"Eren fully admiring mikasa's beauty" —anonymous

A/N: It kind of came out more as a small listing of things Eren likes about Mikasa, but I hope you like it, nonny!

Rating: K+

Genre: Fluff, basically.

.: Flight :.

He likes the soft scent of her hair.

"They stopped inviting me," Mikasa tells him one night, her fingers fiddling with her bangs. "The girls get together at night and talk about all sorts of… girly stuff. But they go quiet as soon as I walk into the room. I don't think they want me there."

"Why?" Eren scoffs, smirking a little. His eyes fall to her left shoulder, which rises in a mild shrug.

"I don't know," she sighs, running a hand through her hair, locks of glossy ink spilling from the spaces between her fingers. "Sasha told me it's because I never say anything, and because when I do say something, my answers are all the same. So they stopped inviting me, I suppose."

Eren rolls his eyes, snorting. "That's crazy."

Mikasa shrugs a shoulder again. "It's fine."

He likes how long her nails are.

They pop and snap together while she twiddles her thumbs. Mikasa's features have a way of concealing things, but the murky, gray waters of her eyes always reflect what's happening on the inside. There's a slight furrow to her brows, a peculiar curl to her lips, a particular weight to her gaze that pulls it downcast.

"Does it bother you?" Eren asks her. Mikasa traps a fingernail between her teeth, not exactly biting but more like pinning it there.

He likes the shapes of her lips.

And how soft and pink they are. Sometimes, they look like rose petals, lacquered with a subtle sheen so that they never wither, only flourish, forever in bloom. The passing of time, he's noticed, seems to do the opposite for her than what it does to, well, a flower. Through the years, Mikasa merely blossoms. And Eren knows she's self-conscious, that she's spent hours upon hours scrutinizing her flaws, agonizing over the muscles that have grown too taut and unladylike, the scars that have marred her skin forever. But he likes the shapes of her lips, and how they curve around her fingertip, how they allow a glimpse of her teeth, which still pinch her thumbnail; and he wishes that she knew how pretty these aspects of her are, how they amount to so much more than her insecurities.

"No," she answers flatly, but something tells him it's a lie. Mikasa likes to act like she doesn't care for juvenile things, but she's fifteen, and a girl, and curious and growing. Eren's brows knit together in thought.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, Eren," she rolls her eyes.

He likes how long her lashes are.

Because he'd never really noticed before but fuck, are they impressive. They fan outwards and curve up to the sky. One time, when they were kids, Eren had touched them while she was sleeping. He remembers how the hairs had tickled, how her lids had fluttered in her sleep and how small and cute she was. Now she's bigger, and her lashes are longer, and Eren wonders if they might feel differently, if they'll caress the callused tips of his skin and soothe him in the absence of sleep once more.

He likes how delicate her hands look, but how strong they feel (and are).

And to think that he's seen them curled around the hilt of a knife, plunging into the back of a man and then slashing through the napes of titans' necks years later, eradicating life without so much as the flinch of an eye. Do people ever see her in her glory, zipping through the air in her 3DMG and question her humanity? Do they not see what he does—that she is kind and caring and gentle? Do they see her hair flowing in the wind and see a majestic creature, not a girl, not his Mikasa?

He likes how soft her skin is, how gentle to the touch.

Even her scars. Their ridges and bumps don't bother him, no matter how nasty or coarse. In fact, Eren thinks he likes them. And sometimes, he wonders what they may feel like pressed against his lips. Would the ridges level with the rest of her? Would the coarseness fade? He eyes the scratch on her cheek, the one his titan form created some months ago. Something hollow in his chest aches, something raw. Remorse, maybe. Longing, perhaps. In his mind, he swipes her hair away from her face, pecks the scar he's marked her with and apologizes. Can she feel his kiss?

"What?" Mikasa says, frowning at him. "What's that look for?"

He's frowning too. "What look?"

"You're staring," she croons, words muffled on her finger. "All weird and googly."

Eren scoffs quietly. "Googly's not a word."

"Yes, it is."

"No, Mikasa."

"It is, Eren."

"Alright. Whatever. I don't feel like arguing over a stupid word."

"Likewise."

"Ugh."

He likes her voice.

How it billows from between her lips and leaps out into the air, how it dances to the atmosphere, how it coils in his being. He's heard it wail, and scream, and sob. But he's also heard it laced in a gasp, a laugh, a sigh, a battle cry. He's heard it keen sadly, rejoice happily. At her best, at her worst. He's heard it all. (At least, he thinks he has.)

Mikasa's finger leaves her mouth only to twirl in her hair, fiddling with her bangs again. Crinkling her nose, she breathes, "They can stick it." It takes him a moment to realize she's back to talking about the girls. "If they don't want me around when they're talking, then that's fine. I've got bigger things to worry about."

Eren smiles. She looks at him. She smiles too.

He thinks, however, that he likes her smile more than anything.

The way his heart takes flight when she snickers and punches him lightly on the shoulder concurs. The greatest thing about Mikasa—the thing Eren really, really likes the most—is her happiness.