A/N: Since this is the fic I will be picking up after NOY is over, I decided to release a chapter to bump up the story somehow. Please, be sure to leave a review if you like it. The atmosphere of this one is very different from NOY, as Eren and Mikasa are younger and their circumstances are far different, but I hope you can open your heart and mind to what I have to offer. I won't let you down!
.: We Are Made of Stardust :.
.: Chapter IV: Breathing :.
Mikasa Ackerman dislikes a lot of things. She doesn't like that her thighs touch, or that her hair tangles easily, or that one hour before dusk when the sun hangs low in the sky, not low enough to be gentle, but just right to shine its ungodly blinding light right in your face. And she really doesn't like—above everything else—boys.
She's a firm believer that something must be wrong with their genetic code. When God, or whomever, created man, he made them in his own image, which really only translates to: men like to walk around pounding their chests and exuding strength and bravery, but as soon as the mildest glimpse of seriousness surfaces in their life, they flee. They'll ask you to stay the night, kiss you, go as far as try to slip their hand down your pants—even promise to love you forever; but as soon as you reconcile their efforts, as soon as you reciprocate all of the affection they've spent so much time of their lives offering you, then ah, alas, you're the desperate one. You're the one a step ahead, the one in over herself. Oh, but what do you mean they like you? Are you mad? Forget the fact that he outright told you (while sticking his tongue down your esophagus, no less) because honey, no, men don't love anything but themselves. And the ignored text messages, the empty promises, the minutes spent in dull silence as you wonder what went wrong—that is all they leave you with. Congrats! Welcome to the world of disappointment! The XY chromosome is fucking killer at delivering that.
And that's as far as Mikasa's experience goes with men. That's why she doesn't like them. And that's why, right off the bat, she's not too fond of Eren Jaeger. The boy exudes self-confidence, the type that's hot and knows it. Sure, he's cute. What with his dimpled cheeks and his mop of ashen brown hair and tanned skin he's bound to wow somebody. But not her. Oh, no. That's why when he drops her off in front of her house, turns to her, smiles, Mikasa runs. Just in case he tries to kiss her. Because boys do that. They kiss things. Then dump them. Fuck that.
"Thanks for the ride," she murmurs, shutting the door.
"When will I see you again?" he asks, rolling down the window.
Never, never, never. "Tomorrow."
"Really?"
"Yeah."And why in the ever-loving heck would she say something like that? The only thing worse than men, is the self-contradictory nature of women (ie: her).
"The Hill," she blurts. "Tomorrow night. Eight thirty."
"You got it."
"Bye."
She trots into her home, wondering all the while why she'd ever want to see this kid again. But to be fair, she reasons, she did just lose a big chunk of her memory. One minute, she was driving. The next, she was waking up in the woods. Then she found him. Nearly dead. Bleeding out of his head. And he could see her.
Sometimes Mikasa forgets that she's a person, a tangible thing that takes up space and air. He saw her, and she didn't expect him to. Or perhaps it's the way that he seemed to look right into her, into her essence, into that inner voice that screams as if he could hear it. Whatever it is, there's something about him and she wants answers. Why was she in the woods? Where is her car? Why does her skin feel so fuzzy, like it's not there, and yet so real when he touches it? She figures she can use him, for what he's worth, to try to figure out what has happened. Because something had to happen. The pieces are there, she only needs help assembling them together.
Bella barks frantically the moment she walks in through the door. Mikasa pets her chocolate labrador, feeds her, then traipses through the emptiness of her home into her bedroom. Everything is exactly as she'd left it. Messy. Sweet-smelling. Haphazard. Like her life. Like the rest of her home. She peels off her shorts and sweater and slips into bed in only her panties, curling up into a little ball. And then, comes the worst part about nighttime.
Silence.
This is when all the thoughts come. They're loud. So loud. And she hates them. She tries to focus on her breathing, hoping for sleep, but the mild sway of her chest and the feeling of it shrinking and expanding only brings another question into mind:
What's the point?
What's the point of living? Breathing is the purest sign of life, its own heartbeat. But sometimes it's just so fucking difficult—drawing each breath, one after the other, slowly, in and out. You see, your heart beats by default whether you want it to or not. You can't will it to stop. You can't just shut your eyes and squeeze your mouth shut and count to ten and hope for death because it'll keep on going and going and booming and thudding and pushing blood through your veins. But your lungs—that you can control. That, hold your breath for, count to ten, drown into your own body. But you can't die. Not from merely holding your breath, anyway. Mikasa knows, for she tried it once when she was ten, after Uncle Levi passed, just to get a taste of what he'd felt before leaving. And her heart had begun to screech, her pulse sprinting, her head clearing, dizzying, igniting. A bright flash of light leaked in through the darkness behind her eyelids, and just then she'd thought she'd seen it—a trace of Uncle Levi. But that was when her lungs gasped, and her mouth flared open, and her eyes snapped wide, and the life in her screamed for air, for relief. She kept living.
Life. She could not rid of herself of it. She was full of it, full to the brim. And that was hard to believe, you see, since she'd died so many times before. She died when Daddy left, when Mom's eyes lost their light, when foster homes played tug-of-war with her and her family. She died when uncle Levi did. When every soul she'd ever loved left her. And yet, somehow, here she is, breathing through lungs that still work, feeling with a heart that still feels, thinking with a brain that still processes. She is like an engine that runs and runs and runs even without gas. Because, for some great unknown reason, God likes to think she still has a reason to stay.
—o—
Sighing, Eren rises from his bed. His head aches. Everything aches. Pain is good, his father used to say. Pain is a sign that you're alive. Scoffing, he shakes his head. His dad was smart, he was a doctor, a man with a future and—as his only son would later come to learn—a past. He loved his wife, adored his child. But parenthood didn't turn out to be as simple as delivering a soul into the world. With it, came a responsibility far greater. With it, came his wife's health deteriorating slowly, his child growing angry and having outbursts he liked to call "tantrums" to which he could not find the cure for, and gave him less time to spend lost in his books.
His father loved books. Something about fiction, he'd say, made the reality of the world a bit easier to live in. Somewhere along the lines, Dad confused the two worlds. He began seeing the words on the pages as real life, the world around him as an illusion. And that, Eren tells himself, is why he ran. To chase the heroes in pages he was smart enough to know weren't the truth, but that he chose to believe in anyway.
Sometimes, Eren wonders where his father is. But then he looks into his mother's eyes, sees the way her body barely sinks into her bed, her limp presence oozing absence. Absence of health. Absence of energy. How such an animated being could be dwindled to this thin thread of life was eye-opening. Loss does this to people. Loss did this to her. And it is loss, and boiling anger, that burns the memory of his father from Eren's mind.
"Ma," he croons that morning, knocking lightly on her bedroom door. "You up?"
No answer.
"I'm coming in."
Still none.
"Alright."
The door creaks loudly on its hinges, old bones that scarcely hold it up. Everything about this home is falling apart, Eren thinks, making a mental note to replace the door whenever he has the time. The noise wakes his mother, whom had been submerged into a state of deep slumber.
"Morning, Ma," he smiles. "How's my favorite lady doing?"
"I'm doing well," his mother smiles back. "Hardly any pain this morning."
"That's great!" Eren walks to her bed, offering to help her get up. She refuses, stubborn as she always is, and winces as she struggles to sit upright by herself.
"I had a crazy dream," she tells him as he sits by her legs. "It was so sweet."
"What was it about?" he asks her, massaging her feet. They are so frail, even this part of her body is too thin, too sick. He tries not to think about it, but he feels every notch of bone, so brittle they may snap in his very hands.
"It was about your father," she smiles warmly. "He came back."
Eren sighs. "That doesn't sound like a good dream to me."
"It was wonderful," the woman sighs, her chest deflating beneath her nightgown. Brown tresses fall down past her shoulders, and she collects them all to one side, ties them into a sloppy ponytail.
Eren smiles as he watches her from the corner of his eye, admiring her beauty. The pert tip of her nose turns red as she rubs it and she sniffles. Armin says he is just like her, but he knows that is not true. Ma's her own category of beautiful, insurmountable. He may have inherited her hard-headedness and her fiery demeanor, but that's about it. Her gentle aura, her patience, her benevolence—he lacks all of that.
He runs his fingers through his hair, an old habit that surfaces when he is nervous. Why he feels this particular way, he does not know. But his mother is suddenly yelling, seizing his forearm in her hands.
"Eren Jaeger!" she gasps, making him jump. "What in heaven's name happened to you?"
"What?" he blinks bemusedly, only to wince when she touches the corner of his forehead where it burns. "Ow! Ma, what the—?"
"Who hurt you?" she asks him in all seriousness, her frown creasing the skin between her eyebrows. "Who did this to you?"
"Oh," Eren sighs, remembering last night's events. They feel so much like a dream. If it weren't for his wound, he wouldn't have even realized that it really happened. "No one hurt me. I fell."
"Fell where?"
"In the woods."
"What were you doing in the woods?"
"I was looking for Armin."
"What?"
"God, it's a long story," Eren capitulates, and in that instant, an image of the girl he met last night flashes into his mind.
She was so… weird. Weird in a fascinating way. Her hair was darker than the night sky, her lips and cheeks so pink they could make roses jealous. And her demeanor, she seemed so distant and almost bitter, but when he reached inside and broke what was on the surface, she was just a girl, scared and lost like he was.
Mikasa was her name. Mikasa Ackerman.
"I'm seeing a girl tonight," he blurts out suddenly. Ma's face brightens and falls simultaneously.
"A girl?" she queries. "Which girl?"
"I'm not sure how to explain it," he smiles to himself. "I met her last night in the woods. She's odd but really pretty. Something about her, Ma. I can't seem to get her off my mind."
"Huh," his mother scoffs. "How hard did you hit your head? Are you sure you don't have a concussion?"
Eren rolls his eyes. "I'm fine. It's just a scrape."
Ma grins widely, the dimples on her cheeks flaring. "Tell me more about this girl," she tells him. And Eren pipes up, excited, somehow elated, somehow full . He opens his mouth, words itching to pour out, but they falter, for he realizes he does not know anything about her at all.
"Am I crazy?" he asks suddenly. He just met this girl and… and his heart feels like it's learning how to beat all over again. He can't explain it, but the thought of her just fills him with so much… stuff. Icky and gooey stuff he's never felt before. "God," he slaps a hand on his forehead, flinching when it hits his wound. His mother stares at him, confused, and he cannot explain himself. "Maybe I did hit my head too hard."
Armin would call him crazy, wild, reckless, suicidal. And, with his heart on his sleeve and the thought of seeing the girl again tonight filling him with promise, he supposes that perhaps his friend would be right. He always is.
—o—
She spends the day in bed, staring at her ceiling, watching the sun rays dwindle into dusk. Time passes in a hazy, dream-like state, slowly and then suddenly. Just a moment ago, it had been noon. She had just awoken to prep herself some coffee and feed Bella, whom has been acting all sorts of weird around her. She won't stop barking, snarling at the air. Her friendly labrador is never one to bark or whine even, but it took all day before she fell silent, whimpering quietly to herself.
Mikasa supposes that perhaps her dog ate something funny, because last time this happened, she was feeling so unwell that the barking didn't stop until she threw up. But the puke never comes. Bella makes noise until she falls asleep, something she has never done before. It bemuses her owner, but Mikasa decides she will worry about it later, for nighttime has come, silence has come, and she remembers her promise to the strange boy she met last night.
Part of her doesn't even want to follow through.
Against her own will, she rises from her bed and peels off all her clothes. She starts a bath, submerges herself into the hot soup, and lets herself marinate, all the while eyeing her legs, how blurry they appear beneath the surface, how the water runs through the cracks of her fingers. Minutes traipse on by, and she forgets herself, forgets where she is. It is the sudden thought of her mother that stuns her.
Ridding her from her head, Mikasa exits the bathtub, stares at her naked figure in the mirror. Droplets of water litter her skin, some melting against the heat of her flesh and coursing downward. She looks pale, her chest scraped a deep red color, the ends of her hair barely touching her shoulders. Sighing, she reaches for a towel, dries herself off, and wraps it around her body before walking back into her bedroom to reach the closet.
Deciding on jeans and a simple tank top, she slips into the clothes after carelessly selecting and cladding herself with mismatched underwear. Who cares, she thinks, it's not like anybody's going to see them.
She's done. Dressed. Hair's brushed. Ready.
But there's a tug-of-war going on in her mind. Should she really see this guy? What are his intentions? Can she trust him?
Can she trust herself?
Mikasa closes her eyes. Breathes.
This is why you have no friends. You overthink everything.
Bella's waking up from her nap, stretching. Mikasa holds her breath and waits, but the barking never comes. Instead, her furry friend wobbles over to her outstretched hand, licks her palm, and yawns sleepily. It's amazing, truly, how happy this simple gesture makes her feel. For a moment, she feels acknowledged, seen. Real.
And she supposes that's a good thing.
—o—
The Hill is not very much a hill at all. It is more like a large slab of hard land that rises from the sandy ground and overlooks the distant ocean. The local youth calls it The Hill because it is part of a small mountain, and that makes a lot of sense.
The sun is gone, the pale moon taking its place as a distant, pale dot, enticing the sea waves to reach up in hopes of caressing it. It's not quite dark yet, but stars have already begun to glimmer through the veiled cocoon of dusk, peppering the empty spaces between pink and orange clouds.
Eren pulls into the abandoned makeshift parking lot near his destination, and walks the rest of the way up onto The Hill. As his shoes dig into the dirt and grass, he realizes how fervidly his heart is beating. It is a cacophonous shout within him, wailing away. He tries to still his nerves, but the blood is already pumping through him with adrenaline and fire, so ardently that he feels the heat course all the way to the tips of his fingers.
He's shaking.
What the hell is wrong with him? There is so much going on within him, so much noise. Huffing, annoyed, climbing, he thinks perhaps he has always been a notch too sensitive, too loud. Everything he feels is ratcheted up to the extremes, so that when finally, finally, he sees her, finds her, there, all alone, waiting, something incredible happens.
He takes a breath.
Inside of him, the screaming stops, and he stills, eyeing the distant silhouette of her back, the flowing tresses of her hair, the poignant edges of her arms and shoulders. She's huddled under a tree, safe from the moon, the stars, the world around them. In her little bubble of safety, she seems almost ephemeral, as everlasting as the blink of an eye. And he thinks she's slipping, fading from right in front of him somehow. Grappling at her presence, imploring her to stay, he approaches her, all the while feeling that he has fathomed her, but no level of imagination he possesses could ever conjure the way their worlds clash the moment her eyes land on him, grasp him, securing his place in this world.
"Hi," he utters somehow, his voice cracking through the layers of nerves in his throat with little shock waves. His lips part to say more, but the look on her face suggests that words are no longer necessary. And perhaps, he supposes, he can learn how to breathe this way, to inhale the air that carries her presence, her scent. Sure, yeah. He could get used to this.