Mikasa's eyes flutter open, trying to blink the sleep away. She startles awake, sitting up, panicking.
She got married.
To Jean.
This is their home.
The truth does not calm her. She feels the same as before, just guiltier. The window on her left is a bright scenery of lush grass, sparse, scattered trees and blue skies. But her mind only goes to the grey of the headstone and how the person laying underneath would view her right now. She is unable to find the strength to pull the covers off of herself, the feeling that she had committed betrayal weighing her down. He wanted her to move on but did he really? That he did not, comes to her more naturally from her habit of wallowing. She hugs herself, trying to gather her thoughts, hoping to dispel her unpleasant thoughts.
The smell of fresh eggs against hot oil wafts her senses, lifting her head off of her knees she was holding on so desperately to. Her stomach groans, and it is a great excuse to put away the introspection for another time. She does not bother adjusting her clothes or fixing her bedhead like a blushing bride is expected to. After spending years together in war, vanity seemed frivolous and their new relationship would have no place for it.
She is surprised by the sight of the tall man whom she is much more used to seeing with a blade than a spatula, humming an indiscernible tune. She knows very few songs. She is light on her feet, drags the chairs of the tiny dining table, rousing Jean's attention towards her.
"I hope I did not wake you."
"I forgot you cook." Mikasa laces her fingers in front of her, trying to divert her mind to their small talk and the fragrance of the cooking food.
"Barely." He scratches behind his head sheepishly. "Breakfast is easy though. Just oil and dump whatever you want to fry up. It'll be ready in a couple of minutes."
Mikasa was not much of an eater. She ate the minimum required for sustenance. But she knew politeness. He grins as he places the plate of a sunny side-up egg, tomatoes and sausages and it is infectious, causing her to attempt to smile back hesitantly. "It's good," she supplies in spite of the generic nature of the meal. He raises his chin up in pride, thanking her. The cutlery against their plates echoes through their small house.
"I have a holiday today, if you wanted to do something. I thought we could-"
"I need to go see him today."
She takes a tiny piece of egg into her mouth, not paying heed to the effect such words may have on the man in front of her, if any.
After a few moments of hesitance, he says, "I could come."
"You want to come?"
"He was my friend too."
"Okay."
"Great."
They walk nearly like strangers with a common destination, a foot or two of distance between them. Mikasa walks hurriedly in front of him, her scarf waving around in the hot summer wind, her mind impatient and restless to pay her respects to the man who had guided her actions her whole life. Jean lets her have her space, images of his departed friends drifting into his mind, souring the pleasant mood that had formed from his hasty union with the only girl he has ever had eyes for, even if she would never look at him in the same way.
The man resting underneath the grey slab of stone, placed solemnly on the hill, seems alive, as he watches his wife's eyes lighten up the way those of lovers meeting one another do. She fondly lays down a cloth on the grass, positioning herself right in front of the stone.
She is going to be here a while, he thinks.
He awkwardly sits behind her, regretting forcing his company on them during such an intimate moment.
"Eren, I'm sorry I couldn't visit you these past few days. Look, Jean is here," she says animatedly, with a sweetness she has never used with him.
"Er, hi," he greets even more awkwardly, the lack of who 'Jean' was in the context of Mikasa, not going unnoticed by him.
"He might visit more often actually. I hope you don't mind."
"Why would he mind? Eren and I were buddies, right?" Jean weakly tries to make his way into the conversation he was feeling less than comfortable being a part of.
"Were you? I thought you hated each other's guts, didn't you? I don't quite remember why or how it started though…"
"Who knows," he lies. "Those times were fun."
"Yes," She laments softly.
She doesn't look back at Jean even once, before easily switching the topic to Armin's latest postcard to her, with the picture of the mountain that spews fiery water painted on it.
He feels like an intruder in between them. Her eyes sparkle with longing and tears that are too stubborn to pour out. He feels like an idiot to think he can, or needs to compete with a dead man. What was he even doing or hoping to achieve with their marriage?
As sad as he may think it is, she seemed content with the memory of him and the knowledge of his relics under the ground. Even though the pain of losing Eren, in spit of his misgivings, convoluted ideals and destructive actions, stings him too, he knows it isn't the same as it is for the girl before him.
He decidedly gets up and dusts himself off. Mikasa does not even flinch as he walks away, taking an aimless round around the hill with a lone tree at the edge of Shiganshina. He vaguely calculates whether he should just return to their shared home, prepare a proper lunch for her or dinner, depending on how long she intended to spend there.
He sits by a pond his strolling has led him to, jumping stones, trying to convince himself over and over that his decision was not rash, that it was the best decision for him and Mikasa. But even he knows that he made a decision with his heart, and his mind would never be able to justify it. He is ready to plunge his head into the mossy water, cursing himself every time the picture of the woman who is supposed to be his wife, crosses his mind, her usual gloom transforming into affection for a dead man she loved with all her heart.
"Jean."
He is snapped out of his spiralling. "Mikasa."
His stomach drops further when he sees the utter desolation painted on her face. Her lips are a tight, straight line, her eyes puffy and red, her nose an unnatural rosy colour.
Then he remembers.
He just wants this girl to smile all her life - the way he wanted to remember her from their earliest days.
Watching her in the orphanage, stealing the smallest of smiles from her gave him more pleasure than any of the riches he had experienced in his travels or the women he had bedded.
He drifts to her, his panic taking over, "Are you okay? What hap-" He stops himself short.
She did not need to verbalise what they both already knew.
He feels guilty for comparing himself to someone she was desperately trying to reach but never again could. Jean was never selfless but he feels he wants to put her before himself. His heart has never hurt as much as it did seeing her so broken, not even when he experienced unsaid rejection from her over and over again.
"Let's go home," He coaxes gently, placing his hand softly on her back to guide her, as she grips tighter on the handle of the straw basket she had brought.
"I'm sorry we didn't get to eat," She says after a silent few steps, head bowed down. "It's already evening."
"Don't worry about it. I was excited about having a large dinner anyway." He says convincingly with a smile, not wanting to add to her agony needlessly.
They find a basket of home cooked food at the steps of their cottage, seemingly a present from the kids at the orphanage this time, much to Jean's relief.
They eat quietly that night, only interrupted by the scratching of Mikasa's cutlery against her plate, as she picks on her food with a bored expression. Jean tries to steer her mind away, explaining to her about his expected daily routine, despite her obvious disinterest in everything around her.
She notices when he is done eating, taking it as her cue that she did not need to pretend any longer to have an appetite. She sweeps off the food from her plate into the bin, bidding him a quick "Good night" before heading to her room. He clears up the table, a similar pall engulfing him as well.
They have a simple life. Jean is the first to get out of bed, as much as he hates the morning. He has become an expert at making breakfast half asleep and leaving an extra portion for Mikasa. He takes a shower and dresses in the Yeagerist military uniform of the garrison, fixing his hair in the mirror. He has to be careful about every bit of him being scrutinised. He was a traitor to the Island and he did everything he could to not remind his Yeagerist bosses of that. They saw him as a tool, a symbol, an easy liaison between the peace corps. He was officially assigned the post of senior strategist of importing and exporting new-world technology, but the higher-ups' distrust of him meant that he was still relegated to doing menial tasks until he got into their good books.
Mikasa is not good with mornings either. They are too bright, invoking expectation of freshness and hope. Her first look in the mirror that is placed opposite her bed, always frightens her. The sunlight puts a spotlight on her pale skin and the contrasting darkness under her eyes. Her body is tired and stiff from the lack of sleep combined with a harrowing nightmare where she had to swim out of an endless ocean of blood to save a lifeless Eren being swallowed by a titan. It is always some variation of her being unable to save Eren or her uncharacteristically finding innovative ways of killing him, or him and all her friends just slipping away from her, leaving her in the darkness that was swallowing her.
She takes her signature red piece of cloth from her bedside table, inhaling its scent, only to be disappointed that it just smells of her now. Yet she does it every morning, with a delusional expectation that her life itself was the nightmare and that the alternate reality where this was their - her and Eren's - home is real.
The various sounds of hurried padding of feet across the floorboards outside, and the faint sizzle of oil on a pan reminds her of her new life with Jean. She could go out and help him in his frenzy to leave for work on time, but she does not want him to see her sorry state. Once she hears the final bang of the front door echo through their home, she drags her lead feet against the smooth wood to the bathroom outside her room.
She takes longer than necessary in bathing and brushing, grooming not on her mind in the least. The feeling of scalding water on her skin relaxes her. She leans into the feeling, even as it stings her skin, reminding her that she exists, and therefore, must move forward. His mantra pushes her forward; nothing else.
She smiles at the simple, covered food on the table, the labour of a man she should really assist more. She eats sometimes, to show her appreciation. Most days, she will pick up a morsel and go out the door, telling herself that maybe she will eat it for lunch, or dinner. She takes a long walk until she reaches the orphanage on the farm. Mikasa feels her energy lift at the excited children who run to her. She never understood why they flocked to her. She hardly interacted with them, tending quietly to repair works and gardening around the estate instead. But it felt good to feel needed, wanted. It was what kept her coming back, even if she never expressed it like Historia did.
She returns home for lunch every alternate day, the orphanage being manageably near to where she was settled. She eats the rest of her breakfast and does some cleaning, and laundry. She was shy the first week, picking up Jean's underwear for a wash too, but after he volunteered to do his share himself, guilt motivated her to regard all his clothes all the same. Now even if he insisted, she ignores his request of him doing his part of the chores. It's the least she could do considering she barely fulfilled any other wifely duties.
She visits Eren's grave every other day. Today she decides that the grave looks a bit sad. She makes a mental note about planting some flowering plants around it. He might have liked that. Or not. He was not too concerned about such things. It could be good for her though, so she brings around some seeds, a shovel and a watering can, the next time she visits.
She returns to the orphanage and stays there till the sun graces the sky with an orange streak. She might go to the local bazaar not too far away, to pick up supplies for dinner. She cooks, but nothing elaborate. Stew and some bread, or vegetables with chicken, whatever was quick and easy. She likes cooking, but she liked cooking more with Carla and her mother.
Jean comes home, announcing his presence as she is just about to take the stew down. She is surprised every time he comments that something smells nice, because for the effort she puts in, she thinks he is being far too kind. They sit at their little table next to the kitchen counter, as he wolfs down the food and she picks at it disinterestedly. He apologises for his lack of restraint, and she smiles genuinely, glad that someone was enjoying themselves.
He tries to be chatty, describing his difficult work conditions and how his boss has found a new way of making Jean's senior position seem equivalent to the position of a goat on a farm. She even laughs sometimes at his unfiltered comments and is amazed at his observation skills from when he was travelling the world, making her wonder about the outside world sometimes.
He prods at her to describe her day as well, asking specifically about the children he took the interest to learn the names of based on the frequency of her mention of them and his brief meetings too. She gives in sometimes, after much insistence that she has nothing to say.
He takes her plate once she is done without asking, frowning and scolding her slightly about her sudden "lack of an appetite" and he does the dishes. She joins in after some time to dry them. He always announces what his plans for the rest of his night are, generally, reading some documents he has a back log on or clearing or writing some letters to their friends abroad.
She stays quiet and repeats the same "Good night" every night, slinking away to her room immediately. She unsees any disappointment that is painted on his face, which he desperately tries to hide.
Jean has to walk quite a bit every morning to the nearest train station. It was a pain to get used to in the beginning, the sun not being kind to him. It is worth it, the alternate being to uproot Mikasa from their little home on the outskirts of Shiganshina, forcing her away from her dearly held memories and the orphanage. He was a soldier after all. A bit of safe travel was nothing, even if he did groan every morning, having to wake up so early. It would take him roughly an hour to his workplace in Stohess, with the towering Yeagerist buildings, monitored by the Monarch herself.
The work was difficult and trustworthy colleagues and friends were few. The Yeagerists were a passionate bunch who looked at Jean with suspicion, his former friendship to their deceased leader Eren Yeager being one of the only reasons for higher than usual mercy. Jean did not mind. All the underhanded slurs, unnecessary interrogation, heightened doubt, exaggerated labour, mind-numbing transcription, strategisation and unstable diplomacy was all worth it as long as he made it back home in time for dinner to his beautiful wife.
He did not expect much from her. Over the weeks, she had taken to cooking a simple meal for them for which he was more than grateful. He was overly protective of her, not wanting anyone in his workplace to know of her, having made her position about staying away from the military and politics very clear. She was used to her simple life and he wanted to keep it that way.
Sometimes, like today, he would bring her food or fresh groceries to indulge her, or to celebrate nothing special at all, except that they were alive, well and content.
"Mikasa, I'm home," he calls out as he closes the door to their cottage behind him, splaying the keys on the little table next to the door. "I've got some fresh meat we can sear."
He looks around for her, hoping to hear her rushing from upstairs.
"The stew smells great!" He approaches the pot simmering over the fire, removing the lid to get a deeper whiff. He turns off the gas, scrunching his eyebrows after getting a slight burnt smell from it. She must have forgotten to turn it off.
"Mikasa?" His heart starts hammering at not hearing any response. It was an irrational fear he should not force upon her. She could just be in the bathroom, or too far inside the room to hear him. His worry made him rush up the stairs, knocking on her door.
No response.
His cold sweat intensifies. He suddenly hears whimpers from the other side – his room.
He wastes no time in changing his direction and opening his door without warning. "Mikasa?"
She is seated on the floor with tears furiously flowing down her sunken cheeks, sobbing uncontrollably with a yellowing piece of paper between trembling fingers, her hair a mess, letters thrown all around her haphazardly. His shoulders slump at her pitiable sight.
Yes, this was the part he sometimes selfishly wished he did not have to come home to, not because she was ruining his day, but because it was too painful for him to watch her suffer.
He lets out a deep sigh and joins her on the floor, his forehead creased and his mouth in a pained frown. She does not look at him and just continues staring frantically at the handwritten letter between her fingers.
"Hey, what's wrong, Mikasa?" He asks very softly and slowly, not wanting to startle her.
She just nods her head dismissively, so he asks again, "You can tell me. It's okay. I'll listen."
She turns her head slowly to his form, seated behind her, leaning against the bed, the light now highlighting how red and puffy her eyes are.
"I can't find it," she whispers in a raspy voice.
"Can't find what?"
"I can't find it," she sniffs and her hands go to her hair, her fingers massaging her scalp in a panic. "I can't find it. I don't know what to do," her voice is shaky, the octave rising, her eyes widening at the yellowing letters strewn all around her.
He could feel her anxiety rising by the minute. He leans forward, trying to level with her. "What do you need?"
"Where are they?!" She screams at him impulsively, her eyes shut tight.
He startles, but grits his teeth behind his lips, hoping to maintain his calm in her frenzy.
He had seen her like this before, but it never got easier.
He always feels helpless, even if determined to find a way to ease her mind. "If you tell me what, I can help you with whatever you're looking for. What are these letters?"
"Eren… he.. in Marley, do you remember, he sent us letters?" She starts displacing the letters with her fingers, overturning and tossing each of them around in a frenzy, her movements clumsy and desperate.
"Yes," more deep breaths.
He just had to hear that name to know that it was going to be a very long night for her. She was in a trance and he was as good as furniture to her in this state.
"This is not all of them. They're missing… they're missing.. I arranged them, there must be more. Where are they? If I lose those… no, I can't.. there's nothing else left."
Her movements speed up. She's not thinking. By the creases and the fresh dampness on some of them, it's obvious that she has been slaving over the papers for hours.
He lets out the breath he couldn't help but hold in, relieved. "I know where those might be."
She gasps loudly, her grief-stricken face snaps towards him. He gets up wordlessly and opens the doors to his cupboard. It is messier than he remembers it, clothes and accessories tumbling over one another, but he does not comment to spare the girl who was already in enough guilt as it is.
He reaches into one of the drawers and takes out a stack of frayed letters, similar to the ones on the floor. He feels her hawk like gaze on his back all the while until he places the stack in front of her.
She wastes no time as she digs into them, her movements still neurotic, her eyes darting wildly from side to side, processing the writing.
"Why did you have them?" She asks without looking away in an accusatory tone that shocks him.
"When I moved in and asked where I could keep my stuff, you had said you would clear out your clothes and I could just take care of the rest of it as was convenient for me. Looks like one part of the letters were left behind," he explains calmly.
Her silence unnerves him, her mouth in a hard frown, her gaze steady, even if the waterworks had not stopped.
"What are you looking for in them?" He dares to ask, wanting to understand the source of her troubles this time.
A beat, and she replies stiffly, "I.. don't think I understood Eren. But he must have told me.. something, or the other because of which… maybe if I had been more careful, taken the time to understand him, I wouldn't have… I wouldn't have.. I.."
She breaks into uncontrollable sobs again, her lips trembling, unable to form any more words, as she furiously tries to wipe away the endless salty tears.
"I'm sorry, Mikasa. I didn't mean to-" he moves to place his hands on her shoulder but she flinches violently from him, harshly brushing him off.
"-Don't."
His hands sink to the floor, as he looks away, his eyes narrowed, ashamed that he had moved to do something that disgusted her. He felt his gut wrench, a lump in his throat formed, threatening to force out cries from himself.
But this wasn't about him. It would never be. She would have to come first.
He had promised, whether or not she held him to it. He was a selfish and conceited man but she always came first. He would always jump to save her first even if it meant he could not join her there in that safe space.
So he watched, as she went through the new set of letters again and again, arranging them obsessively in an order that made sense only to her, letting out sobs once in a while that were louder than the rest, probably each time she realises one by one that what she was looking for wasn't there at all, that Eren really was gone and had left her behind, that it was an intentional part of his plan.
He did not resent him for it, but sometimes, he resented this life that was given to him, a life where she would most likely always be unhappy and where he would remain useless in spite of his noble talks of easing each others' burdens.
"I'll go get us something to eat."
She doesn't pay attention as he brings the stew she had made and the meat he had bought on a tray. He smiles bitterly as her food gets cold and he finds it difficult to swallow the delicious meat, even with the soup. He asks her to eat periodically and she ignores him one hundred percent of the time, only once replying with, "I'm not hungry."
He is stubborn, and lets the food remain there, hoping she would get tempted and her stomach would speak for her. But she is even more so, because the night moves very slowly and she does not even glance at the food.
"I'm sorry, Mikasa," he says for no reason at all.
He wishes he could say something to take it all away, all her suffering, her silence and her helplessness. The girl he knew may be gone, but he refuses to believe it.
He sees her sometimes, at their dinner table or at the orphanage or when her new recipe emits a nostalgic aroma, and that girl was worth all of this, even if she was having a hard time breaking out.
He tries again, very hesitantly, to soothe her, to rub circles into her back.
He is surprised when she lets him, slumping almost immediately into his touch. He says nothing, not wanting to make her uncomfortable again.
He strains his ears as she whispers in the softest, most defeated tone, "There's nothing here."
"No." He had read them too. All the scouts had.
"There is an Eren that I didn't understand in this. Even if I understand him now, he isn't coming back."
"No."
"Okay."
He can't see her face but he doesn't have to see her to know that it is twisted in anguish, in a grim realisation, with her eyes unseeing and tired. He wouldn't be able to bear seeing her face right now. He is pathetic.
She reaches for the food after what feels like an eternity, chewing it listlessly.
When she is done, he volunteers to take it to the kitchen and clean up. He has to gulp hard and bite back his tongue when he sees her pale, swollen face and her blank stare as he picks up the tray to exit.
His knuckles against the kitchen counter turn white, as he screams out his own frustration through gritted teeth, and subdued tones, not wanting to be caught by the woman who will never know that her pain is not hers alone.
He recovers fast and heads up to find her curled up asleep on the floor. He smiles, relieved that she is getting some rest long at last. He carries her very carefully and lays her on his bed, unwrapping and placing her red scarf on the bedside table next to her, as well as the stack of letters that looked like they would disintegrate with any more handling. He tucks her into the blanket and switches off the light, and heads to her room as he hears the first morning birds chirp in the background.
Every morning that Mikasa wakes up, she has the urge to shut her eyes again. She feels fatigued from the very inside, and no amount of sleep is likely to fix it. It's the visions she sees asleep and waking that ensures any rest is robbed from her.
She is shocked the days she wakes up in bed. All too often, she has no memory of walking to it the previous night.
Jean.
She feels embarrassed. Her responsibility had fallen on Jean once again; he had to clean up after she passed out from too tired to pay attention to where she was or in what condition.
She wants it all to stop. She is too fed up. Jean's niceness does not help - she can't face him when she she is such a mess.
She waits for him to leave on those awkward mornings where he would have had to tuck her in the previous night. She had been noticing a change in the usual pattern of noise he used to emit from his morning scramble - it gets too quiet right after the sound of his feet are the loudest.
She pads to the door, her curiosity overtaking her need to hide her swollen face from him.
She swings it open to find Jean standing there, dressed in full uniform, like a deer caught in the headlights.
He rubs the back of his head sheepishly, mumbling, "Sorry, I just wanted to check on you."
She can't help but let out a tiny smile.
She couldn't lie. Having someone care about her so indiscriminately lifted her spirits, even if it brought more guilt later.
"I'm fine. Thank you."
"Please don't do that. I told you I want to be there for you," he says with a seriousness that takes her aback.
At six foot three, he towered over her. The sunlight highlights his defined features, his enigmatic hazel eyes, his soft ashy brown hair falling in delicate waves, in contrast to his imposing stature, and she wonders why she never bothered to notice just how much he had transformed. Looking at him like this, maybe because she still felt bleary with sleep and a splitting headache, but he was… beautiful; more so, when he said things like that to her, causing the deep weight in her chest to be overshadowed ironically by a light flutter.
"I can't help it if you're so nice all the time…"
"You almost sound annoyed by that," he chuckles lightly. "You're looking good, Mikasa," he smiles gently at her.
She lets out a small, surprised gasp, her hands immediately going to her hair which she was sure was giving competition to a bird's nest. Her face becomes warm, as she feels the urge to cover up her body, away from his intense gaze.
She's being silly. He just means that she looks better than she did the previous night, the redness from her face having dissipated. It was not saying much considering half her face was covered with waterfalls of salty trails earlier.
"Anyway, catch some more sleep maybe? You were up till-" he quickly stifles a yawn by covering his mouth, "-late last night. I'll try to return early tonight, maybe get some food so you don't have to cook?"
She nods, realising on a closer look that the bags under his eyes stood out against his sharp features too.
Her guilt returns, and she looks away from him. She had to do better. He didn't deserve this.
"Great, I'll, uh, see you then!" He gives her an awkward pat on her shoulder and makes his way to exit.
She glances at her shoulder and feels for it, and watches as he closes the main door behind him.
He really was too nice to her. She didn't want to keep reliving her haunting memories, of the silver of her blade that went through her beloved's neck, or the smell of blood dominating the battlefield, but she also let those sights and sounds come to her. She deserved it. There was supposed to be no life after Eren for her, but here she was, and he was not. Neither were the millions he had killed. She could have stopped him earlier. She could have taken a different path and never had to have been the one to end it.
She could have, she should have, she might have - it was all pointless, but it was easier than figuring out who she was without him, without war, without her family. Every time she started over, it ended anyway. It was easier just not to start at all.
But here she was, standing at the precipice of a new start and lately, it was feeling like a journey that may be worth taking.
She lets out a deep breath, preparing for the day in her head, hoping to be stronger today. She looks in the mirror again to inspect herself. She frowns and heads to the bathroom outside to shower.