tell her to mind her own damn business - until it occurs to him that she is not wrong.
"Yeah," he replies, voice low and quiet as he looks away and down at the table in shame, settling back in his seat.
He feels her continue to stare at him - until Connie busts in through the door, rousing Mikasa from her nap, the entire squad turning their attention to the room's entrance.
"Sorry! I thought it was at six-thirty!" Connie says through a nervous laugh, taking a seat next to Sasha by the head of the table, right next to Levi, who throws him a chilling glare before finally commencing the meeting.
Over the course of the next hour, Eren watches as Mikasa strains to keep her tired eyes open, and sit up straighter. While he is, for the most part, attentive to their mission directives, he finds his gaze wandering back to her repeatedly, secondhand anxiety building as he watches her stare on at the captain, brow furrowed in concentration, clearly attempting to mask whatever pain or discomfort she was feeling. Finally, whatever she was feeling must have become too much, because she suddenly rises from her seat, cutting Levi mid-sentence.
The captain arches his eyebrow at her, strangely unfazed, and the entire squad's eyes are on her.
"Excuse me," she says politely, yet weakly, without looking up.
She pushes out from the table and heads towards the exit, and Eren's eyes trail after her as Levi resumes speaking - and before the door can fully shut closed behind her, he, too, is on his feet.
It takes a moment for him to register what he has just done, and he can feel the entire squad's inquisitive and probing gazes trained on him - but he decides he is too concerned for her to care at all about what could possibly be crossing their minds.
"Is there a problem, Eren?" Levi asks, now clearly irritated with the consecutive interruptions.
Eren blinks at him, eyes briefly flicking at the door, and before he can utter a word, Levi waves him off.
"Go," he says, shifting his eyes back to the group.
Eren makes his exit, feeling the weight of curious stares on his back as he leaves.
Once in the hallway, he sees her walking slowly, a hand pressed to her head.
"Oy, Mikasa," he calls her name softly.
It rolls off of his tongue not quite the same as before, but he ignores the feeling, focusing more on the distinct urgency in his pace as he strides towards her.
She turns - rather swiftly for someone in her condition - her weary eyes widening in bewilderment at the sight and sound of him, and when their eyes meet again, his stomach flutters, and his fists involuntarily clench defensively.
He curses inwardly at the involuntary physical reactions, but tries to ignore them.
"Are you alright?" he asks, attempting to keep a calm and even tone. He stops a safe distance away, feeling himself begin to tense in her presence.
She nods slowly, expression still wrought with puzzlement.
And then they are looking at one another all alone, and he finds himself flustered and unable to hold her gaze yet again, and instead directs his eyes at a nice, neutral area - her shoulder.
"Come on, I'll walk you back to your room," he says to her shoulder.
It is silent for a moment, until he looks back up at her, and he curses internally yet again. Her expression has faded back into her usual calm and extremely difficult-to-read disposition.
"You don't have to do that," she says, and he swallows because her voice… It is the first time he has heard the sound in days, and it is gentle and light and strangely soothing to his ears. "Thanks though."
"It's fine," he insists, hoping the inexplicable amount of satisfaction he feels at merely hearing her voice is not evident. "I'm already here."
"No, it's fine - I'm fine," she says calmly, yet firmly, and now she is the one averting her gaze.
Her defiance awakens the confrontational part of him, and for the first time in days, rather than the fear or embarrassment he has consistently been feeling in her presence, he feels a familiar irritation with her steel stubbornness - akin to what he felt on the night that started this whole mess.
"You're not fine. You're sick and wounded, you left the meeting early - and you broke a punching bag ," he says flatly, taking another step closer.
At the mention of her workout activities, her calm demeanor shifts into a mild glare, likely brought on with Sasha in mind.
"It was falling apart already," she says quietly and somewhat guiltily, though there is an irritated edge to her voice at being exposed.
"Right," he says with a shake of his head. "Come on. You should be resting."
He moves to take another step forward, but freezes midway.
'Well, I want to… You should be resting, anyway.'
The familiar sentence from the dream that is now carved into his memory makes his tongue feel heavy in his mouth, and he remembers white sheets and rooftop kisses and baby bumps, and the accidental reference effectively burns away at the ability to be normal with her - which he had just relearned a few moments ago - because such thoughts are now flitting through his mind a mile a minute.
But, even in the prolonged silence the ensues following his insistence, Mikasa does not look up him.
In fact, her heel scrapes the ground in a move to step back and distance herself from him, and it is far too quiet and they are far too isolated for him to not notice the extremely subtle and evasive action. And, despite his need to keep a safe, physical distance from her, he still finds himself feeling just twinge of offense.
"I'm fine," she repeats, a firmer edge to her tone, her gaze still directed at the floor.
And they both fall silent - him, staring at her pallid face, her staring at the ground. Her expression is incomprehensible, though the tension in her body is evident, and it feels like all the air is slowly being sucked out of the room, because the silent stalemate is filled with stiffened limbs and bated breaths and words unspoken.
As time passes, it becomes increasingly clear that her stubborn refusal of his assistance goes far beyond a desire to not be burdensome, and means so much more than her usual self-effacing humility.
'You might've broken her heart,' Armin's stupidly reasonable voice echoes in his mind.
Eren swallows, now unsure of how to smoothly respond or approach the situation. In an attempt to gather his thoughts, his eyes trail down to the floor - until they catch upon the bruised and purpled skin of her porcelain knuckles.
The very familiar ache of guilt begins to blossom at the pit of his stomach.
"You're upset with me," he blurts, eyes darting back up to her face.
At that, her expression softens, and she slowly lifts her head to look back at him, finally beginning to display at least a semblance of emotion, with the subtle questioning curve of her brow.
"That's why you…" he waves a hand over at her right hand, and in self consciousness, she fists her hands so they partially disappear beneath the sleeves of her cardigan.
"No, I… " she begins, blinking and shaking her head, and now her brow is furrowed in thought, and it seems that she, too, is at a loss for words.
And then they are stuck in another silent stalemate, until Eren's gaze hits the floor once more, and he lets out an exasperated "tsk".
"It's okay. You… it's alright if you… if you're mad at me. I'm - I know I've haven't been… around, but… "
He trails off, wracking his brain as to how he should complete the sentence, because he does not know how to without explaining why he was acting the way he was. Doing so meant divulging a whole slew of thoughts and feelings that he was not prepared to divulge.
The only other alternative was verbalizing his belief that they should wait until after their grand mission was complete to speak about what had taken place between them. And even this option wasn't ideal, as doing so could either come off as a rejection, or plant a seed of hope in her that neither could afford to pay any heed, when there were far more important mattes at hand.
Frustration takes over as he fruitlessly tries to select the right words to say. All the while, he can feel the weight of her gaze bear down on him as she patiently awaits his answer.
And while immersed in thought, he cannot help but think about how easy it used to be to talk to her - how he could say anything to her with complete ease, and without fear of judgement. Sure, in their youth she had judged him for his wild and impossible passions, but over time, they had gotten to a point where he never felt as though he was walking on eggshells with her, no matter how controversial the topic, or how she may object to his line of thinking. She had been his confidante and sounding board.
Now, he could barely hold a conversation with her.
He glares at his boots and curses internally at how he has let the situation affect their relationship. Even without the features his dream pushed upon him, it had been a caring and wholesome, and comfortable relationship - just fine the way it was.
He hates how far they have fallen.
"I'm not upset with you."
Her voice cuts into his reverie, even and calm, reeling him back into present. But then, he looks up at her to find that her composed tone is only a clever mask, betrayed by the troubled knit of her brow, and the tight curl of her fists at her side.
"It's just… is this how it's going to be between us, from now on?"
Her voice cracks, and he frowns deeply at how the words come out so quietly almost fearfully, as though she is gathering every ounce of courage in her possession to pose a question he honestly does not even have an answer to.
And the more he ponders on her words, the more they scare him.
She is vocalizing doubt about their relationship - their friendship - and acknowledging that there existed a possibility that they two could stay in this strange limbo forever, all due to a stupid hangup he had, that even he could not understand.
He doesn't want that.
He doesn't want this - this grating tension and inability to speak to one another.
And neither does she - he imagines it's why her voice is shaking, it's why her eyes are starting to glisten, and it's why she sounds so sad .
He sets his jaw, because an ache far different from the swell of guilt he has become so accustomed to presses across his chest, and the urge to gather her into his arms is suddenly overwhelming.
"I'm…" she shakes her head lightly, "I… I shouldn't have said those things."
And the ache instantly worsens and consumes him whole, and he is suddenly so angry with himself.
'You really shouldn't have. Then we wouldn't be in this mess,' the defiant, rational part of his brain says, though in large part, he does not agree with the sentiment at all, and the conflicting sides throw his head into even more chaos.
"Mikasa… " his tongue feels like lead as he says her name, and he is just there, just there on the cusp of spilling it all out because he can't standthe fact that he is the reason for the dark circles under her eyes, the bruises on her fists, the frown on her face, the scar on her abdomen, the scar on her face, the scar on her heart -
"Eren," she says his name firmly, and it seems as if something within her has snapped, because she is shaking her head at the floor, her eyebrows arching up, and she is blinking more as though she is willing herself not to cry, and he feels his expression begin to mirror hers, his mouth curving into a deep frown.
"I know. I already know that you don't want… all that. And… and I'm okay with that. I really am."
'How can you know that when I don't even know that?!' he screams on the inside, because she doesn't know.
She doesn't know a damn thing.
She doesn't know what he's thought of every day since she said those words and kissed him and so cruelly poisoned his mind with thoughts of a life beyond the hell they lived in - poisoned him with vivid thoughts of pleasure and pure happiness that he previously never even had the capacity to entertain. She does not know that he could not unsee the swollen pink of her lips, or the imagined pregnant swell of her belly, and she does not know that the thought has crossed his mind that maybe someday, when their lives and humanity's fate were not hanging in the balance, he could, perhaps, want all that too.
Her downcast eyes, travel up slowly to meet his pitiful gaze, and like that very night, her eyes search his, waiting for him to say something. And he just blinks back and swallows, unable to speak because he can't very well say any of that.
And again, his silence is the reason she looks completely defeated and takes a step backwards - and his body, as though reflexively telling him not to make the same mistake twice, falls in step almost automatically, as he reaching reaches out to tug at her sleeve.
"Mikasa, let me -"
"Don't."
The lone syllable is loud and cutting and stern, her voice shaking with restraint as she moves her arm out of his reach, charcoal blues meeting his bewildered gaze head on.
The rejection is more jarring than he expects it to be, and his hand drops slowly to his side, mouth hanging agape in dumb shock.
She stares at him, eyes shining, and her expression softens as she shakes her head.
"You don't have to do that," she says for the second time that day, and though her voice is much quieter, there is a distinct edge to it. "You don't have to feel guilty, and you don't have to make anything up to me."
It is silent, and all he can do is listen because he is completely paralyzed.
Her mouth opens and closes as though she is trying to piece the next sentence together in her head, until finally, she shakes her head again, expression completely crestfallen.
"I've decided… I don't need or want anything from you when this is all over."
His stomach drops.
The words are, for some reason, crushing, and they hurt, and he doesn't understand why, because he should be happy, because this effectively erases the problem and enables him to get back to thinking about titans at all hours of the day, like he should be.
He watches as she curls her fists at her side and opens her mouth to speak once more.
"All I want is…" there is hesitation in her tone, and he is on edge, anxiously anticipating her words, afraid of what they are or aren't.
"All I want is for you to be able to look at me again," she says, voice shaking and barely above a whisper, and she blinks, restraining her tears.
"... just like you used to. That's it. That's all I want."
Again, she lifts her gaze to meet his, eyes shining with a mix of fear and sadness and controlled hope.
It all makes his heart ache with a new kind of pain he has never felt before.
"Mikasa…" he trails off, realizing that her name is his one word vocabulary at the moment, because it is all he can muster from the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions that his mind and body cannot process.
But even while caught up in his inner turmoil, he knows he could very easily put this whole thing to rest if he just agreed - if he just reassured her that he could do as she wished.
… but he could not.
Because it dawns on him that he would never be able to look at her the same way again. There was no way he could forget the words she had spoken, or unfeel the warmth of her kiss, or forget the hurricane of brand new thoughts and feelings her actions had spurred within him.
His silence speaks what he cannot, and she tears her gaze away from his, and nods at the floor.
"Thanks for checking on me," she says politely, not evening lifting her head to look at him, before turning and walking away.
His body flinches, noting that the urge to follow her has now apparently become a reflex. But he stubbornly remains grounded and in place, purely out of fear, and the knowledge that nothing good could follow if he did chase after her.
Eren watches her back as she leaves, and as she turns the corner, he is filled with an overwhelming mix of shame, guilt, and regret.
3.
He blinks, and his aching limbs are carrying him forward, palms and knees scraping against the moist grass. He looks up, and all else is shrouded in a thick, grey mist - all but the path to the body lying stationary just a few feet away from him.
His eyes grow wide, heart jumping into his throat in recognition when he sights telltale raven hair and pale skin. In an instant, he is scampering frantically across the grass towards the still figure, heart drumming in his ears.
"Mikasa!" he cries hoarsely as he reaches her. She is on her side, eyes closed, cape partially draped over her upper body. He slides an arm around her back, hoists her up so that she is half-resting on his lap, and her head limply lolls back, further contributing to the nausea he is beginning to feel.
"Oy, Mikasa," he repeats shakily, urgency dripping from every syllable of her name as he gently jostles her in his arms, hoping against all hope that he is not too late.
He peels her cape back from her torso, and is immediately greeted with the horrifying sight of vibrant crimson, soaking up the bottom half of her white button down shirt. His eyes widen in horror, already beginning to burn from the sting of oncoming tears. He presses his mouth into a thin line and swallows, bringing a shaking hand to hover over the reddened, wet cloth - but he does not press his fingers to it, and instead snaps his head up to look at her face, and places a hand on her cheek.
"Hey! HEY! Now's not the time to sleep!" he barks, though his voice is already beginning to tremble as he leans in and lightly pats at her face with his palm.
'I'm too late I'm too late I'm too late I'm -'
When her eyes flutter open to meet his, he is certain he has never felt more relieved in his entire life.
"Mikasa!" he exclaims. Her weary blue-greys blink up at him and breathe new life into him, sparking a rush of adrenaline.
"Stay with me, alright? I'm gonna get you out of here," he says with determination, before he lifts his hand from her cheek and to his mouth, about to bite into it - when she grabs his wrist.
He freezes, and is instantly irritated because they are on limited time, and she is, for whatever reason, wasting it away with her defiance.
But then, her grip tightens and cuts into his racing thoughts, and he finally really looks at her - only to watch her shake her head.
His shock at the silent command lasts for only a split second, because he bares his teeth and snatches his wrist from her grasp, clutching at her sleeve to get a better grip of her in his arms, emerald greens blazing down at her with crazed and foolish determination all the while.
"I'm not losing you," he growls defiantly, before whipping his head up to look around the field.
Their surroundings are completely shrouded in fog, with next to no visibility within a five foot radius, and it is eerily dead silent. The lack of anything but mist makes it feel as though it is just the two of them, alone, for miles and miles.
"ARMIN?! LEVI?! JEAN?!" he cries out. "Where the FUCK are you?! Mikasa is -"
Suddenly, her hand is on his cheek, thumb partially resting on the corner of his mouth, and she is forcibly redirecting his face and his gaze towards her.
"Eren."
He wants to snap at her, but the calmness in her voice, and the warmth of her skin on his, seem to put him under some sort of spell, as they reach inside and douse the fires that are raging within him.
She pulls her hand from his face and reaches to the one he has resting on her arm, and closes her fingers over the back of his hand, placing their linked clasp right above where the blood begins on her shirt. Her grip is somehow still warm and dry despite their cool and damp surroundings, and it is marginally comforting - but not enough. Though his heart rate has slowed at observing and falling in line with her gentle and collected movements, he registers that he is now shaking - and not at all from the cold.
"You're… giving up?" he questions quietly, in disbelief.
She offers no reply to his question, and instead stares up at him, and the weight of her gaze is heavy - so scrutinizing, it feels as though she is trying to reach into his brain, or memorize his face, with the intensity of her gape. But he cannot be too sure of what she is thinking, as he was never very good at reading people - and now that he thinks of it, nor had he ever really tried to deconstruct her in such a way. He was always too busy staring off elsewhere, far beyond anything, or anyone in his immediate surroundings - including her.
But now, all he can do is stare down at her and wonder what is going through her mind at a time like this - and he is mystified even further when there is an unexpected crack in her stoicism, the corners of her lips quirking upward into a small smile.
"You're going to do it," she rasps softly. "You're going to save them. You're going to win."
He frowns.
The words and her soft expression are meant to comfort and reassure him, but they do just the opposite, because they sound and look like the beginnings of a goodbye that he has absolutely no desire to entertain.
"We!" he snaps at the fading woman in his arms.
She does not even flinch.
"We're going to win," he insists, the hand under hers latching onto her shirt and fisting the cloth there.
He wants her to say "okay" and mean it, but she maintains her silence, pity and knowing in her tired eyes.
" We… " he repeats weakly, insistently, defeatedly, a lump beginning to form in his throat. He swallows it down, releases her shirt and turns his palm into hers, closing his fingers around her hand to return the clasp.
"We can't do this without you," he says as he shakes his head, and his voice is trembling, although he means for the words to come out steady and even.
She maintains her smile.
"You can. You all know what you're doing, and you … you've gotten so strong," she says, and he can feel his eyes begin to sear and water yet again. "Stronger than me, even."
What a joke.
At least in his mind, it is a joke, because even if she did actually believe it, it simply wasn't true, and would never be true.
Even now, while she is teetering on the brink of death, she is the one comforting him - even now, broken and half gone, she is still the stronger one.
He is about to object and tell her just that, when her eyes begin to droop closed, and the action causes a paralyzing panic to ripple through him and shake him to his core.
"Hey," he whispers sharply, and there is a crack in the lone syllable as he shudders, a new kind of fear gripping at him.
He squeezes her hand hard, and her eyes flutter open once more, bringing him only mild relief, because he knows now, for certain, he is going to lose her.
He can feel his eyes widen at the stark realization, feel them veil with tears, because the thought is scary and so surreal that he is still somewhat in denial and disbelief.
Because it wasn't supposed to be this way.
They were supposed to take back their home, together.
His teeth gnash together as he fights hard against the urge to cry, and the strain and sorrow must be evident on his face because her brow is now arched in concern, and he can't take it, he can't look at her like this, and think of her like this, and he doesn't want her to see him like this. So, he pulls her into his arms, and buries his face in her neck, in her warmth, in her scent - a clever way of hiding from her while remaining close.
They lay still for a moment, and he can feel her grip at the side of his shirt in an attempt to return the gentle hold, and he squeezes his eyes closed tightly to stop the deluge of tears that threatens to pour out.
In the silence, safe from the weight of her gaze, he is able to gather his thoughts. He acknowledges he cannot do much else for her now, but to make her last moments as pleasant as possible.
Gathering his strength and biting back the urge to break, he speaks.
"When this is all over," he begins, mouth at her ear, voice low and hoarse, "let's go back to Shiganshina. I'll rebuild our house. Would you like that?"
He almost regrets the masochistic game of make-believe, as he knows it will likely leave him insane with what-ifs long after she has passed, but he remains determined to stay the course, and for once be strong for her.
But he second-guesses the idea when he feels her body tense in his hold.
He begins to regret it when there is no reply.
His worry causes him to pull back slightly to look at her face, and he can see that the words have cracked at her calm exterior, her tired eyes wide and glistening with a veil of unshed tears, her brow arching in a mix of surprise and subdued sorrow, and he wishes he could take back his words.
But then, she nods with as much zest as one in her state can muster, mouth a small smile that is half rolling into a frown as she tries to hold back her tears, and he is pleased with himself, and at the same time ready to break down.
She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it, hesitance clear on her face.
"What is it?" he asks softly, urging her forth, but the reluctance remains.
"I… can't say it."
He was not expecting that - especially not at a time like this.
"Sure you can," he insists gently, brow arching inquisitively.
"No, I - "
"Hey," he says softly, yet curtly, pulling his hand from their clasp to catch her chin between his thumb and index finger. "Now's not the time to be difficult."
Her calm turns into that mix of puzzlement and sadness he's been seeing quite a bit of today, until the surprise on her face melts into an expression so incredibly wrought with restrained emotion.
Then, she speaks.
"Will you… build more bedrooms?" she asks quietly.
She falls silent, eyes searching his.
He blinks back, waiting for her to say more.
She does not.
She only stares back up at him, as though expecting him to speak.
So he does.
"That's it?" he asks, unsure of why she had been so reluctant to share the small request. "I could do that," he says with a small smile and a nod. "But, what for?"
He immediately wants to eat his words and swallow the question back and out of existence, because her mouth folds into a frown, and she purses her lips, her jaw setting as she clearly fights hard not to break down into tears. The reaction has him panicking internally, wracking his brain to surmise what she could possibly want more bedrooms for - that it could have her reacting in such a way.
"For… Armin to move in?" he guesses.
There is a break in her doleful expression when she lets out a small laugh and shakes her head.
He frowns and thinks harder.
"For…"
Then, slowly, the only other alternative descends on him.
As it dawns on him, his eyebrows shoot up, his jaw going slack, and he feels his own eyes sting, a terrible pain spreading across his chest, and he stammers before he answers, hoping that he is right so he does not seem stupid and overly bold and forward and presumptuous, and hoping that he is also wrong because now is the absolute worst possible time to be thinking of such things.
"For… children?" he finally asks.
And the pain in his chest worsens as she nods, her face beginning to crumple, mouth stretching into a half smile, as she blinks stray tears from her eyes.
There is a sinking feeling in his stomach, as he pulls her body in closer, eyebrows arched pitiably in question.
"That's what you want?" he asks, voice gruff and cracking, and he can feel his throat closing up.
She nods again, and he is coming apart at the seams.
"With... me ?" he asks breathlessly, voice now low and unrecognizable even to himself.
And she nods.
And something within him bursts and breaks and renders him unable to form words.
At his silence, she averts her gaze, sucking in a shaky breath - but immediately, he brings a hand back to her chin, tilting it up so she is forced to look him in the eye once more.
He stares into her shining charcoal blues and thinks: 'Who else?'
There was no one else he would rather build a home with - no one else he found more fit to be the mother of his children, and no one else he would rather share his life with.
It is a terrifying and deeply depressing realization to come to, but despite it all, he smiles and nods vigorously, pulling her in closer.
"Alright," he says, feeling his face crumple, chest jerking as he bites back the overwhelming urge to cry, but he is failing hard, until he has no choice but to let himself fail because suddenly, the tears are hot on his cheeks, streaming freely down his face. "I'm gonna build lots of bedrooms, then," he says, trying hard to smile and speak clearly through his blubbering.
And now her expression begins to mirror his, her eyes growing wide as though not expecting his answer, brow arching pathetically as sobs begin to wrack her body. Like him, she is trying her best to keep it under control, but a soft whimper escapes from the back of her throat, and she claps her hand over her mouth and shakes her head as she begins to cry harder. Then, they stare at one another, both convulsing from their sobs, caught in an agreement that has forever changed the way they will remember one another, making plans that they will never get the chance to see through.
"It's not fair," Mikasa sobs into her own palm, each soft gasp stabbing at his heart, and he is in more pain than he had ever thought imaginable.
Vision blurred by the seemingly endless stream of tears, he pulls her up into a tight embrace once more.
"I know," he whispers into her hair through grit teeth, cinching his arms tighter around her, holding her closer as though if he grips tight enough, maybe she will stay.
They sit like that for a while, until their sobbing quiets down. When her body finally stops shaking from her crying, he feels fear rip through him - which is vanquished momentarily when he feels her turn her head and bump her nose into his temple.
"Eren?" she whispers into his ear.
"Yeah?" he replies softly, sniffling, refusing to loosen his grip.
She is silent for a while, and again he fears that she might have already passed. But then, he feels her light, warm breath on his ear, feels her lips gently graze against it, feels her fingers fist tightly on his shirt.
"I… I love you."
The words come out in a choked sob, and they should not at all come as a surprise, considering the empty promises they had made to one another not a moment ago. Yet, they still blindside him completely, and his emerald greens widen like saucers, and he is paralyzed in her grip.
She presses her forehead to the side of his, sobbing softly.
"I love you so much," she says, voice a quivering, cracked whisper as she weeps, and the words burn and sting and truly fuck him up, his head spinning, stomach turning in both horror and elation, and before he knows what he is doing, he is pulling back only enough to turn his head and press his mouth to hers.
And he finds he never wants to pull away, because, though she tastes of salt from their mingled tears, she is soft and warm, and touching her like this feels terrifyingly natural, and he is immediately filled with regret at discovering so, far too late.
When he pulls back, remaining close enough so that their noses are still nearly touching, her eyes flutter open, exhaustion mingling with her surprise.
She blinks up at him, eyes shining as she tugs weakly at the bottom of his shirt.
"Again," she commands in a whisper.
Despite the circumstances, he finds a small smile creep across his mouth before he presses a chaste kiss to her mouth, and he can feel fresh tears begin to stream down her cheeks.
He has barely pulled away when she repeats, "Again," the corners of her lips quirking up in a slight smile at their sick and twisted and beautiful and tragic game.
He obliges, heart breaking and soaring all at once as he moves in, first pressing a kiss to her nose - making her eyes crinkle in watery mirth - before kissing her full on the mouth once more.
When he pulls back, her eyes are closed, a small smile on her face.
And there is silence.
"Mikasa," he calls her name softly, lifting his other hand to brush her hair from her face.
She does not stir.
"Hey…" he says, voice quivering, blinking fresh tears from his eyes, feeling his throat close completely.
He shakes her lightly, until he is rocking her limp body in his arms like a madman, shouting down at her serene and unflinching face.
"HEY! Mikasa! Mikasa, Mikasa - M-Mikasa," he repeats her name like a mantra, the words slurring together as he shakes her.
Body wracking violently with his sobs, face now doused with tears, he bends to bury his face in her scarf, continuously calling her name, his whimpers muffled as he holds her limp, lifeless body in his arms.
And then, he pulls back, his vocal chords scraping together painfully as he heaves an anguished, guttural scream into the air.
He blinks, and he is bolting upright in his bed screaming, his vocal folds scraping and giving out as he claps a hand over his mouth.
Chest heaving, he gulps for air, body drenched in sweat, face drenched in tears, body convulsing with sobs.
He digs his fingernails into his cheeks in the hopes that the prickle of pain will serve to halt the flow of tears, but the attempt is futile. And, despite his relief at his return to reality, the melancholy persists, and covers him like a thick blanket.
When his breathing slows, and his violent sobbing has died down into quiet weeping, he slumps back onto his bed and presses his forearm to his eyes to wipe away the moisture, cursing under his breath all the while.
Afraid to fall back asleep, he stares at the ceiling, the residual tears continuing to stream down his face.
And slowly, horrifying clarity begins to descend upon him.
'After we all just finish what we've set out to do, I'll… I'll have all the time in the world to work this nonsense out with her.'
'Will you, though?'
He stares dumbly at the ceiling for the remainder of the night.
Sleep only finds him when sunlight filters in through his curtains.
A/N: Tada! Hopefully you now understand why this chapter took a while to pump out! It's long as hell, and was quite difficult to write for multiple reasons - It's like a bunch of fanfics in one due to the nature of Eren's dreams; Eren (happy birthday to him, btw!) is difficult to write if you're really trying to get into his head and redirect his one track mind; I have a pretty full plate with IRL thangs, so the schedule is packed (I make time to be shipping trash because priorities, duh); and I'm unfortunately a damn perfectionist. There are deleted scenes, and so many that were re-written multiple times because I just. Couldn't. Get it. Right. If I actually took the time to make it so I was a hundred percent happy with it, y'all probably wouldn't even be reading this fic hahaha. So, I hope it all turned out okay :)
The only thing that pushed me through this extremely strenuous writing process was re-reading your reviews, so thank you so much if you left one :) They were a reminder that all these words aren't just being posted into a void, and all the hours and sleep lost on writing this fic aren't for naught.
I don't want this author's note to get too lengthy, so I'll be posting more of an "author's commentary" on my blog (I'm "a-heartablaze" on tumblr) in the coming days, if any of you are at all interested. I'll further discuss my thought process behind a few features in this chapter, but for now, here are a few points:
- MILFkasa rooftop/laundry scene was a nod to Carla.
- There was an invisible Rivetra reference. Levi made Eren plant orange tulips because they remind him of Petra. Random?! Seems that way, but the reference goes a little further than me being shipping trash, which I'll explain in detail later (it's Eremika-relevant, I swear!)
- If you noticed parallels here with scenes in earlier chapters, or saw repeated dialogue, 'twas intentional :)
If you caught any of those points, or would like to discuss your own takes on them, please do share. I do loves me some shipping trash discussions :}
Anyways, I sincerely hope you enjoyed this. Questions? Comments? Do the thing.
I am tired and delirious. And will roll around on the floor now. Goodbye.
P.S. The next chapter is going to be very sexually explicit. You have been forewarned :)