When Jean awakes the next morning, feeling stiff from the bedrest, he is least surprised that Mikasa is already gone from beside him. Knowing her, she should be back in three, two-
"I got you breakfast," she puts the tray of food in front of him, and he smirks.
"What?" She narrows her eyes at his Cheshire cat grin.
"Nothing, nothing. It's just heartening to see you be this caring," he says lightly, following the tray she carefully lays down on the bed.
"It's normal. Get used to it. Now eat up," She sits on a chair beside his bed, stewing, watching him like a hawk.
The whole morning passes just as the previous night, her care and concern showering onto him in huge waves. He revelled in it, having never imagined that he would live to see the day when she showed this side of her to him, all for him. At the same time, seeing her insecurity bubble up to the surface so clearly, humanised her, reminding him that fulfilment of a fantasy apart, as capable as she was, he needed to take care of her just as much.
When she sits at his bedside with a bucket and towels, he blinks at her incredulously, as she casually informs him of his sponge bath that she is going to give him, asking him to take off his clothes all too aloofly. He wants to guffaw but spares her feelings and refuses her as gently as possible. She fights him, almost threatening him to not let his left foot touch the ground. He relents, however, holding his ground as strongly as he can in front of his weakness, insisting that if she has a problem with him showering, he can very well go into the bathtub.
She agrees fairly easily, which is suspicious. When he prods her, she says it's no problem, that she can easily carry him there. That's when he knew she had lost it, crying out that she really ought to respect the few vestiges of manly pride he still had left. She insensitively swatted away his concerns, saying no one has to know, and moreover, who even cares. He continued with his staunch refusal, drawing the line in the sand for his tolerance and how many blows his ego could take from her.
He regretted it instantly though, because his heart broke seeing at how upset she became, her earlier pleasant, matter-of-fact demeanour switching into that of a kicked puppy. How could he possibly be expected to fight her? It was so much easier to just do as she says and wanted, to be dominated by her, kicking any care to stereotypes to the curb.
They compromise, as all couples ought to, to his pleasure, feeling proud of himself that he was able to escape his Mikasa-tunnel vision that extinguished all his conviction in the face of her whims and fancies. She admits unwittingly that maybe she is going overboard in spite of their previous night's talk that was meant to let her see that she could trust in the future. He concedes honestly, hesitantly, that he's probably never felt as cared for as she made him feel, and that while he didn't need her to go this far when it was unnecessary, he would miss the royal treatment he received from her.
She lets him shower then. In return, he agrees to sit on a stool the entire time, to her relief. Through the day, he continues reassuring her that he is fine, and she gradually comes to accept that maybe he genuinely could take care of himself and be okay even if she left his side to do her own things for a bit. As aimed for, in the nights that followed, they slept separately again.
If he had to be honest however, while he did not need her to nurse him constantly, he would have loved it if she could just lay with him and do nothing. But with the territory of having entered this in-between friendzone, came sacrifices, wishes he could not voice except under exigent circumstances. It didn't bother him constantly; he tried hard and even succeeded to re-condition his desires to suit their mutual agreement.
On some nights though, and fleeting moments where he allowed himself to look at her for longer than polite, it prickled him deeply. It took all his effort to convince the voices inside of him that they could live like this, that he wanted to. Sometimes, he fails. But as long as he believed he would one day be able to overcome his yearning for her in every way possible, he was sure to reach it. They had faced much worse together. There was no reason he could not cross this one final hurdle to reach the life of peace that was just within the reach of his fingertips.
Surely, someday.
Except that, getting rid of the Mikasa that was deeply entrenched inside of him meant winning his hardest battle yet where the odds have always been stacked up against him. He would try, however, till his very end; this would be the most worth-it battle yet.
Now to sleep and not dream of her.
Mikasa had to stay true to her word. They were due to visit the graves of the fallen from the Battle of Trost, as agreed, yet her mind would not stop drumming up gory images of the worst that could happen to Jean, even if she were beside him. Knowing his obstinacy, he was unlikely to take her help except for the bare minimum, insisting that he was fine by now even though his winces at moving around were clear as day. She had learnt to separate herself from him, give him his space, but that did not mean the restlessness inside of her had calmed down all that much. She just made it invisible, like most of her troubles that she didn't quite know how to resolve.
She dresses herself in full black. Her reflection in the mirror unsettles her. There were reels of memories she refused to see and today, she would have to face some of them after so long; so long, that she couldn't even remember all the comrades they had lost that day, as ashamed as she was to admit it.
Not only were there other fixed priorities in her mind at that time, but there was just so much loss that they have had to face since then, that battles such as those seemed like ordinary events, not anymore distinct than any other day in their tumultuous lives. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad having someone beside her with the same lived experience. It was the only factor that persuaded her to go. That, and the feeling that she wanted to live through it with someone who understood all of it, not to mention, she wanted to be there for him for a moment that was significant for him.
It was not as though she never visited the graveyard. Sasha was one she oft used to visit, the frequency only reducing after the Rumbling. It was as though the Rumbling divided her life into two and how ever she was and whatever she used to do before it was simply gone. It was only in the past few months that she was rediscovering pieces of herself that would be a shame to let go rather than reassemble.
Jean comes through his room door in his Yeagerist uniform and they jointly ponder on whether it would be disrespectful to visit the graves of their comrades in a get-up that acted as a destructive symbol. He decides to keep it on, saying that he wouldn't want to hide his de jure affiliation. What he did while donning his uniform was to rebuild, not destroy, and that is what should matter.
She walks proudly beside him, as they make their way through the busy cities. She has him defeatedly convinced that he should take her support at least partially. She offers him her arm, and he latches on to it faithfully. They exchange few words, stopping by a florist to purchase bouquets of flowers to honour the dead. Jean is uncharacteristically quiet, sparing fewer words the closer they reached the home of the fallen.
The sun had started its descent towards the horizon by the time they started placing flowers at each person's grave, the sepia atmosphere enriching their contemplative sorrow. They slowly move from one headstone to the next, offering white roses and a small prayer. When her mind forces her to recall their world with the Titans, the horrendous screams and then the stark silence the giants had spread over the city, she doesn't push away the images; the both of them are able to stand tall all because of the sacrifices and support of the ones buried. Their survival came at the cost of others, and now, thanks to them, they no longer had to live in fear.
Their bouquets have considerably thinned, as Mikasa places another couple of roses on a grave and moves on, expecting Jean to hold on to her and follow. A few paces forward, and when she doesn't feel his weight, she turns back to find that he isn't by her side. He is rooted in front of the grave they had already just placed flowers at.
He looks as though he were seeing a ghost and not even the call of his name brings him out of his stupor. She reads the name engraved on the headstone again:
Marco Bott
And she feels terrible that the name did not register in her mind earlier. A kind face comes into mind, a constant companion of the man beside her who was ever so different himself back then.
"Let's sit down," She coaxes Jean as gently as possible, and he complies, kneeling down with Mikasa's help onto the unkempt grass.
She had never seen him this still. He did not look like he was sitting next to her at all. His gaze is intense, his eyebrows furrowed, and his mouth is pulled tightly into a straight line. His silence is haunting, their roles reversed; she found talking to the living difficult and was used to diverting all her energy to the dead. He said not a word, fixated inside of his mind, gnawing at her worry. She hesitantly places her hand on his shoulder to comfort him, when she spots it for a millisecond before he wipes and conceals it away from her vision: a single tear glistening in the low orange glow.
It acts like a spear through her chest, a sharp, piercing pain jolting her senses to awaken and realise – this was his pain that she was feeling.
It hits her simultaneously: this is what he feels like whenever he saw her like this.
All her emotions would be out in display, draining out of her in oceans, uncaring whether he was watching. He was just a dutiful observer though, wasn't he?
No, he wasn't. And now she isn't.
She is hurt watching him hurt, and she wants to do everything she can to make this stop. But she feels just as helpless as she would if she were the one trapped in the anguish. So she weakly puts her arm around him, all the strength she had accumulated over the years failing her miserably, till she forgets whether she is comforting him or herself. She rests her head on his shoulder almost like a caress so as to not startle him, feeling him tremor beside her ever so slightly. She wants to tell him to let it out, but the words do not come, her own eyes lining with tears that were long being forgotten in his presence.
It's unclear how long they sit there, their visions aligned to the headstone, their memories intertwined, and she swears she never wants to be the one to make him feel like this, for her own sake, if nothing else.
"Are you okay?" Mikasa asks Jean tentatively on returning home after their silent journey, trudging back like zombies.
"Yes. I think I'll rest up for a bit," he says wearily, letting go of her arm.
She watches him slowly hobble up the stairs, her heart leaping with every unsteady step he took. It was perhaps best to give him some space, as much as she didn't want to. The desire in her to comfort him was a burning fire. Her ability to do so was inadequate. Her words often fall short, not finding shape even inside her mind. Actions, she could do, certain ones anyway.
She prepares a meal they could both indulge in, a good excuse to be in his company without making her intentions obvious. She carries the trays upstairs, pausing in front of his door to gather herself. She knocks and enters without waiting for a reply, placing the tray down on the bedside table of a freshened-up Jean.
"You know I could have come downstairs."
"I wanted to," she says, handing him a plate of food which he takes without protest.
He smiles at her stiffly, his mind still somewhere else, as predicted, "Thank you for coming along. It helped."
She blinks at him, puzzled. She did not do anything at all except for sit there and at some point, sob louder than he was, leaning against him; a memory she wanted to erase in hindsight, for letting loose even though the focus should have been on his sadness.
"Did it really help?" She asks sceptically. "I don't think I ever…" she trails, feeling inadequate in her ability to be there for him, even though every fibre of her being was shouting at her to say more, do more.
Even now, she could feel him put up a wall around himself, holding himself together and she just watched, doing superficial things like bringing dinner to bed. She couldn't even get herself to function like a socially mature adult who would give him an uninhibited, comforting hug in his time of need. It was the bare minimum that he surely would have done for her, but such gestures still felt like an unnatural initiation and intrusion from her side, having been deprived of any constant source of physical comfort for more than a decade now. It was only recently that the deprivation was even noticed by her, a calm acceptance of the fact that such luxuries would never be for her to give or to take.
"It's enough that you're there. Trost was… something. It changed me. You are one of the only ones left who would know what that time felt like. Not that I want to talk about it right now," he averts his eyes, going back into his head.
She feels goosebumps prickle her skin at the grim realisation that they were indeed one of the few, fortunate survivors, and here they were, peacefully chatting over plates of warm food. Her heart clenches painfully, feeling a mixture of survivor's guilt and selfish gratitude. She looks up at him, who was contemplatively glued to his plate, and feels a gush of the gratefulness hit her even harder.
She was grateful it was him, that it was them.
As sorry as she had been feeling for everyone else that they had lost over the years, seeing all of their faces in her head every single day with mind-numbing accuracy, for once, she thinks, maybe it's okay to be glad that she was indeed able to be here with him.
"Jean," She ventures, following on her sudden instinct to let out what was ailing her, and places her steady hand atop of his large one, drawing his curious attention to her.
"I want to be there for you more. I hardly ever know what to say, but I want to be someone you can rely on," she says with a seriousness as though she were dictating a military strategy.
"I thought that's what we were doing anyway."
"No, more than that. Much more than that. Someone you come to when you need to talk. I'll always listen," she lets out a vulnerability in her voice.
"I know," he repeats. "I've already made some space for you beside Connie in the list of people I can come to," he ends casually, his hazel orbs going in between their hands to her face.
She clicks her tongue. He wasn't understanding what she was trying to say. "Let me repeat myself: I meant, I want to be your main person, the first person you think of."
He was staring at her hard enough to make her want to hide herself away. Surprise dotted his features, an incomprehension of her intentions obvious. And that was the tragedy of the whole thing; she hadn't done enough to give him a reason to believe her, and perhaps, she hadn't even tried in earnest. But the past few weeks, the past few months, something in her had changed; it was him. Somehow, he had managed to pleasantly get under her skin until she was attached. The person that she had to become due to the many hurdles life threw at her, was a person who never showed she needed anyone or anything else, apart from a certain brown haired boy and a blonde haired boy who became her family.
Yet, things change and this unexpected figure in front of her, stands tall beside them, and it was becoming clearer to her that she couldn't change this new fact. If only he saw what she saw. If only she could convey without hesitation what she felt. If only she was clear about what she felt and why she felt it. If only her heart would let her feel it and act on it. Maybe she could -
There's that familiar ache in her chest that tries to dampen her spirits in letting out her next words, but she is confident that she wants to fight through that. Nothing makes sense if she doesn't. She lets out a deep breath in preparation, "I want to be your main person because… that's what you are for me."
She shuts her eyes tight, trying to block out the rush of blood flowing to her face. She continues in a panic, "So, you can tell me about Trost, you can tell me about your day, you can complain about your colleagues, your friends, you can even complain to me about me… I just want to listen, because before I met you, I never even wanted to talk about such things with anyone. And now, I look forward to every day, discussing… everything and nothing at all."
She forces open her lids, to see him staring at her unmoving, his nostrils flared. The embarrassment of her outburst fazes her. Her hands go to cool down her hot face, and she panics when he continues wordlessly gazing at her, flabbergasted.
"I mean, you don't have to," she slumps her shoulders, her heart continuously racing, making her dizzy. "I think I just said some weird things."
He finally, finally says, enabling her to let go of the breath she was holding, "No, you just… Since we met, huh? Sounds like something I would say." He says sheepishly, fiddling with the back of his hair. He won't stop looking at her with a strange smile on his face, and the pressure created between them is almost to much for her to bear.
"Maybe not literally. But, you know what I mean, right?" The end of her sentence comes out as squeaky as a mouse being chased, and she can barely recognise this fluster emanating out of her.
"I do," he says in a daze, in an eye-lock she wants to turn away from but can't get herself to, feeling similarly trapped herself.
She smiles without thinking, feeling giddy all over. Before she could get used to the feeling, Jean suddenly groans out and puts his face in his hands, taking her aback. "What?"
"Ugh, it's nothing. I get awkward in moments like these sometimes and don't know what to say, because I've never had to talk like this before."
She blinks at him blankly. "You were always so expressive though."
He replies with his voice still muffled from him speaking into his hands, "Not like this! Sure, I did get in some conversations with Sasha and Connie and giving my opinion on strategy was easy but this…! Even you know this is uncharacteristic and unexpected from you."
Mikasa stands up in reaction from a jolt of embarrassment, feeling like she was being put on the spot by him. She folds her arms crossly across her chest, and says with an indignant pout, "You can still be such a jerk sometimes, you know. Here I was, attempting, for the very first time, to pour my heart out and you-"
Before she could move away dramatically, he catches hold of her wrist and pulls her close to him, making her mind go blank for a second, her faux anger washing away, "No, wait." He breathes out. "I never expected it. I thought… every thing was one-sided. That's why I'm over the moon to hear that you think of me that way," he says weightily.
One-sided. She didn't know herself what was, and what wasn't. It wasn't like he was allowing her to think properly, not with his smouldering amber on her and his large hand grasping her wrist pleadingly. She feels a familiar pull towards him and walks closer till her knees touch the edge of the mattress, feeling an urge to prolong the moment without overstepping. It was obvious that he was thinking the same; there was a slight tremble in his fingers, that matches the speed of her pulse.
There is a tingling feeling in her stomach, that travels all the way down to her toes. She couldn't move forward, but she didn't want to pull away either.
She suddenly stutters out, temporarily dispelling the dense atmosphere that had formed around them, "I.. I have an idea. It's still early. Why don't I get our books from downstairs and you could-"
"-make some space for you, yeah," He smiles at her encouragingly, already adjusting his position on the bed to make an opening for her.
She hurries downstairs in a flurry, navigating expertly through the silvery dark of the stairs and hall, her heart aflutter from her simple confession that came out of her without any protest. She reaches under the coffee table to grab the reading material, taking out the whole bundle to sort out which ones to take for their quiet night, feeling excited for no reason at all. She flips through the bundle till she spots Jean's sketch book, smiling at the memory of the life-like drawings etched inside it. On a day like today, surely those would leave an even deeper impression, and would likely be calming for Jean, who still seemed unsettled compared to the usual jovialness he brought to the whole house.
She sets the books down and takes a seat, feeling a curiosity to set her eyes on the perfectly coordinated lines and curves housed in the book. She flips the cover page open across its ring binding, letting out a surprised gasp at the drawing of her that she had oddly not seen the last time. She was looking away in it, as though someone were talking to her but she wasn't paying any attention, a soft, smile painted on her lips. She looked more alive in it than she felt when she looked in a mirror. It was dated to a few weeks ago, with Jean's handwriting in a mixed bag of delicate calligraphy and illegible scribbles below the date:
Today, she looked at me and it reminded me that
And nothing further, impressing upon her that he had changed his mind about writing anything at all. Strange as it was, she proceeds to the next page, feeling her heart swell at the detail with which he had drawn her, a vast improvement from his childhood. It almost felt like it wasn't her. She wasn't that pretty. She couldn't be.
If it hadn't already left her feeling dissonant with herself, the next drawing opened her eyes even wider. This time, the drawing was looking back at her. It was dated as of the very next day from the previous drawing. Her hair was a mess, reminiscent of how it was in the mornings on waking up, her face slightly swollen. More importantly, there was an easy smile on this Mikasa that was unrecognisable. She couldn't remember ever looking that way. Upturning her lips had been an uphill task for years. But if she really had to look inside herself… she had been smiling and laughing a lot as of late. Since when was that? The answer was flashing in big bold letters inside of her, the realisation unnerving her, feeling the chains come alive once again, constricting her chest with intention.
She quickly sweeps the page across, feeling a wave of an undesirable feeling building inside of her from looking at this serene Mikasa.
Instead of getting any relief, she is met with another drawing of herself, and another, and another, all dated consecutively until the last time she had seen him drawing. In every one of them, she saw a different side of herself in it, a side she didn't even know existed. Yet, if she thought about it, she could maybe pinpoint to one or two moments when she could have looked like that. They were all insignificant, yet Jean had found the need to capture all of it. It was messing with her head.
She searched her brain for why it bothered her, suddenly feeling hot, her blood rushing, her heart thudding against her chest. Why did he draw –
"…then there's the one that's like a constant bug in my head that doesn't want to leave unless I put it to paper. So sometimes, I draw to get some respite from that"
"…Once they're on paper, it's like a break from carrying them on my shoulders - or my heart… It's therapeutic, like I've let go of a burden…"
She stills, feeling something inside of her shatter.
He was trying to forget her in one sense.
And that should have been fine, because that's what they are aiming for – to be lifelong companions, caring for another, relying on each other and – and she had made her choice, and it wasn't him.
Her choice was made to be comfortable, to get comfortable with the weight in her chest that she was used to carrying, to get accustomed to the loss she already had the practice of reeling from because anything new would be unpredictable, uneasy, uncomfortable. Her path was already laid out for her long ago, and she was reminded to stay on it if she ever strayed and stared at the other side yearningly for too long.
Seeing Jean support her choice, respect her decision, and do his part at making her remain comfortable in her shell shouldn't hurt this much. It was like she was running towards the untrodden path in desperate full speed but a stronghold wouldn't let go of her, no matter how much she struggled to free herself. Why was she even trying to go the other way? They had decided together that where they are is enough. They would need nothing more to be content, and they genuinely were content. Eventually, they would be happy. Her choice was supposed to lead to happy.
When a tear rolls down her cheek, she is appalled at herself, shocked that she was being betrayed by a part of herself, all the while, with the other part was screaming at her that her choice was already made – and her mind was a scrambled mess again because she didn't want to be forgotten yet she didn't want to forget but if she forgot, maybe –
- but her choice is the correct choice because he was the one who –
- did he want this of her? Wouldn't he want her to be happy? She is happy when –
- if she turned back now, would she even be able to –
- he deserved so much more -
- she was ready but would it be fair if she -
- she knew the whole time what she wanted –
- what was the battle she was fighting? Was it to be or not to be –
- it hurt to be but it hurt more to not be and if she could just stop with the need to protect and be protected –
- if she could just stop –
- if she turned back now –
- if she could finally do what she always –
- if they could finally –
- if –
Stop.
Stop.
She has known what had to be done, what she truly wanted to do. It was just a matter of gathering the courage to do it. Once she did it, it could all possibly be gone, and she needed to be okay with that.
"I thought… everything was one-sided"
She shuts her eyes tight, covering her ears to block out the conflicting noises buzzing inside her head.
Her shaking fingers trace the final drawing of herself, and it's the strangest one where it isn't a close up of her face. She is dressed as she usually does, her hair in its usual ponytail, one foot in front of the other unsurely, looking ahead as thought she were looking at something beautiful for the first time. And she looked beautiful, which was the strangest thing of all.
She closes the book and gathers the other ones she had kept away, padding through the wooden floor, shivering from the weight of her incessant thoughts. She pauses at Jean's door for a long minute, taking a few deep breaths to air out the remnants of her thoughts, feeling a new bout of electricity running through her, a conviction having taken birth and germinated.
She swings open the door slowly, feeling nervous at facing Jean, if not excited. She made sure to carry the sketchbook she had chanced upon even if she was not ready to have a full-fledged discussion about it, wanting to just gently convey to him that she knew and was okay. It was a gift to be observed so closely and captured on paper like that. She could feel his heart in it, and it made her own quicken. The big discussion could come later when she has made sense of it and she did the thing she had to do but was putting off.
She is greeted with a soft snore instead, putting any and all conflicts to complete rest. She moves in closer, putting the books down on the bedside table, taking the time to take his peaceful image in. He was splayed against his pillow carelessly, probably fallen asleep from the fatigue of the day. Poor Jean must have been more physically and mentally exhausted than he had let up, letting her know that he indeed did keep more suppressed inside of him than he let on. They were so similar in some ways that it was astonishing. She was only seeing it all now in spite of having known each other for more than a decade. Maybe things happened when they were supposed to happen.
She knew all too well what he must have been feeling, and she was glad that it culminated into a well-deserved sleep. It's more than her mind ever allowed her.
She can't help but smile, feeling a warmth in her chest from watching him, spreading to the tips of her fingers, making her raise them to his forehead. He was warmer than usual, likely a fever. Her heart leaped for a second, when she noticed that the glass of her mother's special concoction that she had put at his bedside in the morning, to his protest, was empty.
All the images he had drawn of her, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, his carefully sculpted features plunged into a serene slumber, overwhelm her. She runs her fingers repeatedly through his surprisingly soft hair, caressing him gently so as to not wake him. The culmination of all their months together hit her. She feels a tingling hollowness, like a huge weight inside of her was being turned inside out.
A familiar urge kicks into gear, her brimming emotions not finding its proper outlet merely through her fingers. She bends down, tucking her hair behind her ear, and places a chaste kiss on his forehead, and caresses his cheek lightly, feeling another wave of warmth wash over her from the simple contact.
She whispers to him, her fingers still tracing his face with a feather-light touch, "I know what I need to do, I promise. Just a little more time."
She turns off the lights and heads back to her room, finally giving notice to the suffocating squeeze in her chest. She wanders to the window, her eyes roaming until it naturally fixates at the usual spot outside. Her fingers trace the outline against the cold glass.
She had to do it. Every time it was an indecisive tug-of-war that she thought would be put to rest once one side overpowered. She just didn't realise which one she wanted more until one side lost out. One final step and there should be a light at the end of the tunnel she never thought she would get to see.
Just one more step, the hardest one, and it would all be over.
Jean awakes when the beginnings of pink and orange streaks brush against a Prussian blue. He groans when he tries to move, having fallen asleep in an odd position that gave him a stiff neck. His eyes go to the stack of books beside him and he curses, remembering that he and Mikasa were supposed to spend some quality time together. Truly a lost opportunity. They could do nothing and he would still be fulfilled, as long as they were together. He loved learning about her, especially in their silences. She is at her most natural when they say nothing at all, and that's when he feels like he has the most of her; they never had a chance to be quiet before when there was so much noise all around them.
He rotates his ankle and shoulder gingerly to test their condition. The pain was largely gone.
He goes to check on Mikasa, regretful that he prematurely ended their night, wondering if she might have been as disappointed as he was. She was due to wake up soon if her body clock worked the way it used to.
She was sprawled on her bed carelessly, fully clothed in the same outfit she was in the previous day.
She was precious like this. She had been pushing herself in caring for him of late, and she had been more vocal than ever about their relationship. It almost gave him… hope, which he diligently repackaged into being proud of her for unfettering herself even further from the shackles of the desolation that often held her back.
He inches towards her bed, her soft breathing pulling at his heartstrings. On a closer look, he notices a crinkled piece of paper spread out next to her folded hand near her head: it was the drawing he had made of "her" from his boyhood. How embarrassing that she still had that. Moreover, why was she even looking at it? He had improved, there were better illustrations of her to admire… but those were just for him anyway. Watching her like this made it hard to believe he could truly ever forget and forgo the helplessness he felt before the strength of his emotions for her. But a promise is a promise. He would repeat this mantra in his head endlessly until it became the truth.
As though she could hear the weight of his thoughts, Mikasa stirs and utters half in her sleep, "Jean…"
"Sorry, I let myself in to check on you. I'll see you -"
She bolts up into a sitting position, "No, no, it's fine. You can stay. How's your ankle? Your shoulder?"
He relaxes and sits on the edge of her bed, as she shifts away to make space for him. "I'm almost completely fine now, thanks to you."
She smiles at him gently, setting off the butterflies in his stomach. "I'm glad."
"I should confiscate that abomination," he gestures with his head towards the drawing.
She reflexively hides the drawing behind her, threatening him with a glare like a stubborn child, earning a small chuckle from him at her adorableness.
"I can do a better one," he says to her lightly.
"I know. I saw them. But I like this one," she says knowingly, both of her hands behind her back, protecting the drawing with all her might.
Comprehension dawns on him, as he recalls the sketchbook on his bedside. Shit. He was careless. It wasn't as though he was trying to hide it from her, but there was no decent explanation he could give her for it that wouldn't make her uncomfortable. He panics, blabbing out in an attempt of a joke, "I swear I'm not stalking you or anything. You just happen to live with me and you're a good model-"
"-I'll make whatever face you want, whatever pose. Just ask," it sounds almost as though she were pleading to him, which confused the hell out of him.
"Huh?"
She looks away, a blush mysteriously creeping across her face, "I mean, I'm not going anywhere. You don't need to draw me from memory. I don't mind."
Huh?
No. There is no way. They were on different planes, weren't they? The moments he drew were from esoteric, fleeting memories, reimagining how she looked at certain moments though his eyes. If anything, she should be creeped out, disgusted, but instead, she was saying something else, almost as if she meant that they were not one-time moments at all.
No. No. He had to stop taking one step forward and two steps back. She would be ready for more when she says she is ready for more.
He replies weakly, his mind blanking at the tempting implications of her words, "Okay, I'll ask."
It was his turn to look away, trying to hide the redness spreading over his face wildly. He clears his throat, to change the topic, "Let me whip up something for breakfast since I finally am able to."
"Only if you let me help," she says sweetly, and now he is sure he is dreaming.
"Okay," he fumbles out again, uneasily walking out of the room in a daze.
Jean adjusts the sleeves of his shirt, ensuring that the folds are crisp. He tugs at his shirt one last time, and quickly runs his fingers through his hair to set it.
It's not a date, it's not a date, it's not a date
He keeps chanting to himself, lest his mind ignore such an important detail, as he checks himself out in the mirror again in anticipation of meeting his… partner in the next room. Whenever he saw her, it was like the first time. He had to reprogramme himself into remembering that she was just anyone else; probably his closest person, but just a person nonetheless.
He lets out a huff and calls out to Mikasa, who was waiting for him downstairs when he had returned from work, laying on the surprise that she was taking him out later into the night. He did a little somersault in his head from the sheer surprise at her thoughtfulness. It went with her recent strange behaviour where she almost insisted on spending more time together. It was heaven. It was more than he could ask for and he couldn't be happier that she seemingly enjoyed his company as much he enjoyed hers.
He glances down from the landing of the stairs. She wasn't there.
He goes into her room. The lights are switched off.
"Mikasa?"
She was standing in front of the window, seemingly in a daze, her fingers placed lightly against the glass. She looked ethereal in the silvery rays of the moon bathing her.
He catches his breath and calls out to her again. She doesn't respond. He moves in closer to her to redirect her attention, gently tapping on her shoulder, "Mikasa."
She startles and turns to him, looking rattled. "Jean! Are you ready?"
"Yeah…" he trails, pursing his lips unsurely, directing his gaze knowingly to the view from the window for a few seconds before turning back to her. "You sure you want to go? We can postpone-"
"-No, let's go," she smiles at him, in stark contrast to her earlier demeanour. In another pocket of surprise, she takes a hold of his hand boldly, and starts ushering him out of the room with her in a quickened pace. He lets her drag him along, blinking dumbly behind her, trying to tell himself that the handholding was normal since she clearly was in a hurry to get them somewhere and only she knew the directions to the place anyway.
Right, normal person's normal hand in his. If only his palms would stop being so sweaty and his mind would stop wandering to the view outside her window, and at how crushingly she was looking at the scenery.
Jean walks the long, grassy path home from the train station. With the cold of the winter finally having arrived, the nights were getting longer. He had left from work refreshingly earlier than usual. The sun was long gone from the sky, the air already chilly from its premature departure.
"I'm home," he calls out as usual upon entering their cozy cottage. He looks to the empty stove and realises just how early he was. Mikasa would usually make her appearance within seconds of his entry. A light, irrational fear grips his heart when he calls out her name and she doesn't respond.
The lights in the rooms upstairs were all switched off. He goes to her room for a panicked inspection, except she wasn't there either. His eyes roam and linger on the window.
He had a strong hunch where she could be.
"There you are," He stands beside an unsuspecting Mikasa, who was kneeling engrossed beside Eren's grave.
She startles and almost jolts to her feet. Jean's hand goes to her shoulder, "No need to get up," and that's when he sees her tear-stained face. He is never prepared to see that. It had been too long since he had seen her this way, preferring to never see her this way again. But somehow, he knew something like this would happen: from not wanting to visit Eren's grave to being glued to that window with a clear view of it.
She stands anyway, in spite of his insistence, looking like a guilty child who had been caught with their hand in the cookie jar, furiously wiping away the tears. "Jean! Sorry, I was just-"
He looks at her regretfully, "It's okay."
He feels his heart shattering, knowing that he probably made her feel like it's wrong to be here.
"It's okay. Please, sit." He coaxes her as sincerely as possible, his hand not leaving her shoulder until she settles down on her knees on the damp grass. He sits down a little behind her to her side, hoping to give her some privacy and also pay his respects.
"You don't have to be here. I was just about to return," Her head tilts slightly downwards and her hands ball into fists on her lap.
"I don't have to, but I want to," he says seriously.
"But this is… the problem, isn't it? If I keep coming here, wearing this," she tugs at her scarf, "then nothing changes."
He lets out a deep breath. Everything was going fine between them. Except, that it should have been obvious to him that all was not okay with her. She never visited Eren anymore, not to his knowledge. Her inner conflict was clearly not put to rest yet, vow of friendship or not. "I know things are awkward between us right now in this regard," he says measuredly, "but, you really have no reason to feel guilty about any of this. It doesn't matter to me. Nothing needs to change."
"It must. You know I don't… feel what you do," she sinks her head even lower and starts emphatically, raising it back, "But that doesn't mean I don't-!" he sees her shaking slightly. He pushes down his urge to comfort her. "I don't know if I can get over this. Does it even end? How does the pain stop?" She cries out in the saddest, most helpless voice he has ever heard from her, and it crushes him to the very inside.
"I wish I had an answer to that but I don't think I do," he replies just as miserably.
"But you… you're able to go about your life just fine. At least, better than I can."
"From the outside, yes. But I can't say it doesn't hurt to think about that suicidal bastard and what he did. Or Sasha, and Marco. It still hurts. You just get used to managing the pain, keep it locked in a different room with the lights off, visiting occasionally to reminisce on the good times."
"I just… want to stay in that room though. No, I think I'm trapped there. How do you come out?"
He lifts his head up to look at the sky, contemplating what he could do to pull her out of her misery, to reassure her that there is something outside of that room waiting for her if she gave it a chance.
"You can't," he looks in front at her form again, and she turns to him with a gasp at his blunt reply, a look of betrayal written on her face.
"That's it?" She says in disbelief.
He shrugs his shoulders once. "It doesn't have to be. Look, I'm no expert. Believe it or not, I zone out even during work sometimes if someone so much as mentions a potato," he chuckles wryly. "Some people say that you should go on living because that's what the dead would have wanted."
"That makes sense," Mikasa whispers, turning towards the grave again.
"But I personally think that's bullshit," he sees her stiffen and let out an indeterminate sound. "You can't blindly go by what a dead person would have wanted just because they're dead."
"That's rude and inappropriate," she warns sternly.
"I mean, if Sasha wanted me to never eat meat again because she no longer would be able to, would I do it? What if Eren wanted you to think about him and be alone for at least ten years after his death, would you do it?"
"Eren wanted me to move on," she says definitively. He could sense her souring mood.
But he goes on, "Whatever they wanted or did not want from us, we can only hope to vaguely fulfil. The dead will be dead but we go on living. Their deaths would be meaningless if we didn't live the best lives we can manage. We might as well have died with them if we lived the way we assume they would have wanted."
She says nothing, and he wonders nervously whether his rambling made any sense. He relaxes when she says softly after a pause, "But what if we… manage to be happy without them? Wouldn't that be… disrespectful to their memory? We have no right to be so happy if they're not here. I can't forget him… them. I don't want to."
Her words stab him like a knife.
She was scared of letting go, of forgetting Eren, of it hurting him even if he isn't here. No matter what he did, no matter how vile, he had a hold on her life and she was torn about breaking out of it and the consequences it would have on her psyche. Jean knew this, she had told him. But there is no answer to this. There was no answer to any of this. He has to stop his mind spiralling into itself, from breaking down his self-assurance, and be strong for her, ignoring his comparatively invisible pain for their dearly departed friends and for the wife that will not love him.
He boldly proclaims despite his lamentations, "You probably won't."
"Then why?" She cries out almost immediately, and he sees her curling into herself.
Why is he still here?
His thoughts exactly.
"Because that's not the point. The end goal is not to forget them or pretend the room does not exist. It will. It should. But being happy in spite of them, does not erase everything you had with them. People aren't replaceable. You just open up different parts of yourself for others. You decide how big each room is, which ones are lit, which ones you've lost the key to and never want to open again, how much you want to give of yourself. You just have to do right by the living and the dead, you know? Not to mention, yourself."
He continues when it seems like he might be getting through to her, feeling himself unburden as well. He hadn't even realised until now how deep-seated his own hurt for his friends and the innumerable souls whose lives were robbed was.
"I know it all sounds the same – replacing people, using them to fill a hole, doing things to disrespect someone's memory. But we find a way to reconcile all of it. Honestly, even now when I speak to Reiner, I sometimes wonder if it's really okay. I don't know what Marco would say or feel about it. I mean, of course he would hate it, and then I hate myself for it. Reiner and I – I was disgusted in the beginning that I had to work with him. It took some time to even be in the same vicinity as him without hating myself. But, times of war and all of that accelerated everything. We spoke, had to understand each other from scratch, went through a long journey to forgive each other, and well, I suppose I'm a shitty person and he's my creepy friend."
He hears a tiny little chuckle from Mikasa that makes his heart soar, and the corners of his eyes crinkle. "I probably am way in over my head speaking about this but I suppose it's like with your mother." He pauses to gauge whether it is okay to carry on with this thread.
She nods in assent.
"You loved your birth mother. But you also loved Carla, I'm sure. Did loving Carla reduce or diminish your love for your mother? Was it wrong to love Carla? I would think not."
"No."
"The love never goes away. You loved both Carla and your mother. Maybe one became a memory, but it hurts all the same. None is less than the other. No one replaced anyone. It just opened your heart up wider, I guess. So, just do what you feel is right for you, Mikasa. Keep moving forward, as that bastard used to say. Think for yourself."
Mikasa lets out another wry chuckle. "What? Did I go overboard with the speech thing?" He groans.
"No. I just remembered Armin saying that to me once."
"Saying what?"
"He said I should think for myself for once… and go find you."
Jean blinked at the convenient coincidence. "Well, what can I say? Armin has always been a wise man with the most sound advice," he says with his chest puffed out in mock confidence.
"But honestly, Mikasa," He says solemnly, a melancholy that he tries to suppress bubbling up to the surface, "We don't need to change. You don't have to try and force what you feel. I want you to be happy," he can't help but have his voice shake, trying to believe his own words. There was always going to be the right thing to do, and then there was what he wanted. Sometimes they coincided, but often times, it called for a sacrifice.
"It's the opposite of that. I've been forcing the wrong things," she says measuredly, and he wishes he could see her face to understand what she means, feeling positively taken aback.
Before he can ask anything further, she interjects, "Now is not the time for this, though. Can I see you back at home?"
He feels slightly disappointed, but there is something sweet in her ask that quells the sting.
"Hm," he grunts, and nods.
A wind picks up, and she hugs her forearms in reaction, wearing only a light shirt, her usual scarf and a long skirt.
"I'll leave you be but it's too cold outside for me to leave you be like this," Jean comments. "I don't have a special scarf or shawl to wrap around you, but," he promptly wraps his military coat around her and places his hat on her head fondly, "this should do for now. Come home when you're done? I'll have dinner ready."
He stands up and dusts himself off, giving her one last look, hoping he had done right by her. He talked brave, but he knew he hardly was. As he walks away, he places his hand against his chest, hoping to calm down a very uneasy heart.
Mikasa tugs at the edges of the oversized coat, burying herself in the familiar scent she hadn't realised she's missed.
She takes several deep breaths, the approaching winter air brushing off her. She looks to the grave solemnly, the inscription tugging at wounds in her heart that were being sewn by calming words of a voice she had come to associate with home.
"Eren. That was Jean right now. Yeah, I know, he comes pretty often. It's strange because I thought I'd be the only one to mourn you, but that was so naïve and self-centred of me," She smiles bitterly.
"The thing is, I never told you who Jean is. I married him, Eren. He's my husband. It's been more than half a year. I don't know what you'd think of this. I don't know what to think of this. Not because I'm not sure but because… because… I'm happy. I'm happy, Eren," Tears prickle the corner of her eyes and she doesn't know whether it's from joy or sorrow.
"Nearly five years and now finally… is this really okay? Do you hate me more? I… I needed to know if this is okay - that it's okay if I… moved on. It's not that I… that I want to forget you, Eren. I don't want to. But sometimes, when it gets too much, I feel like I do want to forget you… and then I don't want to again."
"You see, I had to make a choice: I could go on loving you, feeling guilty for what I did and what you did, probably my whole life, and eventually, with time, get used to it. Or, I could have picked this other route where I forgive and forget somehow and choose to live a full life with Jean, a life… full of love, I think. Yes, I think that's what it would have been like. And I chose you, because the prospect of feeling all this hurt and wallowing in it, no matter how painful, it was something I was getting used to because it was natural that I feel this way. It seemed like I deserved it, this- this lifetime of pain because I couldn't save you or the countless others. How could I now walk into this unknown path full of a love I didn't think I ever deserved again," She breaks down into full-throated sobs, her fingers buried in the mud supporting the grass, grasping on to their base tightly.
"But I can't.. I can't live like this. I just wanted to go back to that time when we were in Shiganshina, where we were all one happy family! But I know that that version of the dream is no longer possible. I made peace with it a long time ago. But now it feels like, I can have that too; a different, just as sweet version. I can have - no – I have a family and I'm not alone; he, he – Jean, doesn't let me be alone."
She takes a moment to calm down, sniffling. She looks behind her in the direction of her house and sees the receding dot of Jean, walking back to the brightly lit speck that is their cottage.
"You wanted us to live long happy lives, didn't you? I really think, for the very first time, that - that I can. That I also can move forward, that I'm finally, finally, finding who Mikasa is… without Eren. Is it wrong? Please tell me it's not wrong because… I just want to. I don't want to feel guilt. I don't want to feel stuck while everyone else moves ahead without me. I've done it for four years already Eren, and I'm just – I'm just tired." She wipes and rubs at the endless tears rolling down her cheek, trying to even out her breaking voice, not caring at how grimy her hands were from the sludge.
"I feel horrible carrying this guilt of being his wife, even if we don't call it that. I don't want to feel guilty when I smile with him, when I laugh at his silly jokes, when I lie next to him… I want to be his wife. And I want to be okay with it. So please let me be, Eren. I won't replace you. I won't forget you. I never thought I could have both, but, but you know what? Jean says I can have both," She smiles painfully through hot tears.
"I believe him. I want to try. He says he doesn't care, but, but… would you mind if I sometimes, took off your scarf," her shaking fingers feel the rough woollen fabric worn down with use, "Or if I didn't visit you every other day, or if I brought him along sometimes? If I saw more of the world you spared, beyond Shiganshina, standing proudly beside him? Or if I put the past behind me and cherished your memory from afar? If I… If I maybe thought about… making a family with him? Would it be so bad if I did those things?" She asks eagerly like she was expecting a response.
"If it's not too much to ask of you, do you think you could watch over us, Eren? We are the product of your actions, good or bad. If anything good came out of… all of this," she wipes her cheek again, the tears now drying up, her voice steadier than before, "it's us. It's this. This home I have, the warm food on the table that I don't have to cook, the blanket I don't have to tuck myself into, the fire I don't have to light… it's all you, Eren, and I want it all. I'm sorry you couldn't be with us, here, on this land you so desperately tried to protect. I'm honestly so sorry," she bites back a hard sob, "but you'll always… always… be here," she stresses softly, her hand goes to her lulling heart, "so let me go there and be his wife. Even if you can't be okay with it, I want to be. I'm so sorry."
She looks back over her shoulder, picturing the man inside and the warmth of the home he created.
She turns back to the headstone, a small smile that she felt incapable of producing gracing her lips once again, as she says affectionately with some finality, "But I'll have to go back home now. I'll… I'll see you later, Eren."
She finally did it.
Symbolically, she finally freed herself from the chains that had a stronghold on her, from the chains that only ever let a part of her enter this house.
Mikasa feels a strange combination of a heavy chest from the intense remnants of her previous mood and a light fluttering of her heart when she sees Jean wrapped in the frilly pink apron she had gotten free with the last batch of groceries she had purchased, stirring a delicious smelling sauce, and humming a broken tune with full concentration.
It feels like this is the beginning of the rest of her life and for the first time, it feels like she had made the right choice.
She pulls on his coat which drowned her lithe form and steadies the hat on her head to remind herself that this is all real.
She is light on her feet as she makes her way to him, leaning her forehead on his upper back, near his shoulder. She feels him flinch and her heart beats wildly wondering if he would push her away considering the state he had found her in. But as though it were the most natural thing in his world, without pausing the tune he was humming, he swings his arm behind him, and scoops her around in his arms, until she was standing comfortably next to him, plushily enveloped.
She probably looked horrible, with swollen eyes, and a red face, but she is thankful he says nothing. Instead, he turns to her with a smile, and she meets his amber eyes that are looking at her with adoration.
This is why she had to let go and heal, isn't it? That smile, that blind acceptance, those kind eyes… how did she ever think she could give up on her feelings for him and continue partaking in the lie that he held no part of her heart?
He soon frowns, amused, before reaching for a clean dish towel, "Mikasa, what have you done to your pretty face," he clicks his tongue, and starts wiping all over her face, while she tries to shake him away, scrunching up her nose at the unnecessary intrusion, "You've gotten mud all over yourself. Did you prostrate yourself on the ground back there?" He chuckles as he tosses away the towel.
She glares at him, not showing an ounce of embarrassment at looking like a child who had rolled around in the mud. "I didn't notice," she deadpans without batting an eye. She bends down and twirls gracefully, until she is out of his hold and calls out behind him, "I'll be upstairs. I have some work to finish up. I won't be reading with you tonight either."
"Do you need help? Everything okay?" The concern is evident in his voice.
"I'll be fine. Just something I need to do alone."
"Also, please feel free to dump that coat and hat somewhere. They probably stink. I can't believe you're still wearing them."
"No," she whispers to herself as she ascends the stairs.
Jean has been following a repetitive pattern for the past hour or so. He has been pacing the room, fiddling with the doorknob, then returning to his bed, reminding himself that Mikasa wanted to be left alone. He would scratch at another illustration of her he had started working on, until his mind drifted from drawing her to thinking about her and then his nervous routine would restart.
He had crossed a line with his faux-intellectual lecturing. Like he knew any better about anything. He just started rambling unthinkingly to make himself feel better. She probably found him insensitive. Or maybe, he had encroached on her private time and he should never have stayed in the first place. She had looked so startled and guilty when he had chanced upon her. He should have taken the hint and made his way back.
On top of that, Mikasa had looked dreadful when she returned to the house. He was expecting the remnants of a minor break-down but it seemed like she had cried enough to spill her guts out. Not to mention, her face was smeared with dirt from the damp mud.
But when she had returned, she was strangely affectionate, like nothing had happened. And he, like an idiot, had reacted to that as well, and drew her physically closer to him like she wasn't bawling her eyes out a minute ago over a love she would never be able to move past. But she looked so adorable in his clothes and was giving him those puppy dog eyes as well. How could he not spoil her?
He was so weak for her. He could never manage to do the right thing. He was sick with worry. To hell with giving someone their space.
When he hears the squeaking of the doorknob, in lightning speed, he launches back to to his bed, pretending to be casually applying some finishing touches to his drawing, terrified of Mikasa's arrival suddenly, already picturing her departure.
He watched his biggest nightmare come to fruition when Mikasa brought in two suitcases into the room.
"W-what's this?" Sweat runs down his temple.
"My stuff," she says aloofly, shutting the door behind her.
"Look, Mikasa, I know I said and did some things I shouldn't have but we can still work things out," He blabbers, tempted to go and lock the door to stop her from physically leaving.
"I know. That's not what this is about."
His tone is hard, "Then what's this?"
"I've decided to move. This should be most of it, but some things are still left in the other room. I'll get them later," she gives him a tiny smile, looking away, a slight pink colouring her cheeks.
A deafening silence, his chest clenching the air out of him. The panic shoots up in him in record speed, and he jumps into a kneeling position on the bed. "Mikasa, please don't do this," he says like his literal life depended on it.
She frowns at him and he dreads their fight. "Why not? You expect your wife to live in the guest bedroom of her own home?"
His stomach drops. "W-What?"
"This is the master bedroom, isn't it? I'm just moving in with my husband as I should have done," She says nonchalantly to him, while he looks at her wide-eyed, his jaw open, his mind having checked out.
"That's you, by the way. My husband. Now, are you going to make some space for me in your cupboard or not?"
What was happening? Just a few hours ago, her head was somewhere else, in that dark place that they had tried to ward away over the months, with sporadic success and small victories. Now, she seemed refreshed, with a spring in her step, cracking jokes. Not only that, but she had called him the hallowed H-word and referred to herself as the W-word, something they had agreed they'd never utter again. It wasn't sitting right with him, as much as his stomach did flips on hearing those words leave her tongue again.
"The dressing table and bathroom too," She looks around the room, inspecting all the places they would apparently need to share. "And why on earth do you need these many hair products?" She comments from the bathroom.
He's lost in thought while watching her every move carefully, trying to process what was happening.
She circles back to stand in front of the cupboard, pushing hangers aside and re-arranging his clothes to apparently make space for herself. He sits on the edge of the bed right behind her, swinging his legs onto to the floor. His heart was beating painfully against his chest, a nervousness running through his being. "Mikasa, are you fine?"
She lets out a deep breath and turns around to face him. Her face is solemn and her gaze, intense. "Yes," she nods, even giving him a small smile that has him unconvinced of her well-being.
"I don't understand what's happening. You just called me your-"
"-I know what I said," she sighs. She reaches into the pocket of her cardigan and suddenly falls on her knees in front of him.
"Mikasa - no! What are you doing!" He exclaims in a panic, getting down on his knees too.
"Take it easy," she says calmly.
"I've come to a decision," she declares confidently. She puts out her enclosed fist in front of him, and slowly uncurls her fingers, revealing two familiar shining bands, one with a blinding diamond placed on it.
No, this could not be happening.
He tries not to get ahead of himself, trying to close his mouth from the gaping, searching her features for a satisfactory explanation that would stop the fireworks from going off prematurely in his brain. If he thought he didn't understand Mikasa before, he certainly didn't understand her now. It was too good to be true.
"I… want to be married to you again, Jean. I might not be exactly where you are, but I can see myself, for the very first time, reaching there." Her voice shakes, as she lets out the next part, breaking their eye-contact occasionally, "Of course, this doesn't mean I'm saying that everything will be perfect from day one. I'll still be me. I'll still be Mikasa and have all the problems that come with being her and being with her-"
"-No, don't say that," he shakes his head disapprovingly, affected by how she could think of herself so negatively when he couldn't be more proud of her. He never needed her to be perfect. He just needed her to be ready and acknowledge the true state of affairs around them and in them. By instinct, he could tell she is where she needs to be.
"I just… don't want to pretend anymore, that I don't want this, that I don't want to… be with you in every way," there is a slight tremor in her voice but it doesn't reek of hesitation, but of overwhelm. He is rattled, his mind racing a hundred miles a second, not knowing where to run to.
He takes the silent route, taking his time to gather himself while she waits for him expectantly, trying to gauge his expression as he looks downwards. He lets out a breath when he is ready and looks her straight in the eye, "You know how I've told you that once we go down this route, there's no going back; are you sure you want to do this?"
She purses her lips, then calmly lets out again, "I've not been more sure of anything else. I made a choice when you returned this ring to me, and now I know it was the choice of running away. I don't want to run anymore. I don't know where we'll reach, and it might be tough at times, but I'm excited to do it all with you."
He considers all her words carefully, analysing the sequence of events that led to this, breaking down all the moments that have transpired between them in the past few months, trying to find even one persuasive reason for him to say no to the love of his life who was looking at him eagerly for an answer, sitting patiently in front of him, the rings tempting him. It was disbelief, not of her intentions, but because good things happened only to good people. Now he had an open invitation to live out his pipe dream, one he never truly believed would be for him; he had made a choice too, that everyone else's life would always be more valuable than his.
But now, the dream that had played in his head on repeat, and then suppressed, was running out of reels to show him, and here she was, offering him more footage to believe this was just the beginning of everything he had pictured.
"Jean, do you need some time to think?" There is a curious hopelessness in her voice that snaps him out of his stupor. His mind curses him for keeping her waiting pointlessly when there was no way in hell his answer was ever going to be different. He was only forcing himself to hesitate because he was convinced for the past couple of months that it was the right thing to do.
"No, not at all," he says breezily, like he was still stuck in a trance.
He dips his fingers into her palm and extracts the diamond ring from her. In one smooth motion, he gently takes her left hand in his and slides the ring onto her finger for the second time ever, hopefully, for it to remain there for their avowed sixty years. His fingers linger at the perfectly positioned ring, as he looks up at her, feeling a burst of adrenaline and the largest grin his mouth would allow, "Do you need me to repeat my vows? I meant every single word."
She looks away flustered, a pretty, deep red blush painting her cheeks, making her glow. The words stumble out, "No, please, you don't need to say anything more. It's too much," and she looks back at him shyly while sliding the ring onto his finger with full concentration, prompting a light laugh from him. He feels his whole body fluttering from a pleasant, warm sensation.
"May I at least kiss the bride?" He asks coaxingly, not able to keep the floodgates of emotions shut any longer, willing himself to not pounce on her.
She struggles out a nod, and it is the most adorable thing ever. Without waiting for her to verbalise her answer, he impatiently places his hands on either side of her head and joins their lips for a deep, long kiss that was imbued with all of his emotions. She responds immediately, enthusiastically, circling her arms around his neck, pressing her chest against his. They are locked in so much forceful passion, that he transfers his weight on to her unconsciously, until they tumble down backwards onto the floor, knocking foreheads and teeth.
They groan in unison at the clumsy accident marring their passionate reunion, before breaking into a fit of laughter, even as they remain in the intimate position of him lying on top of her. His eyes roam her face reflecting joy, the corners of her eyes crinkled, the back of her hand covering her mouth, trying to calm down the rare laughter that rang like soulful music to his ears. He relaxes, convinced that this was indeed the right path to take if this is what it led to.
He continues admiring her from this comfortable vantage point, wondering whether he could dip down into her one more time, not satiated with the comical end to their sweet sojourn, when a thought strikes him, "I just noticed. You're not wearing your scarf."
She glares at him, and he thinks to himself, amused, Mikasa is back, "It's an issue when I wear my scarf, it's an issue when I don't wear my scarf. You always ruin the good moments. There's no pleasing you, is there."
He grins when she grabs him by the collar, excited at the prospect of her initiation, saying a silent, thankful prayer to the heavens, but instead, like a freezing shower, she uses his support to get herself up until they are both back to a sitting position.
He chuckles lightly before adding, "Too many surprises in a row from you. Can we have a do-over?"
She gives him a side glance, a ghost of a smile she was trying to conceal twitching on her lips. "Maybe. You better get used to it, though. I have limited graces to give out, Kirstein."
"Why do I feel like you can't in earnest call me that anymore as a taunt?" He comments playfully.
"One step at a time there. I never said anything about a name change," she proclaims righteously. She curls her lips slowly and coyly says, "But, maybe it's not completely off the table either."
He smiles back at her, feeling like jelly all over. He puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close, as she responds in like by leaning against him, as they sit there, content, in a contemplative silence, taking in each other's warmth that they craved for and were deprived of all these months.
He lets out a deep sigh to compose himself, before asking her one last time, if only to put to rest forever any fear and flickers of doubt induced by the tiny, pessimistic voice rattling in his head, as he looks down towards her iconic raven hair that first caught his attention more than a decade ago, "You think we'll be fine, Mikasa?"
"No," She states blankly, still facing downwards, as he feels a tiny pinch from her blunt answer that has him bewildered.
She shuffles around in his grasp, until they are face to face. "I think we'll be more than that."
And then, with the most beautiful smile he had ever seen on anyone, like the heavens had descended upon her and made her their own, she says, before burying herself in his chest, making him hold her, confused at first, and then tight, and then like everything he had ever done was worth it –
"I think… we'll be happy, Jean."
That's the end of the angst (the rain and the hail) and hence, the end of the story! I wanted to end it believably, and to tie up whatever loose ends there may have been. I hope it wasn't cheesy or rushed. Writing this fic was really something - quite cathartic but also annoying at times, haha. Let me know what you think.
I'll be uploading a short epilogue in a couple of days :) Thank you to everyone who has read this far!