The come down from her breakdown was not as bad today. She was able to get through the day quite normally, repairing a fence at the orphanage and doing a heap of laundry which was crisply drying in the bright sun outside on lines. The heaviness in her chest is manageably lighter when she hears the unlocking of the door, and the familiar voice that made her suspiciously made her insides leap sometimes.
"Mikasa, I'm home," he smiles at her brightly, placing the keys in their usual spot next to the door and dumping several paper bags on the kitchen counter. "I had a good day today, as expected. My proposal went through for the import of some technology and the commander has finally started recognising my work." He beams proudly.
"Oh, that's nice," she smiles back at him. It seemed that he had taken a liking to his work of late. It pleased her to see some passion in him, in stark contrast to herself.
"So, I thought we could maybe celebrate a bit?" He rummages through one of the bags and takes out two large bottles of a fizzy drink. "Sparkling wine! How about it? I got dinner too from this place I think you will like. It's seafood, which I know you don't get to eat as much."
"I'm not much of a drinker. Let me lay out dinner though." She starts unpacking some of the food parcels he got and laid it out on the table, his crestfallen face not going unnoticed by her.
"Well, I also got a game we could play." He dramatically shoves a large rectangular box in front of her face, with colourful lettering and bright pictures. "The Game of Life! Apparently it was all the rage in what was earlier Marley. We managed to retrieve it and I very graciously agreed to test it out," he announces with his chin up.
Mikasa blankly blinked at him twice. "Er, it says it's for ages eight and up. We are adults."
"Right, I thought you might say that. My adult brain tells me that we can very easily turn this into a drinking game," now he looks even more pleased with himself.
"I don't do that either."
"I promise it will be fun. If you like the game, you can even take it back to the kids. What do you say?"
"I don't know about this…"
"It's not a big deal. It's just me. And I know for a fact that it's not like you don't drink at all. I have a very distinct memory of you going a bit overboard in that tent, where you-"
"-Okay, okay!" She puts out her hands in front of her, flustered, willing him to stop speaking before the embarrassing images of her losing control flits through her mind.
"We can play," she declares defeatedly. She hadn't done anything silly in years. Maybe it was time to loosen up a little.
"Great, thanks Mikasa! Gosh, I'm pretty excited. I haven't drank properly in what feels like ages. I'm quite sure I'm going to win this too," he teases enthusiastically, helping her lay out the dishes for a quick dinner.
She rolls her eyes at him. She had forgotten how much of a jerk he could be, but she was glad that he had mostly grown out of the more annoying aspect of it. Now she just found it amusing, making the corner of her lips lift up everytime he said something arrogant. "I don't generally lose things, Jean. You would remember this from our Scouts days."
"Do I? I don't recall much except for having to save you in the Rumbling…" He pretends to be thinking hard, his expression distant and sagely.
"You're better off not going down that road for your own good," She tastes a bit of the lobster Jean had got, her eyes widening at the taste.
"It's good, isn't it?"
"Mmhmm!" She found herself inhaling the food almost as fast as Jean usually did. Her life really was so simple. There was so much she had not experienced yet. She missed Sasha, as she stabbed her fork into a piece of grilled potato.
After they put away the dishes and gave them a wash, Jean started setting up the board game.
"That's an unnecessary amount of glasses you're filling up there," Mikasa uneasily watches Jean across the coffee table, filling up at least a dozen disposable shot glasses excitedly with the fizzy liquid he had brought.
"I don't think this is very strong. It's quite fruity." He placed the glasses across the board evenly on the tiles of the game. "The rules are simple. We just keep rolling the dice and follow the instructions. Each time one of us lands on a tile with a shot glass placed on it, or passes it, the other has to drink. Whoever has the highest value at the end of the game or is the least drunk, wins. Sounds fair?"
"So, it's like a punishment for lagging behind in either case."
"Pretty much, yeah. Or, it's just a great way to make the other person drink more." He says encouragingly, as he downs half a shot quickly for a taste.
Mikasa groans, sensing the night was not going to end well. She knew her capacity. It was abysmal. Sitting on the floor, she inspected whether it was clean enough to pass out on it, since that was likely her fate. She resigns herself to it and watches him nervously roll the dice first.
Alcohol was difficult to get down your throat. The taste was good but it was stronger than Mikasa had assumed it would be. They were halfway through the game and Mikasa has a comfortable buzz that is making her face feel hot and Jean's movements look slower. She unwraps her scarf halfway to cool herself, pouting as Jean whoops in victory as he passes another checkpoint in the game, earning him another child. She wordlessly downs the contents of the glass kept on the tile he had just landed on, too used to what was becoming a routine for her in the game. His side of the board looked way sparser, with way fewer empty glasses than was fair.
She rests her chin on her hands, her lips still curled in a deep pout, knowing she probably looked ridiculous right now. "Why do you keep getting to have more children?" She drawls, annoyed at his game piece of a full car in comparison to what looked like her modest life with one child and lesser money.
"I have the most beautiful wife in the world. That is probably why," he says smugly.
She snorts. "As if that's relevant."
"You're right, probably not the most beautiful. I know someone who tops that in real life," he says with a mischievous smile and a wink.
Mikasa gapes at him.
She wonders who he finds so beautiful.
If she were a wife, maybe it could be her, except, she wasn't really beautiful, was she? Eren never said she was. She remembers people in their cadet days exclaiming how beautiful and cute Historia was, but never her.
Historia was a wife. It could be her.
But wait, Mikasa is a wife too.
Jean's wife.
Jean who is sitting in front of her with that unfairly sculpted face and perfectly styled hair. Not to mention, that height and the broad shoulders…
Her face turns hotter and she gulps, not remembering alcohol having such devious effects on her before.
"I think you're cheating," she furiously rolls the dice, trying to distract herself out of her inappropriately shallow objectification.
"Are you implying I can't win without cheating?" He gasps in mock offence. "You're the one barely able to even roll the dice straight!"
Without warning, she throws a pillow right at his face. It slips down comically and has her in a rare fit of laughter. His eyebrow is twitching, and she swears he might burst out at her.
But Jean does not do that. He never gets mad at her.
He is sweet and nice and dreamy.
Dreamy? No, no, she just meant he's nice. A good boy.
He is looking at her with mischievously, and she just knows the wheels of his next strategy are turning. "What?"
He scratches his chin mimicking a distinguished thinker, "Nothing, nothing. Just remembered that you have a weakness." She is wide eyed, now going through a list of all of her possible weaknesses. "Which I fully intend to exploit," he stalks towards, her eyes following his slow movement. She gulps, feeling nervous, which is amplified when he gets on the floor, and practically starts crawling towards her.
"What are you doing?" She leans back in the opposite direction, her heart beating faster in anticipation of his intentions. Her breathing quickens as an unreadable expression forms on his lips and he starts resembling a cat as he continues his commentary, "I've always wanted to see how you would react if I…"
"If you what…?" She plants one palm, two palms behind, dragging her body as she attempts to distance from him as he relentlessly and achingly slowly moves closer to her. She is scared that he might hear the thudding against her chest and get the wrong idea that she is almost excited that they were less than a foot away and if need be, she was in a compromising position that made defending herself difficult.
Her breath hitches and her eyes glaze as he is half a foot away from her, looking at her intensely. She feels like she may melt, their body positioned so she is almost under him.
"Armin tells me it is possible to make you lose your control." Armin? Armin and her? Her head must be in the gutter or she is so drunk that she has lost a very vital piece of memory from her brain temporarily. "I figure as your husband, it is my duty to test it."
Right, he is her husband.
She keeps forgetting that, maybe because of the uncomfortable way in which her cheeks heat up at the thought of it considering how far away from that they are.
But maybe, just maybe, if they slipped up by accident once… it would be so easy if she didn't back away anymore and he just kept moving towards her.
Just another couple of inches - she could meet him halfway.
He has that grin, like he is ingenious. She doesn't feel a similar confidence as she starts panicking at the possibility that they might cross a line, just as he guides his head across her cheek. She holds her breath, her eyes shut tight. She doesn't want him to hear how fast she is breathing as a foreign, constricted feeling grips her between her legs. His hot breath against her ear almost makes her moan. She can barely hold herself back a whimper as he whispers, "You're ticklish."
Her eyes snap open, reality trying to breach her trance. She has barely a second to process what he says when she feels him jab at her sides and she feels compelled to laugh as her body reacts to the ticklish feeling he induces.
So that's what he wanted; all the torture of getting close was just to tickle her.
It is her weakness - Armin was apparently right, but she is distraught while laughing her lungs out at the thought that she may have another, untapped weakness she almost gave in to.
She pushes him off, trying to escape his eager fingers from running over her body in a different way from what she had imagined, from what she was secretly hoping. She is embarrassed at the realisation and that makes her push Jean away from her with more force than she had intended. She takes the moment he has crashed against the sofa to stand up, taking a second to steady herself from the alcohol-induced wobbling, which was proving more troublesome than she had anticipated.
She hobbles into a run, letting out another playful giggle as she hears a recovered Jean, chasing after her around the coffee table call out to her, "You better run because there is no way I am letting you go that easily!" She feels like she is a child again, trying to balance herself awkwardly on her feet that weren't giving her enough support, the warm air of the night beating against her face. She does not feel like a retired soldier, as she gleefully tries her best to escape the clutches of the man who relentlessly chased after her.
Her movements are unrefined, slower, as she gets dizzier going circles around the table. Jean lags behind her suspiciously, even though his posture is better than hers; he was winning the game after all before she rudely interrupted them. But she is carefree, enjoying their new game, mildly curious what would happen if he did catch her. When she glances behind her to see him catching up to her, she strategically heads into the kitchen, hoping to throw him off track. They circle the kitchen table once, twice, until she feels either her lungs or her legs would give out, the alcohol making her sluggish.
She estimates Jean is just a foot away, her heartbeat quickening due to sport and the anticipation of being caught. She lets out another uncharacteristic giggle, having lost her inhibitions from the fruity wine, and lets herself get cornered next to the kitchen counter, against the wall. She sees Jean slow his movements from the other side of the kitchen table, almost stubbing his foot against the chair in his eagerness to slow down and get to her. She bites down on her lip, leaning further into the wall, her body shaking as they both pant, attempting to catch their breaths, their wide-mouthed smiles not leaving them for even a second.
He approaches her achingly slowly, like a wild animal preparing to pounce on its prey. She feels hunted but ready to surrender, her curiosity getting the better of her, not trying to escape from the side or be the lightning-fast Survey Corps member that she was. Her fingers curl against the wall, scratching a bit of the paint off as he is near enough to her for her to be able to smell him and hear his breathing. She snaps her eyes shut in preparation for whatever she felt could come next.
The next time she opens them is only when she hears Jean exclaim a second later, "Oh, the electricity." She sees him in the moonlight now and she is grateful that he can't see the deep red her face has flushed to, though she is convinced it must be the alcohol. Her breath hitches as he doesn't stop even when he is close enough for her to be able to breathe in the same air as him. He smells of the wine, and she feels more intoxicated as his hands land on either side of her, palms planted firmly on the wall, entrapping her, his body heat radiating onto her, making her blood rush faster, and her stomach feel hollower.
He is close enough now that she feels conscious of the sound of her own breathing, as she still pants lightly from their activity. The dark and the inebriation make her bold, as she lets him lace his hand through her hair, freeing it of its tie, both of them breathing heavily again. He slips his hands down on to her shoulders and starts playing with her scarf. Her skin reacts with goosebumps, and her back presses against the wall with more force. He comes closer yet, and she can't help but look down, until their foreheads touch, unable to maintain the tension from their eye contact, sure that her knees would buckle otherwise.
Just a little more - if she angled her head up, she would know what he tasted like.
The pressure building between her legs is unlike anything she has experienced before. No fear of death, no flying through the skies with ODM gear made her feel as heady as she did with the gentle caress of her neck and their touching foreheads.
She wants him.
She doesn't know why, she doesn't understand why, but she does.
But they are in the kitchen. They are playing a game. That's all it is, isn't it?
When she feels his stubble lightly poke her skin, she awakens from a stupor she didn't realise she was in and does a gentle twirl, leaving a flabbergasted Jean behind with her scarf as she attempts to walk up the stairs in a way she hopes looks coy. She glances behind her to ensure he is following. She sees his Cheshire cat grin and is satisfied as she heads to his bedroom, tripping ungracefully on the way, much to her momentary embarrassment, thankful for the dark.
The bedroom is illuminated with silver, their humble cottage dressed in a luxuriousness she wasn't used to. She hears his footsteps resonate close enough to her. She turns around and asks, without waiting for an answer, "Ready for round two?" as she runs to the side of the bed and then climbs up, mimicking their earlier chase around the table.
Jean was going crazy. That was the closest they had ever gotten. He would have thought the alcohol was playing tricks on his mind, but he had felt her breath on his skin and the silkiness of her hair against his calloused fingers. These are things he had dreamt of on one too many a night as a teenager in the barracks, a thought he would allow himself strictly only on the loneliest of nights now. Nothing compared to the actual feel of her skin against his, however, even if momentary.
Just a little more and a lifelong guilty pleasure of feeling her lips would have been his. If only she had not moved away with that flirtatious look, willing him to continue their little dance. He would play with her as long as she wished, if it meant he could feel the warmth of her lips in the flesh just once. If only she knew how the part of him he had tried his very best to suppress had been reawakened ten times stronger, how badly he burned for her.
The worst part is, he knew this was only a fleeting version of Mikasa, alcohol spurring her on, making her move in ways she would never fathom if she were lucid. Trapped in his own haze, he couldn't bring himself to admit that she was not similarly aching for him. He just happened to be there. Maybe it was okay to cheat just this one day, and not be his usual sacrificial self.
Standing in his bedroom, there is a vision that this could be theirs, as the moonlight illuminates her sculpted curves, her head turning, revealing a lopsided grin that is clumsy and endearing. She climbs on to the bed like a child, tripping over and falling on it before steadying herself up, challenging him, "Have you accepted defeat?"
"As if I would. You can barely stand over there," he rolls up his sleeves, hanging her scarf around the back of his neck as he dives in to tackle her on the bed. She shrieks and escapes him, jumping off the bed and circling around it. He recovers and moves to climb down to the floor to follow her, ambling around uneasily, both of their uncoordinated movements a far cry from the grace they were oft to exhibit during their active Survey Corps days.
She completes one more circle, tracing the same predictable path until Jean nears her as she just manages to get her legs onto the bed, her giggles getting louder at the anticipation of getting caught. He tries to get on his feet, his arms outstretched towards her. But as she rushes to tread across the mattress, she bounces such that he loses balances and inadvertently pulls her down by the legs. They roll once until she is flat on her back and he is on top of her, their rings of laughter coordinated unlike their movements.
The lights flicker back on, and their eyes meet, their faces red. He becomes aware that he is on top of her, his mirth faltering, as he gets on his fours to create some distance between them, no matter how much his body protested. He gulps hard as she seems to have not noticed or cared that they were in a very compromising position, her mouth formed in the opposite of a frown still somehow. He is relieved and lets himself relax, as he takes a minute to pant, their rhythms merging.
"I think this means you lost," Jean declares between breaths, attempting to smirk.
"I would rather not concede but honestly, I don't think I can manage to stand up. Turns out, I'm quite out of shape," She says honestly, looking adorably embarrassed, as she shifts her eyes away from him.
He ponders moving away from her completely, knowing it's the right thing to do, until she interrupts his thoughts, "You have my scarf. Give it back."
His hand goes to one of the tails of the scarf, examining it. He had completely forgotten about that, his mind returning to the fleeting moment they shared downstairs, where he had almost crossed a line. He felt his pants tightening, as he takes the moment to scoff and snap out of it, "Since you are not ready to accept defeat, why don't you take it from me?" He tries to be coy like her, but he knows he probably looks stupid.
"The scarf is not a part of it. Give it back," she reaches her hand up towards him but he backs away.
"Oh, woah, woah, who decided that?"
She frowns, "I did, since it's mine. So?" She curls her fingers twice, motioning to return it.
"I don't know. I'm kind of dissatisfied with this ending," he looks at her mock contemplatively, hoping he looks as cool as she looks cute with her furrowed eyebrows.
"I don't care. Give it back," she repeats, with a coldness to her voice that is reminiscent of the Mikasa one is likely to encounter on a real battlefield.
It's a moment of conflict watching her earlier playfulness disappear into her usual hardened expression, as he wonders whether to give in and burst the bubble they had unknowingly created. He can't tell if she is being serious or not, so he continues needling her to estimate how far she had shifted away from her earlier mood, his voice even toned, slightly challenging, "Take it. Shouldn't be that hard for you."
"You're really annoying," she purses her lips and reaches up in an attempt to snatch it away from his neck.
He is taken off guard, having confirmed that the earlier childish playfulness was gone, a guilty disappointment rising in his chest.
She meant the words.
She was determinedly trying to sit up and pull the scarf away. Something in him clicked from the depths of his unconscious that told him that it wasn't just about the scarf anymore, that her annoyance wasn't harmless. A nicer version of him would have returned it the minute she asked but he wasn't feeling as nice because nor was she.
"Mikasa, relax. Me possessing this scarf isn't going to break away your connection with him. This can't be all your connection is wort-" He attempts to calm her, her eyes flashing unduly dangerously at him.
"You have no right! Just give it back already! It's mine!" She shouts at him, shaking him to his core. This was a side of her that made him want to run, to turn back time, to take her shoulders and shake away whatever demons were possessing her.
Long nights of her wailing and then him putting her to sleep comes to mind, and his heart is wrenching at the thought that this piece of red cloth had enough power to plunge her into that state.
"I know, I know, I'll give it to you, but this is not you, Mikasa. The scarf is just a scar-" He jerks back every time she reaches towards him, her teeth now gritting hard, in full display.
In one swift movement, she flips them over until she is hovering on top of him, her palms digging into the soft mattress on either side of him, "That's not for you to decide." Her eyes are dangerously narrowed and he gulps, sympathetic for her enemies. But he straightens himself, looking her straight in her eyes, his mouth drawn in a tight line, ready to uncharacteristically challenge her.
This is not her.
This is not Mikasa.
He has always admired the grace with which she has handled herself in their gear, her effortless titan kills, her mercilessness in the way she moves forward, following strategies to a tee, knowing to look ahead and not at the blood she was forced to shed. But she was looking at him almost hatefully now, as she struggled with erratic movements above him, letting out cries that he had heard only in war when a person lost their loved one to the underside of a colossal titan's foot.
He tries to calm her down, by trying to gather her flailing arms but she only becomes wilder, single-mindedly focused on the red fabric around his neck. "Mikasa, calm-"
"Don't," she roars at him. He feels her shift until she is on her knees, rooted to his chest now. In one quick swipe, the scarf burns across his neck until it is in her grasp. Her shoulders slump as she feels the fabric in her fingers, looking to him and then the scarf continually, confused.
"Mi…kasa?" He calls to her hesitantly, now worried as he sees her puzzled, as though she had rudely woken up from a trance.
Her eyes widen momentarily, and he is concerned for her more than the fact that she was heavy on his chest and breathing was proving difficult and his neck most likely inflicted with a rash from the carpet burn. He watches her melancholically, her forehead creased.
She wraps her scarf around herself hurriedly, like she was losing oxygen and it was her lifeline, before climbing off of him and the bed, and exiting the room, not once looking back at him. The loss of her weight somehow hurts more than the pressure she was exerting on him. He examines his wrists for tell-tale signs of their struggle, her nail marks glowing as red as the scarf she was in a frenzy to retrieve.
He lies still on his bed, the bedsheet now a tangled mess. His mind buzzes with the memories of what had just occurred, her bitter frown burning a hole in what had started out as the most fun night they had spent since their little adventure had begun. He can't make sense of what happened, guilt coming to him first as it always has. He could have just returned her scarf but no; he just had to play the role of a moral knight, lecturing her ear off when she clearly was in no state to listen.
He couldn't lie. For a second, he was scared.
Scared that she loathed him, with every word she screamed out dripping with more detestation than the last. It really was not his place. He knew that she held that scarf as precious, a story about Eren wrapping it around her buried somewhere in his mind, as he recalls he almost never sees her without it.
He presses his palm over his eyes, tugging at the base of his hair follicles and let out a shout of frustration, wishing he hadn't induced her to fall into that state. He had to learn to control himself better and remind himself that he would always be living in Eren's shadow, that he was nothing more to Mikasa than a friend she lived with, with full right and opportunity to depend on, should she want it or need it.
Today just reminded him that their sham marriage was something he needed, not her. He had just made it seem as though it was she who needed help, she who needed his company but it was all him. It was he who was lonely in every journey, he who couldn't help but visit the orphanage four times more often than needed just to check in on how she was doing, he who did not want her to despair every waking moment, he who couldn't bear to see her tear up in broad daylight while watching children play, he who for his sanity and in his final attempt at moving on had asked her to marry him.
He was just too stupid to figure out that she could possibly say yes.
And now, he had to somehow hide what he actually felt and be the perfect friend in the guise of a husband, when he was utterly incapable of keeping himself in check. These ten years of his life were a testament to his incompetence and helplessness in matters of the only woman he could ever bear to love. To think that he genuinely thought she had wanted him downstairs, when she was pushed against the wall, hardly able to stand. She would never see him and he needed to stop trying to be seen by manipulating her into not feeling certain ways.
He would apologise because he had so much to apologise for. Just not now.
For now, he would take a few moments to pity himself for his hopelessness.
The clock is loud in Mikasa's ears, as she stares at the dark ceiling blankly. She had messed up bad. So bad that she didn't know how to face Jean or even herself. Something had compelled her to fight him when he wasn't even being hostile. Was it not she who insisted they play this game? He did not deserve her wrath.
She sits up, leaning against the headboard. Sleep was unlikely to come. She feels the urge to pluck her nails out as she recalls the feeling of them digging into his skin bitterly.
For a few moments, she could see nothing but bliss ahead of her, with every roll of the dice, and the playful teasing she had not experienced in what feels like more than a lifetime. She had all of that, coming close to crossing a threshold she thought was never going to be for her, feeling an ache that was foreign to her, but at the simplest of mentions of a past relic, she slinked back into the shadows, not giving the sunlight even half a chance to relieve her of the darkness that had clung onto her like a leech.
She wonders what he is doing right now. Cursing her probably, ready to pack his bags. She would not blame him. They were not anything anyway. Just stuck in a convenient arrangement that happened so fast that she barely thought about it. But the thought that this new life of hers could come to an abrupt end because of a switch that had flicked on in her as it did in her nine-year-old self that day with Eren, filled her with a cold dread.
She did not want to let that happen. She did not want to go back to an empty house without someone to give her breakfast in spite of knowing she was not honestly eating it like he probably hoped, to a vacant hall with no books littered around indicating signs of life, nor hearing any footsteps, wondering whether they would open the door just to talk unilaterally to a quiet her who needed to hear something other than the toxic voices in her head. She had developed selfish needs. She did not want to learn how to forego yet another thing again, relearn how to live alone when it was never what she wanted to do in the first place.
Downstairs, pinned against that wall, had lit something in her that shone at her like an arrow guiding her to a land of possibility. When she had to pull the sword against Eren's neck, she thought her life was over. But now, it seems that she had woken up from an uncomfortably long slumber.
Her eyes well up. She lets it roll onto her cheeks, sniffling as it drizzles on to her blanket. The clock ticked on, lulling her into replaying the cruel way in which she had raised her voice at him, treating him like an enemy. She doesn't even remember what he was trying to say, but it completely erased any and all moments they had shared before that. She did not deserve any of his gentleness, his generosity or his attempt at getting her out of her funk, if she could not even walk more than a few steps away from her past at a time.
Her eyes go to the door.
Maybe it was not too late. Maybe if she apologised and never receded into her basest self again, things could be salvaged. She takes in a deep breath, wiping her tears furiously, and stalks to the door, her clammy hands on the cold metal of the door knob.
"Mikasa."
His deep voice reverberates from the other side of the door and all the courage that she had previously mustered deflates almost instantly, giving way to a thudding heart that would not calm down in spite of the deep breaths she willed herself to take. "J..Jean," she stutters, unsure about what he might be feeling, her legs turning to jelly from the weight of her conflicted emotions.
"I… was hoping we could talk. S-should I come in?" He sounds more nervous than she had expected. Though if she recalled, he did float between being a conceited bastard and a bumbling fool around her, which always puzzled her.
She takes a moment to consider her answer, and lets out, "No." She was not ready. What could she say to him after behaving the way she did? She was shameless enough to still wear her scarf as it is.
She hears him mumble something unintelligible and quickly says, realising that once again, she was unnecessarily harsh, "I mean, could we maybe, just be like this for a while? I.. just need some time." She presses herself against the door, not wanting to miss even one sign of what he might be feeling. She knew she was being cowardly, but what could she even say that would make her seem less like the taunt of monster that was oft hurled at her?
"Right. Okay."
She hears rustling, and a soft thud on the floor.
"Mikasa… I do not have much to say. I'm just.. sorry, for everything."
She leans back against the door, her eyes shut tight, her throat closing up as the tears started spilling again, much to her displeasure. She thinks she feels relief because the terrible venom that was in her voice earlier was not audible in his. He was too good to her.
She slumps on to the floor, hugging her knees. She hears him continue, "I assume you may not want to talk to me, but I really am sorry. It is none of my business what associations you want to form with your things, how you value your connections. If you see the scarf as your only-"
"Jean, stop," she says gently, resting her chin on her knees. "How can you apologise to me when I snapped at you for no reason?"
"But that's what I'm saying; it's not no reason. It's how you feel and I really am no one to lecture you about how you should be living your life." He says softly, almost defeatedly, and it feels like a knife to her for making him feel this way - so little about himself in relation to her.
She could not blame him. She had never once told him how much she appreciated his presence. Just knowing he was in this house made her feel safer. But she would not tell him. She could barely hear it in her head without panicking at the implications of such a realisation.
"You're not nobody though. I should be the one to be sorry. I'm the one who hurt you," she supplies weakly. "I don't know how to face you," she whispers, hoping he did not hear the last part, burying her head in her knees further.
"That's a shame, if you feel that way. I thought if nothing else, we could be free with each other. Nothing you say or do leaves these four walls."
She pauses to consider his words.
It is true: anything that happens between them, she trusted would not leave them, if that's what she wanted. He after all, worked with the Yeagerists and if they found out that Mikasa was the one who killed their leader, both their lives would be at risk. They were bound together in more ways than one. But even if there wasn't a gun put to their heads, she had a feeling she could trust Jean. He never made her feel otherwise, in spite of her less-than-ideal behaviour around him since they started playing house, and even before through all their years together. He was always the dependable one, a voice of reason amidst the white noise. "It's.. not that I'm worried about that. It's more like, I know myself too, how I've been, all my tantrums-"
"-I wouldn't really call them tantrums-"
"-You know what I mean. I know that there are nights when I drive you into a corner. You have no reason to bail me out. But you always do. Which is why, I guess I'm just… embarrassed, ashamed," she hugs her knees tighter, feeling vulnerable. She is thankful that she does not have to face him while she bares herself like this, the door acting like the perfect shield.
"I don't want you to think like that, because I don't think like that." She hears him sigh loudly. He is considering each word carefully. "We can start over. I'm sorry for telling you what you should or should not feel-"
"-and I'm sorry for reacting the way I did," and she feels a weight off of her. "I want to start over too."
She hears him shift. She sits still, trying to get a feel of what he was doing. She hears the levers of the doorknob turning and her back rest vacating. She stands up and does an about turn, faced with a hesitant Jean looking at her unsurely. "You can come in," she blurts out, her face heating up again, with an urge to hide herself. She steps aside and he places himself in the centre of the room. She closes the distance until they are face to face, shifting around their spots awkwardly, the unsaid words in the air, waiting to be sounded.
"I…" he scratches the back of his head, not looking at her.
"No, me first," she says determinedly, feeling for the scarf she had draped around her neck, trying to remember everything she had felt.
His eyes widen, "Ah, you don't… I get it."
"No, let me." She lets out a breath and looks sharply at him. "You were right. I shouldn't need this scarf. But I do. Of course there was more to… us, but it's just… come down to this, I guess. He… told me to get rid of it, but I feel like if I do, I will forget all of him too, the one who saved me that day." He kept his gaze just as intensely on her, making her want to look away, feeling more exposed than ever.
"Go on…" He urges.
"I know it's irrational but it's just something I need to do now. I don't know who I am without it yet." She whispers, willing herself to restrain her emotions from spilling out completely unchecked. "I can't remember if there ever was someone else at all."
There is a silence that pervades the atmosphere, and she is afraid he will hear her quickened pulse.
She breaks the silence, it proving too harsh on her ears, "Say something maybe? I know it doesn't make much sense-"
"No, it doesn't." He declares with finality.
Her shoulders slump, as she is nearing distraught. "Because," he steps towards her, "I can't understand how you think you're nothing without the scarf... without Eren," he looks at her pointedly.
"I was supposed to protect him, but I didn't. I did the opposite of that," She says through gritted teeth as the darkest memory of her life is finally let out of her system.
She waited for the cathartic feeling to wash over her for spewing it all out, but it did not. She only felt her insides tangle up worse, the hot tears lining her eyes once again pathetically, which she held back desperately with gritted teeth.
He wanted to be mad at Eren for making her feel like this even after so many years. He wanted to be mad at her for not giving herself a chance to heal. But watching her tremble and fight against herself softened him.
She was trying. It's what she had always done. She always tried to do the right thing. She regretted what she did. But if he understood her at all, she would have regretted it if she had not either. It was always a lose-lose situation for her - the minute Eren became Eren, the enemy of the world.
It would have just been easier to be angry at her after all. He should have walked away.
But he just could not do it. His pride be dammed. He could not stop caring for this girl who he still considered as the strongest, most admirable woman he had ever met, even with all her flawed logic, her catch-22s and her impossibly heavy baggage.
He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts which were a jumbled mess of conflicts and wants. He notices her fists balled up tightly, and he remembers how sharp her nails are. That's going to bruise.
He takes her hands in his and tries to open up her fingers. She lets him, her lips trembling, as she observes his actions. "You would regret it either way," he looks at her sympathetically. She nods slowly, looking away. "You just need to somehow convince yourself you picked the path you would regret lesser." He caresses the light nail marks she had left in her palms. When she flinches, he lets go of her hands, wishing he did not have to.
"I'm sorry for making you listen to all this."
He chuckles slightly, hoping to lighten the atmosphere and disguise any discomfort he was feeling. "We moved on long ago from the apology segment of our conversation."
When she looks up at him and smiles, her eyes drier than they were before, his heart is warmed, and he feels like today, he did something meaningful.
He is reminded why he is here, in the middle of the night, in a cottage in the middle of nowhere with a beautiful woman who will never look at him, and everything makes sense.
When she says nothing further, and only rubs her forearm, eyes downcast, he understands that it is time for him to leave.
It is the hardest part of it all, the part that reminds him of the depth of his yearning, which is always an uphill task to quell. He convinces himself to turn around towards the door and starts walking towards it, clearing his throat, "Right, I hope you get some sleep then. Can you believe I have work tomorrow-"
"Jean, wait," he feels a tug on his shirt. He turns around to find her biting her lip, her feet scuttling on top of each other.
"Hm?"
Before he can process what's happening, he is enveloped in her embrace. Her arms are wrapped around his back. There is a light trace of the smell of alcohol in the air and he is sure that is making him even headier. Just as he is about to lean into her warmth, an elation taking over his being, spreading right from his nether regions to his chest, she pulls away with just as little warning as she gave before initiating the hug, whispering quickly in his ear, "Thank you" which has him positively reeling.
He straightens himself up in an instant, not wanting her to catch him engrossed in her platonic act like it was some kind of a spiritual experience for him (which it totally was).
"Anytime," he says coolly in a higher pitch than he intended, cursing himself for showing the effect she had on him with just that simple act. "I'll, uh, see you in the morning. Good night, and er, you know my room is always open," he babbles before promptly making a beeline to the door, absolutely mortified that he offered his room to her so casually.