Sunshine and Rainbows

by Jigglywigglypuff

College AU set in the year 1999. Mikasa met Eren the first week of junior year, and it seemed like love at first sight. However, the intensity of their fast romance would be their downfall as Eren's childhood trauma comes to light and threatens their relationship. A story of love, heartbreak, and friendship while attending university in the late 90's.

8. Break Stuff

Being with Eren was pleasure, euphoria. It was the taste of his sweat stained skin against her tongue, his heat scorching her mouth. It was salt and the bitter flavor of his cologne. But how sweet it was, and addicting. So addicting she always wanted to savor him, began to crave the smooth texture of his flesh caressing her lips, to feel the layer of softness that coated his solid body. Skin against muscle. Bronzed, lean, defined. Tasting and worshipping his body because now she was obsessed with it.

From a curiosity to a desire, and then a fierce need. She needed him now, had to touch him as often as she could, for her hands to plaster against his chest, her teeth grazing his nipple, to allow his warmth to radiate onto her own naked body. And his grunts, mixed with the echoing sound of her own moans, such a glorious, chaotic melody they created.

Because once he said the words to her, and after she felt the fullness of him within her, something changed. A shift, mentally, emotionally. Physically. One she knew would happen if (when) she allowed him to touch her, so deep and wholly. One she feared, leaving her so vulnerable and fragile and needy. Needing him to keep touching her, kissing her, fucking her. To hear those words spill from his mouth endlessly, dripping like honey down his lips and she would kiss them hungrily. Devour those words and all the succulent sweetness they were glazed with.

Being with Eren was pleasure. It was an intense, quavering orgasm. It was a climax that she felt from the hardness of her nipples to the dramatic point of her toes. Being with him was gushing wetness she could not control, splattering down her thighs, trickling down the length of her legs. Thick fluid, sticky, that when his fingers would search her they would become doused, a layer of her dew connecting them.

Being with him with pleasure—blinding, trembling, fast and chaotic. But she would learn it was also pain. Confusion. Intoxication. So much pain. She could have never prepared for such a level of misery. A gut wrenching, physical agony. For, how could someone that brought her so much pleasure be a simultaneously equal source of hurt?

It started a week after they had been together, and he began to grow distant.

~oOo~

Mikasa witnessed the fight from behind the mirror of the studio. Though she could only hear the muffled feminine voices, the intensity of their argument was visible. The wild hand gestures, highly contorted expressions that resembled physical agony. Tears that slipped down porcelain skin. And porcelain skin alone.

She had not intended to intrude on their quarrel. Her scheduled practice with Connie was nearing, and as she approached the room, she found herself frozen in place, unable to look away no matter how desperately she desired. Like watching a horrific accident unfold, flames consuming and spreading through the vicinity but there she remained, stuck in place. Simply observing, staring. Unsure of what to do, how to react.

They were not trying to conceal their theatrics. And perhaps they were too caught in the heat of the moment to contemplate that they were on full display, visibly from the glass walls. Performing for an audience of one, the bright studio lights shining upon them fittingly, the stars of their own performance.

But there was no dancing. No murmuring sounds of elegant music, classic harmonies bouncing from the walls and captured in the soul of their movements. There was no dancing, but shouting. Crying. Desperate pleas.

And it was so bizarre to Mikasa, seeing this. The altercation between Historia and Ymir. Usually two friends inseparable, always smiling and embracing. Now caught in a fiery exchange, almost as passionate as scorned lovers. Historia, who seemingly had a permanent smile tattooed on her lips, was sobbing. Reaching, curled fingers. Trembling hands. All of her tiny compact body throwing herself at the much taller woman, in all her desperation.

The nylon of her tights stretched, her black leotard hugging the delicate curves of her small form. And her golden blonde hair had fallen from its bun, nestled over her shoulder. Her face shimmered from the glitter of her tears, so distorted from crying that Mikasa found her almost unrecognizable.

Ymir, equally frenzied. More chaotic, but firm. Glistening eyes, but tears remained within, a snarl to her lip, her slender fingers clenched in fists. Historia threw herself at her, despair spilling from her body. And Ymir grasped her shoulders, giving her one solid shake as she looked down at her with quavering eyes, strands of her brown hair falling in front of her face.

And it was so fierce and profound and vivid, Mikasa momentarily wondered if this was a dance. How the passion, rage, and anguish flowed out of their bodies in a heartbreakingly beautiful waltz. She found herself entranced by it, by their energy and emotion. It was the strangest thing she had ever seen. What could they possibly be arguing about that would elicit such a vehement response from them?

It all ended abruptly then, when Ymir disconnected herself from the petite dancer, taking her duffle bag and storming out the room. Mikasa's breathing faltered when she stopped at the door, brown eyes striking into grey. She could feel the remnants of the tension shoot into her, and she saw Ymir's brows stitch together before she continued her stride, easing the pace of her march.

Mikasa felt her grip tighten around the strap of her backpack, a dryness succumbing her throat as she peaked through the doorway. The sight was pitiful, how Historia had melted onto the floor, quavering as she wept into her palms. Muted whimpers began and faded in her hands, but the room picked up the noises and amplified it. The sound was sad yet pathetic. But despite her envious feelings towards her, Mikasa found it difficult to revel in her misery.

Carefully, Mikasa walked towards her, her Skechers nearly silent, and even when the crying heap was darkened by her shadow, she remained there, unmoving. Unnoticing. A reluctant sigh vibrated against Mikasa's lips, and she moved several strands of hair away from her face before clearing her throat.

"Hey."

Historia tensed, her tiny body nearly contracted into a ball at the unexpected greeting. She saw the glimmer of aquamarine eyes peer towards her, shaky hands balling into fists as she rushed to wipe the dampness from her face.

"Is everything okay?"

She struggled to stand, her knees trembling, but she found her balance, using the length of her forearm to swipe against her eyes. "I'm fine."

Mikasa flinched at the sharpness of her tone, but with a fumble of her lips she decided to press further. "Are you sure? You look really upset."

When Historia snapped her neck towards her, her hair flowed behind her, glossing a brilliant vibrant yellow. She noticed something that resembled a deep rage construct in the depth of her irises.

"Why don't you focus on fixing your mediocre turn-out instead of worrying about me?"

Mikasa blinked once. And then again. Her backpack began to slide down her shoulder as her lips parted in disbelief, brows crinkling in bewilderment. Historia clutched at her hips, a firm scowl pressed at her mouth. Her face was dry but remained red and swollen.

"I…was just trying to see if you were alright," Mikasa managed to blurt out, stumbling with her words. "You don't have to be such a fucking cunt about it."

Her diction seemed to catch the small blonde off guard as she stomped to the corner of the room to grab her bag. Mikasa folded her arms over her chest, watching her storm out with the same fury and passion as Ymir had moments ago. She made sure to give her one firm grimace before leaving, her fingers gripping the doorway.

"I'd rather be a cunt than a shitty dancer."

"Wow," Mikasa laughed, the sound short, staccato, and sarcastic. "Whatever you were crying about, I hope it gets worse." She wasn't sure if Historia had heard her as she shouted the words, but it felt fucking good to say it. Especially hearing the phrase resounding her ears like a glorious symphony.

That was the last time she'd show sympathy towards that tiny little bitch.

~oOo~

"Jaeger, he has your eyes."

Floch did not have a nice laugh. It was more like a cackle, how choppy and annoying it was. Some laughs were contagious, warming, even sexy. But others were like Floch's, utterly irritating and snide. And he said this while petting Mikasa's dog, watching him wag his tail as strands of black and white fur floated in the air from the friendly gesture.

Jax was seated at the end Eren's bed, one of his favorite spots it seemed. His wet nose was pointed upwards in satisfaction, while Floch's fingers curled underneath his chin. A bemused grin plastered on his face, his auburn bangs falling in front of his eyes while he entertained himself with the small dog.

"You're hilarious," Eren quipped at the snarky comment, leaning back against the chair of his desk and crossing his leg casually over the other. Mikasa had been trying not to leave the dog by himself whenever she could, and so he volunteered his Tuesday mornings to keep him company while she went to class.

He was a very quiet dog, and Eren wasn't sure if it was his natural temperament or due to trauma. They were both little anguished creatures left to rot and die in an alley. And Mikasa swooped them up, cradling the poor strays in her arms. Because that's what she did, taking care of others, shining her love like a beaming ray of light. It was as beautiful as it was painful.

He hadn't bothered to get dressed, his shirt and sweats clinging loosely to his body as medium locks of brown hair rested against his jawline. The scent of his fragrance was warm, a day old, and it mingled with the smell of rum as he poured the thick brown liquid into a shot glass. Throwing his head back, he flicked the drink into his mouth, wincing as it slithered and burned down his throat.

His eyes watered, an immediate warmth filling his belly. Suddenly everything felt a little better, and he smiled. Only halfheartedly.

"Kind of early to be hitting the drinks already." He noticed a rise to one of Floch's brows, his lips pursed as he lifted himself from the floor, looming over Eren's form in either a concerned or interested stance. He rolled his eyes, however, pouring another shot. Droplets trickled over the bottle, landing onto the desk. The liquid seeped into the wood, staining the surface.

"You already know," he began, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed another shot in one gulp, "why."

Floch sucked in his lower lip, a delicate sigh heaving his nostrils. Hesitantly, he placed his hand at the back of Eren's chair, and he could feel the darkness of his shadow highlight his body. Looking up at his friend, he saw the uncertainty in his stare, the brown of his eyes almost as dark as his pupils.

"Yea, I know," he spoke, his tone a bit more subdued than usual. "You…" he paused, scratching at the top of his head, brows fumbling as he searched for the words. "…It's this Friday, right?"

Eren scanned the rum, his eyes flickering between the glass and bottle as he contemplated downing another shot. The warmth in his stomach began radiating to the rest of his body, and he felt a rush of heat take over him. Using the back of his hand, he dabbed at the sweat perspiring on his forehead. He really didn't want to think about this. When would this finally be over. "Yea. On Friday."

He shifted his gaze towards the bed as Floch sat alongside the dog, his weight causing an indentation to the unmade crimson bedsheets. Unlike him, he wore actual clothes, baggy dark denim and a black turtle neck. His palm found the top of Jax's head, and the dog became nestled in the sheets as his smoothed over his little skull.

"Do you want me to come with you to the cemetery?" he asked. "Or did you want to go with your girlfriend?"

Eren decided he was going to go for that third shot, clearing his throat before he felt the liquor sting towards his insides. He could feel every morsel of its travels, trickling inside him with the foreboding elegance of a blade crawling against flesh. He prayed that the sensation would creep into his brain and numb his agonizing thoughts.

"I'm not going," he said, his voice thick from the rum as he placed the glass onto the desk. "And I haven't told her about it."

He witnessed the squirming expression on Floch's face as he tried to contextualize both points of his statement. He stopped petting Jax, who noticed the shift in the mood of the room. The dog's ears lifted in concern, a gentle wagging of his tail.

"Why aren't you going?" Floch decided to ask first, his back hunched as he rested his elbows onto his knees.

"Because it's been eleven years. I don't want to go anymore."

Floch squinted his eyes, rubbing at his chin. "And you haven't told your girl?"

"No."

"…Why?"

Eren groaned, tugging at his hair and reveling in the tight pull against his scalp. He wished he could drape a curtain over the sun, to remove the light of the day and wallow in the comforting darkness. It was three fucking days away. The hours turning into minutes, each second a fucking reminder of what happened and he was so sick of it. Why couldn't that Friday be a normal day? Why did it always have to mean something so heavy?

"I don't want her to know right now," he said, his voice low and averting Floch's glare. He ran both hands through his hair, kneading at his temples as he uncrossed his leg. "I haven't told her about any of it yet. It's not something I just tell people."

Floch heaved a small breath through his nose. "I just thought you would. Given how crazy you are about her." He paused. "I'm sure she'd want you to go to the cemetery."

"Of course she would want me to go," Eren snapped, his eyes boiling with uncried tears. His expression was firm, yet unreadable. And then he laughed, ironically, a satirical grin plated his lips as he slouched against the back of the chair, his knees spread open.

"She'd have me go and make sure I zipped up my jacket because it's cold outside." He reached for the bottle, at first misaiming, before picking it up and taking a short swig directly from it. "She'd hold my hand and tell me everything will be okay. She would stay there with me as long as I needed."

He took another gulp of liquor, impassioned at his words. "She'd meet my dad. And my brother. And they'd love her too. They'd say that she reminds them of someone. And she does. She fucking does. They would love her. Because I love her. I love her so much and I fucking can't stand it sometimes."

When he felt the tug against his arm, Eren stiffened, his eyes hazily glancing towards the source. Floch yanked the bottle from his grasp, and Eren relented without much of a resistance.

"You know, as much as I give you shit for it," Floch began, licking his lips as he placed the rum back onto the desk, his stare towards his friend intense and unmoving, "it's nice to see you happy for once. It's okay to be happy, Eren." He then pulled his eyes towards him, locking into the trembling green embers.

"Don't fuck it up."

Eren didn't reply, the burning in his throat so strong it was painful to even speak. And drinking so early on an empty stomach was making him sick, flashes of heat and nausea swarming at his body.

Looking at the dog perched on his bed, he saw the little creature rested on his side, his belly swaying in a peaceful sleep. And what should have been a sweet and adorable sight brought a fierce panic within him. He could feel it in the tremor of his heart, the rising temperature of his skin.

How looking at that dog was almost like looking at himself. So lost and alone, taken by a sudden and unexpected embrace of love and affection. But unlike Jax, who found solace in this, it brought a different feeling of impending doom to Eren. Because having something so new and so nice only reminded him of the one nice thing he lost a long time ago.

~oOo~

The ringing was almost unending, repetitive. Ringing, ringing, earsplitting. A moment of silence and it would ring again. Pressing, summoning him to its beckon. Yet, despite the insistent noise, he resisted. Lying on his bed, staring at the nothingness above. The ringing flowing in his ears, stimulating his brain, becoming so persistent it seemed to become a part of the silence.

All day, the ringing continued. And then a series of beeps. The pager at his nightstand rumbling with each page he received. The same number flashed, one he immediately recognized. His father paging him, also leaving him voicemails. But he was too weary to call and check the messages. He already knew what they would say. Eren, we really need you here today. I need you. Your mother needs you. Please be here. I know it's hard. Please.

He skimmed through the pages. Another one, his brother. He would probably scold him, as politely as he could. He couldn't be too rough, after all. He was a victim too. He was the one who was shot, who lost his mother. But, Eren, how could you do this to our dad? You need to be here today. You'll regret it if you don't come.

What was there to regret? What more could he possibly fucking regret? How many times did he have to stand in front of that fucking grave and relive that wretched night? To see the even plane of vibrant green grass growing over the dirt that cloaked her rotting corpse. Why did he have to go visit her, what difference would it make? Would it change a fucking thing? Did it even matter anymore?

Why did they so badly want him to remember how he killed him own mother?

Because if he hadn't pressed her that night, didn't insist, she would still be alive. She was so tired. He should have let her rest. Given her a peaceful night at home with her family. But he asserted, demanded, and because of that she was gone forever.

That even thinking of her smile, how loving and inviting it was…just remembering the warmth of her eyes, the feel of her fingers winding against his own. Her laugh, even the tone of her voice when she would scold him…the flowery fragrance of her hair, the heat that lingered from her hugs, wanted and unwanted. Every pleasant memory was just so fucking painful, carving into his heart. Physical, deep agony. Remembering her hurt so bad. Would forgetting ease the pain? Did he really want to forget her?

Who the fuck was he even thinking about? Whose lips that curved into a smile? Whose flowery scent? Who was cursing his thoughts with beauty and perfection? Was it his mother? Or was it Mikasa? They seemed to blend into the same person and it was so fucked up, so mentally skewed he felt disgusting for even thinking of it.

Would it be disturbing to say that when Mikasa sat naked on top of him, the length of her hair falling onto her breasts, her body connected to his so deeply and fully, he would reach and touch her hair, because it was so similar to hers? That sitting up and embracing her, burying his face in her beautiful chest felt the same as when he hugged her. When she would scoop him up as a child and hold him against her. The same smell, the same warmth, the absolute same aura of love dripping from her.

Holding her, kissing her, listening to the sound of her harmonic voice…even fucking her reminded him of her. Such beautiful, wonderful, miserable thoughts.

How many drinks had he had? What time was it? The ringing had stopped, but the beeper kept going off. Pages alerting him of voice messages. Clumsily he picked up his phone, dialing his mailbox. He heard his father's voice. Delete. His brother. Delete. His father again. Delete. Mikasa—

He froze, clutching the phone so tensely his hand felt numb. A patter to his heart. A flutter. A beat passed.

"Hey Eren. I hope you're okay today. I know yesterday you said you were feeling sick. Please call me when you feel better. I love you."

He played it again. Still the same words. Such a soft, lovely voice. If a dove or a swan made any noise, it would sound like her voice. How many drinks has he had? What time was it? He played it again. So beautiful, so sweet. Her voice was the most wonderful thing in this world. Why was she so perfect? How did he find her? Why did she choose him?

How many drinks has he had?

He deleted the message.

A saved old message.

"Hi Eren, it's me, Mikasa. I just wanted to say hi, and that I miss you already. And I hope you're having a really nice day and I can't wait to see you again. So I'll talk to you later. Call me back when you get this, I like hearing your voice too."

There were others he saved of hers, so similar in tone and warmth. Oh god was her voice beautiful. He played the messages again. And again. He didn't delete them.

Something dripping, trickling down his lip and chin. Was it blood? He was shot, there was blood everywhere. He choked for breath, clutching at his abdomen. He wiped at his mouth. Not crimson, but clear. Alcohol. Drool. Coating his face. How much did he drink?

Happy memories. Painful. Painful memories. Painful. A beautiful reminder. Painful. Love. Painful.

The dial tone of the phone, hanging off the receiver. Lingering, unending. The pager now silent. The dial tone going on and on and on. His mother's laugh. Mikasa's smile. They both laughed and smiled. A knife sliced into him and he cried out in pain.

What time was it? Late. Dark. A dim room, a counter. A bar. The one where he had met Mikasa. When did he get here? A while ago. He sat alone. The music was low and dull. The place was not it's usual bustle. Quiet, serene. He reached for a morsel of sanity, his fingers trying to grasp any stable thought he may have had left in his mind.

He looked down at the drink on the bar top. Vodka and tonic. He sipped it carefully. Sour, disgusting. But he had been drinking so much it tasted like water. He could still see and smell and think. God what did he need to do to stop fucking thinking?

I love you.

Blowing kisses. She'd be upset if he didn't pretend to catch them.

Who was he thinking about?

Black hair, puckering lips. Pink tipped breasts. It's too cold for you not to zip up your jacket.

What time was it? Late. Was he even dressed? Grey hoodie, matching joggers clinching at his ankles. Sneakers. He felt the slight pull of his hair tied into a low ponytail. He managed to look almost presentable. He barely remembered it. He didn't even recall the stumbling walk over here.

Another sip. Vodka oozed down his throat like thin lava. Burning. Tasteless. He still remembered. How could he stop remembering?

I miss you already and I hope you're having a really nice day.

Call me when you feel better.

I love you.

Zip up your jacket.

I love you.

Another sip. Somehow his thoughts were still coherent. Vision cleared. He searched for Nicolo behind the bar. He wasn't there tonight. Desperately, Eren wished he was. He would tell him everything. Confess every maddening thought tucked in his brain. Tell him how he killed his own mother. He'd spill the forbidden words, say how much Mikasa reminded him of her. How he loved for more for it, but how dreadful it also was.

He would tell Nicolo that she died eleven years ago tonight. Somehow, he thought after the tenth year, things would start getting easier. But he only felt worse this year. Almost as bad as the night it happened. Because now he was in love. And it hurt so bad.

It was there when he had the thought. The one single, self-destructive thought that he could not pry from his mind.

What if he just fucking ruined everything?

"I'll have a vodka and cranberry."

He felt a presence at the seat beside him, and he glanced down to see a petite woman struggling to climb into the high stool, straddling the rounded cushion with the swells of her denim clad thighs. She was blonde and pretty. But boring. There was nothing special about her.

He sipped again. Was this water? His taste buds had evaporated. He watched her savor the red tinted drink, her lips pursed around the thin black straw. She looked pretty with her mouth folding like that, her golden hair thrown over her shoulder. But she was still boring. Nothing special about her. She was so small he would have mistaken her for a child if it wasn't for the modest curve of her chest.

She must have felt his stare. She looked at him. Turquoise eyes lit up the room. Ample and glimmering with something he couldn't decipher. There was nothing special about her.

"You look like shit," she said to him. He knew he did, but he frowned anyway.

"So do you."

"I feel like shit."

He would have pressed, but he didn't care to hear about her problems. She volunteered that information anyway as they drank from their glasses in unison.

"People want to tell me who I am, and I'm sick of it."

Her voice blended into the background music, and he found interest gazing at the ice cubes clunking together in his drink, a layer of bubbles frizzing at the top. He swirled them away with the straw, but more gathered.

"They want to put a label on me, on my relationships with people. They say I'm hiding from myself and who I am. Like it's so fucking easy to just say how I feel in this fucked up world."

When he looked at her, she was cupping her drink on the counter, the moisture of the glass coating her fingers. Her hands were so small, her nails short and eloquently painted. So boring, just like her and her words. So cryptic. What was she trying to say? He felt his muscles contract when their eyes connected.

"What's your name, anyway?"

He looked away. "Eren." A pause. "You?"

"Vanessa."

He saw the scowl that furled her lips when he chocked a laugh. "That's not your name."

Briskly, she drank from the straw, setting the glass down with a clank. "How the fuck would you know what my name is?"

"Because Vanessa is a name too interesting to be yours," he spoke, a slur to his words. Then he looked her up and down briefly, a roll to his eyes. "You're like a Brigette. Jennifer at best."

She sat there for a moment, a forward curve to her back as she cradled her arms over her chest. The concentration was evident in her pressed brows, probably a slew of names running through her mind. He knew she would never give him her actual one.

"My name is Krista," she proclaimed lowly, and he accepted the answer.

They drank in silence. His mind was still spinning, too many thoughts clouding his conscious. How could he make the thoughts go away?

"Who's trying to label you?" he asked her, not because he cared, but only to mute the clamoring images in his head.

She seemed to think carefully about her response, rubbing at her temple. Her nail polish shimmered a vibrant silver in the dimness. Silver, just like her eyes. When he met her here, sitting at this very bar. Her smile, her laughter, the beautiful crimson tint of her cheeks when she blushed—

"Someone I've been seeing." She hesitated, a croak in her throat as she sat there wordless, lips parted. She seemed to stare at her reflection in the glass, watching the ice cubes clank in the liquor in similar amusement. "They want to put a label on what we have. They want to label me. As if they know who I fucking am."

She wasn't making sense. Nothing this girl said made any fucking sense. "Well does he?"

Her neck snapped towards him. "What?"

"Does he know who you fucking are?"

Eren saw her face fall, a gentle quiver to her cheeks as slight redness engulfed her skin. His question bothered her more than it should have. "Yes."

"Then what your problem? Why are you so afraid of a label?"

"Because," she began, her slender fingers curling into fists on her lap as she looked straight ahead. Her eyes became a blank, blue void. "It would ruin everything."

He could feel the fabric of the sleeves of his sweater dampen as he leaned his elbows onto the counter. Drinking from his glass, it still tasted like water. So he drank faster, until he was breathing in nothing but moistened air.

"Ruin what?"

She stammered. "My whole fucking life. My reputation, my relationship with my family. Everything."

"And is it worth it?"

Krista's eyes narrowed, and she drank briskly too, biting down onto the straw at the side of her mouth, a visible bounce to her throat as she gulped down the liquid. She seemed to contemplate his answer for a moment. It didn't help. "I don't know." And she paused again. "But it makes me so angry, I want to prove them wrong. Show them I won't conform to any label anyone tries to force on me. I decide who I am."

Their eyes linked, affixed together with an unyielding ferocity. Emerald green bleeding into a shimmering, bright blue. Both equal in intensity and their willingness to destroy everything good in their lives just to prove some worthless point to themselves.

And he thought it again, this time a bolder, asinine, drunken declaration: What if he just fucking ruined everything?

There was nothing special about her.

Zip up your jacket. I love you. Have a nice day.

I love you.

It's okay, baby. It's going to be okay.

A shot, ringing in his ears. So loud, so deafening. A shooting pain in his abdomen. Ringing, shooting. So much fucking pain. So loud. Make the noise stop, make it stop.

She was pretty. A very popular kind of pretty. He saw many girls who looked like her. There was nothing special about her.

She was boring. A distraction. A means to an end. She served to fulfill a purpose.

Silver eyes. Pink tipped breasts.

Black hair.

A sweet laugh, puckered lips. It's okay, baby.

How many drinks has he had?

He was going to ruin everything.

It was cold outside. No one told him to zip his jacket. They walked together, stumbling. She was so short next to him. They didn't hold hands, didn't even look at each other. Her small body hurled forward as she vomited onto the grass. As far gone as he was, her determination to demolish something so meaningful to her leaked from her presence. She left with a stranger for the sole purpose of fucking up the one thing most important to her.

She was just like him. It was disgusting.

How many drinks did he have?

Enough to stop the painful thoughts. Enough to get him to place this girl with the fake name on his bed, on the same sheets Mikasa slept in. Her scent was still on the fabric. He wanted to eradicate her aroma. It smelled too much like her. Sweet, flowery, warm. So beautiful and perfect and everything he never wanted to see or feel again.

He killed his mother. He would kill her, too. Somehow, someway. Because he was only capable of bringing destruction. He was a piece of shit. He was fucked up. He deserved to suffer.

And he could still smell her on his pillow. Oh god, he needed to get rid of it. Pushing Krista onto the bed, her thick blonde hair enveloped the cushion. She smelled like thick perfume. Mikasa's scent was gone.

Her naked body was pretty. But there was nothing special about her.

Pink tipped breasts, but not the same. He didn't want to touch them. She was stiff as she lied there, the muscles at the front of her thighs flexing, a tremble to her entire form. Her eyes winced shut, and she turned her neck so he wouldn't kiss her. He didn't even want to fucking kiss her.

What was he doing? Why was he doing this?

He could smell the alcohol that leaked for her breath as she exhaled loudly. She smelled just like him. They were the same. It was disgusting.

Why was he doing this?

He couldn't look at her, and she yelped when he flipped her onto her stomach. Her back was a pearly blank canvas, golden hair thrown in front of her face. She was shaking, her skin hot to the touch when he smoothed a palm over her low back.

She was pretty, but he had seen many girls who looked just like her.

There was nothing special about her.

Why was he doing this?

Zip up your jacket.

I love you.

It's okay, baby.

I love you.

It's going to be okay.

The condom asphyxiated around his length. He didn't know how he got hard. He was drunk out of his mind and he wasn't turned on. Nothing about looking at her aroused him. Nothing would ever compare to the beauty that was Mikasa. Her. Long black hair. Silvery eyes. Puckered lips.

Call me when you feel better. I love you.

It was awful when he entered her. So dry, tight, and she clamped painfully around him, howling in agony, arching her back. It sounded like she was crying, a quavering whimper rumbling her throat. Her tears stained the pillow, dampness soaking out the scent of Mikasa.

He moved inside her. It felt horrible. So dry and parched, and she continued to sob as he attempted to fuck her, to erase all the obsessive thoughts clouding his mind, to complete something he wasn't even sure what it was to begin with. Just one repeating image: ruin everything. Fucking ruin everything.

It felt like he was shoving himself inside sand, so rough and harsh. But he pushed through it, because he was so determined to see this through. As the minutes progressed, she didn't loosen up or get wet. And her fingers curled at the crimson sheets. But not the same way as Mikasa, how her fists gathered the fabric as a reflex, delicious moans of pleasure dripping from her mouth and he would kiss her just to swallow the sweet sounds.

His sex with Mikasa was so good and filling and euphoric. So what the fuck was he doing? Why was he doing this? Why couldn't he stop? Make the ringing stop.

The dial tone a dull noise. He had never hung up the phone. The beeper dinged on his nightstand. He didn't check the page.

"Stop! Stop! It hurts!"

The words came out of her amidst thick, clamoring sobs and it took him a moment to understand and digest them. As he slipped out of her, he grunted. It felt freeing almost, as if his body was being held captive. Krista curled onto her side, facing away from him. All he could see was the brightness of her hair as she lifted the blanket to conceal her nakedness. Her whimpers were soft and heartbreaking.

"This was a mistake," she cried. And she was fucking right.

He could feel the clamoring of his heart against his chest. Banging, hammering at the bone. His breathing faltered, and he felt the pulsing at his scar. Darkness curtained the room, but there was enough light for him to see everything. The open condom wrapper crumpled on the nightstand, the flash of his pager alerting him to a message. And the strange girl who wept beside him, as guilty and ashamed as he was.

And he wondered then: what the fuck had he accomplished?

Call me when you feel better. I love you.

"Can we pretend like this never happened?"

Her voice weakly trembled as she spoke. Her body remained unmoving. He didn't answer her then, unknowing of what a truthful response could be. Because he was still so drunk and going fucking insane in his thoughts. It was still Friday, and still the eleventh anniversary.

His mother was still dead. And he was still in love with Mikasa.

~oOo~

"He's still not picking up?"

Sasha lied on her bed, cuddling Jax and clad in decorated pajamas as she peered over at Mikasa. Her hair was a messy, frizzy heap from her day-old crimp, being lazy in her appearance this week as Nicolo was still focusing very heavily on his cooking assignment.

Mikasa's lips fumbled as she hung up the phone, her gaze downward while she carefully sat on her own bed. Her eyes glittered a dull grey. "It's still a busy signal."

Sasha lifted her torso, placing Jax onto her lap. "Really? It's been hours. Maybe something is wrong with his phone. He said he was sick, right? He probably hasn't noticed."

Mikasa pulled the sleeves of her sweater over her fingers, stretching out the fabric, and a throbbing headache pulsed at her temples, partly due to her concern and also from the tight zigzag headband she wore to pull her hair away from her face. Eren had been acting strangely all week. She wanted to assume he really wasn't feeling well, but a nagging feeling convinced her otherwise.

"I paged him too. He said he is always checking his pages." Her knees swished from the friction of her dark denim as she rubbed them together.

"Maybe you can ask Armin to check on him? They live in the same building."

Mikasa shook her head at the idea. "After that whole fiasco with them and Jean, I think he'd feel uncomfortable and I don't want to ask him to do that." She thought for a moment. "I'm going to go there and see if he's alright."

Jax's ears perked when he saw her rise from the bed, and Sasha had to hold onto him as he visibly became excited. "He's going to be all pouty that you walked there by yourself. It's late," she mused with a teasing grin.

"Then he should pick up his fucking phone. He knows I worry about him."

The weather had dropped significantly during the past week, and she bundled up in a white cropped puffer jacket, throwing Eren's scarf loosely around her shoulders and neck before putting on her usual comfort Skechers. Her plan for the day was to get him a hot tea from the local coffee shop to help him feel better, but it had gotten so late that everything was closed. Everything but bars and other nightlife.

She could see the gentle puff of her breathing against the air, her purse draped over her shoulder and hands stuffed into her pockets as she walked briskly to his building, taking her usual shortcut as she cut through the quad and parking lot. She flashed her student ID to the kid at the front of the entrance, taking the elevator to his floor. Standing there in the silence felt almost foreboding, and the closer she got to him, the more panic seeped into her.

Was he okay? Why hadn't he been answering his pages? Why was there a busy signal on his phone? Halloween was next week, was he playing some twisted prank on her?

Walking the corridor to his room, she could hear the laughing and music playing from the rooms adjacent to his. Certainly if something was wrong they would have heard? Everything seemed so normal, just as the many other times she had been in this exact same area. And when she took in a deep breath, her fingers grazing over the door knob, the air became stuck in her lungs, and she hesitated before gripping it entirely.

It turned on its own, however, and she coughed out the breath that was trapped in her chest, taking a step backwards as a tremor took the place of her heartbeat.

She looked up and saw nothing. Until she looked down and saw her. She felt the strap of her purse slip against her shoulder, a slew of words stammering incoherently out of her mouth until she could say the one thing that mattered.

"Historia?"

And the much shorter girl glared at her with ample, shimmering eyes. She wreaked of alcohol and guilt. Her hair was a mess, jacket thrown on haphazardly and her shirt partially tucked into her jeans.

The image was obvious but it was such an awful thought that Mikasa allowed her brain to go in every other direction besides the most conspicuous. And everything that happened next was a manic and chaotic blur.

Looking through the door, past Historia. Eren, seated at the edge of his bed with a sweaty back and nothing but his joggers hugging beneath his hip bones. A condom wrapper at the beside. The sheets messy, mattress indented.

And Historia's eyes so bright and cowering, because that's who she was. A fucking coward, trying to move past her, tears hovering over her bottom lashes. But Mikasa grabbed her shoulders, giving her one fierce shake.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Her voice was low, yet grim, and Historia shoved her off of her. Mikasa had felt the quaver of her small body beneath her fingers.

"I'm getting the fuck out of here," she hissed, clutching at her bag. "Why the fuck are you here?"

"He's my fucking boyfriend."

Historia froze in place, her larges eyes becoming a deep blue ocean, their quivering resembling dangerous waves. She could drown in those eyes. Die a horrible, suffocating death. Her lungs filled with the deep navy hued waters that were Historia's fucking eyes.

"What?" Her voice was quiet, almost inaudible, her lips so small as she spoke the word. She really didn't know. She had no fucking clue.

And Mikasa lost her fucking mind.

Eren came at the door frantic, her name dripping from his mouth in desperation. But he couldn't have been more frantic than her. Frenzied, delirious. At some point Historia had stormed away, and she didn't care. This wasn't about her. Her fury hurled towards him and him alone.

And as she pushed his inside, the door slammed closed behind her, her fists pounding at the firmness of his bare chest. She wished in all her despair that the muscle that plated him was gone, so she could reach into his heart and make him hurt just as badly as she was in that moment, make him feel every agonizing ounce of pain that bled through every inch of her flesh. A sound cursed her throat, something between a cry and a shriek. She hadn't realized tears were already streaming down her cheeks, her entire face drenched. Pouring down her chin, her neck.

The fucking scarf felt like it was suffocating her, strangling her to her death. And with a heated grunt she yanked it off her body, throwing the fabric down. Something that had been so precious to her now the most cursed wretched thing she had ever seen.

She couldn't breathe—inhaling over and over again but no breath released in return. The accumulation of sharp air lodged into her lungs, expanding painfully. And she kept trying, desperately attempting to push the breath out. Nothing exhaled but a croak of her throat. Her sobs were heavy, uncontrolled, loud. Her body weak and frail, dizzy.

And her fists slamming against his chest until he grabbed her and pulled her against him. She didn't want to feel his warmth, inhale his scent. Not after he had been with her. The sensations she usually lived for and craved fucking obliterated by him. His touch felt disgusting to her, his heat like an engulfing fire boiling her skin. She pushed him off of her. What was he saying? Was he trying to explain himself? Her ears shook as she stared again at the condom wrapper. It felt like her heart was being ripped from her chest and stomped on the ground as if it were nothing.

He was apologizing, saying how much he loved her. Some other things that made no sense. And the fucking ridiculous part was she was tempted to immediately forgive him, to throw herself in his arms and comfort him just as they'd grown accustomed to. She wanted to so badly, because she loved him that much and the fact that this was all happening so quickly and everything was falling apart was so unbearable, her knees gave out and she crumbled into a weeping mess onto the carpet.

I love you. I'm so sorry. I'm fucked up.

His mouth stunk of alcohol. The stench was plastered all over his body, evident in the repulsive slur of his words. He was a drunken, stumbling disaster and she felt so disgusted seeing him this way, the most strung out yet. And for an instant, she blamed herself, having noticed his drinking, his unhealthy coping habits. Perhaps she was the reason he did this to her. She could have stopped him. She should have intervened more, pushed him harder. Oh god she fucking loved him. Why was this happening?

It hurt so bad. And she still couldn't breathe. Gasping and gasping. Her vision hazed, ears fogging up. She could feel the pounding of her heart, pleading and begging her for some sort of release from its misery. Every thick stomp a cry in pain, weeping just as hopelessly as her.

The words were leaving her mouth sloppily, contorted by her sobs as she wept into her palms, drowning in the small puddle gathering in the crevice of her hands.

"I thought you loved me, you said you loved me. I let you touch me—"

"I do! I do love you! I love you so fucking much. I'm so sorry—"

"Why did you lie to me? Did you really just want to fuck me? I love you and it hurts so bad—"

"I love you, I love you. Please understand. I love you so much. Please understand."

She forced herself to stand on quavering knees, splotches of black clouding her vision. It felt as if she were dying, a force trying to drive her soul from her body. And it fucking hurt, such a deep, throbbing, intense pain at the pit of her gut. She would do anything to make it stop.

He then cloaked her in his arms, his skin warm. And she realized then he was crying just as dreadfully as she was, his face, chin, entire neck absolutely drenched. He was shaking, holding onto her with such a powerful vigor as he scooped her into his embrace, holding her because he was afraid to lose her. In all his stupid, intoxicated, mentally incapacitated glory. As a condom wrapper sat boldly on his nightstand. He had the audacity to ask her to fucking stay.

Her arms were limp at her sides, her fingers gathering into fists. She contemplated returning the gesture, hoping to understand, to fight through this with him and just understand. She knew he held deep rooted pain, things he never wanted to speak to her. The nights he would awaken from nightmares and she would cradle him against her. The hazy gloss of his eyes whenever he was lost in a sad thought. She was always there to comfort him, and the instinct kicked in even now.

But who the fuck was going to comfort her? He did this to her and he was the victim? Who was going to hold her crying trembling body and tell her everything was going to be alright? Who would wipe clean all this unbearable awful pain?

The sadness, the hurt—it morphed into a sudden deep fury.

"I'm so sorry. I know I'm fucked up. Today is—tonight—my mom—"

She pushed him off of her, and she took a moment to look him thorough before she spat out her next words. He looked beautiful in the shadows of the moonlight. The tint of his bronzed skin, the crevices and indentations of each individual muscle carved out on his flesh. His hair swept from his face with the bondage of a tie, and it exemplified the largeness of his eyes, how they glimmered in desolation, hopelessness. Pain. She saw the knife in his chest and plunged it in even deeper.

"Fuck you, Eren." She bit down onto her bottom lip so hard spewing the foul word, the coppery taste of blood coated her tongue. She leaned against the back of the door for support. "Fuck you to hell! I'm glad your mom is fucking dead. Because she would be disgusted to see the shit person you are now!"

She regretted the statement the instant it came out of her mouth. And she saw the visual shift in him, how he stood there so lifeless, unmoving, his eyes heavy and darkening. She could feel his aura dying, crawling away in torment and heartache, and she placed a hand over her mouth, tears trickling down her cheeks. She could take it back. She had the chance to take it all back.

But she didn't. Instead, her hand clutched the doorknob and she quickly stormed out. He made no attempt to stop her.

Hysterical, crying, staggering through the hall and clutching desperately at the walls for support. Her hand trembled calling the elevator, pressing the button repeatedly. Head spinning, thoughts racing. The fucking hammering of her heart. So fast, yet she could feel each individual beat. So vehement in its begging, screaming for mercy within the seclusion of her chest. The hollowness in her stomach was unbearable and she crouched to her knees to subdue the intense sensation. She hadn't chosen a floor, the elevator standing in silence tainted by the noise of her sobs.

She pressed a button, her hand still shaking. Moments later she was released onto a different floor. Not the ground level. Another hallway. Forcing herself up, she stammered forward until she reached a familiar door. The pounding of her fist against the wood was loud and relentless.

Armin opened the door, a bit alarmed seeing her. His face was like an angelic source of light, from his messy blonde hair to the hue of his large, beautiful blue eyes. She cried harder the instant she saw him, collapsing into his arms.

"Mikasa—what—what happened?"

Speaking was so painful but she forced it out of her mouth in sharp gasps, her body quaking uncontrollably against him as she felt the strength of his lean arms envelope her, his grip tightening into a comforting squeeze.

"I went to see Eren and he, and he—"

It hurt to breathe, to talk, to think. To just fucking exist. A low wail fled her lips, and she felt herself crumble, her knees failing her again as she lost her balance and became a crying heap in his grasp. Armin supported her weight, dragging her inside.

"Historia was there—and he, he fucked her—"

She couldn't continue, it hurt so insanely bad merely repeating what had just happened. Everything was cloudy and she couldn't even stand and support herself. Her body melted into Armin's, and he ran his fingers through the thickness of her hair.

"It's okay, Mikasa," he comforted her as gently as he could, an uneasy falter to his tone, "I'm here for you. It's gonna be okay."

"Oh my god, what the hell happened to her?"

Another voice, masculine. And another body, taller than the both of them. Through the mental obstruction of her vision, she could see the slicked brown hair and drizzle of facial hair along a jawline. And then fingers cupping her chin, lifting her sodden gaze to meet his. Light brown eyes narrowed as they captured her own rusted silver.

"It's Eren," Armin tried to answer quietly, but it didn't stop Mikasa from grasping his shoulders desperately as she wept harder against him. "Jean, help me get her on your bed."

She felt his palms slide to the back of her thighs, shifting himself so that he could lift her and carry her to the bed as jean adjusted the pillows and lowered the blanket. They nestled her inside, and she sat there like a weeping child as they helped her remove her shoes and her jacket, taking her purse.

Jean sat on the floor, Armin beside her on the mattress, continuing to knead her hair. They were both dressed casually in joggers, while Armin wore a cropped tank and Jean in a slim fitting tee shirt. She heard the hum of the television, the lights turned off except for a lamp at the nightstand. They seemed to be having a laid-back night watching a movie, until she barged in absolutely hysterical and frenzied.

But they showed no signs of annoyance or disruption, both men attending to her tenderly, and she felt Armin's hand clasp around her own. She didn't realize how badly she was shaking until she felt his sturdiness.

Her nose was clogged from her overactive sinuses, tears continuing to drip down her skin endlessly. Jean handed her a tissue box and she blew her nose, using another to wipe her face. It was fruitless, new tears immediately dampening her skin.

"I came to see him, and she was there, she was leaving—"

Armin rubbed her back, his brows pressing together uncomfortably. "You don't have to tell us, Mikasa. It's okay. Don't upset yourself."

She hocked a cry, bringing her knees into her chest.

"I don't understand. What did I do wrong? Is there something wrong with me—?"

"Absolutely not," Jean interjected, resting a careful palm on her shoulder. She saw the fury gleaming in his eyes, his lips fumbling in apprehension. "You're perfect Mikasa. What he did had nothing to do with you."

Several used tissues were clamped in her fists, and she took another fresh one, blowing her nose again. Somehow their presence soothed her, and she found it more attainable to breathe, her heart no longer a vehement force but a trepid and excessive pulsing. Feeling faint, she leaned back against the pillow, her lids feeling heavy.

"Then why did he do this? Why?"

When they didn't answer, her face distorted into a painful expression, her bottom lip quivering. "I let him have sex with me." The words were softly spoken, and she gathered herself into an embrace, suddenly feeling defiled. "I let him touch me. And I told him…I told him I get attached, I would get attached if we did. And he let me. And then…then he does this."

When she broke out into another stream of sobs, this time much softer and subdued, she buried her face into the pillow, feeling Armin's gentle strokes against her back.

And the sound of Jean's heated sigh coursed through her ears. She could feel him rise from the floor, his shadow darkening her.

"I knew this would happen," he spoke lowly, rage laced in his voice. "I fucking knew it. I'm going to fucking kill him."

"Not right now, Jean," Armin shushed him, continuing his gentle stride, his touch evolving into a delicate massage. "Just go into my drawer and get her some clothes to wear. She can't fall asleep like this."

A panic captured her then, and she attempted to list herself partially, her gaze meeting Armin's. "I can't stay here," she rationed with a shaky voice. "Jax—he's with Sasha. I have to take care of him."

"Don't worry, I'll call her right now and let her know you're here." His smile towards her was soft, sincere, and she eased her cheek back onto the pillow when he traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. "Jax will be okay. And we'll be right here for you."

A heaviness loomed over her eyes, and despite the sharp pain in the center of her gut and her racing, hopeless thoughts, she had cried herself nearly unconscious. She tried to focus on Armin's soothing caresses as she allowed her eyes to drift close, feeling the rapid strumming of her heart quiet down. She hadn't even changed into the clothes Jean had gathered for her, absolutely too exhausted to move or even think anymore.

It felt nice to veiled by a comforting emptiness. To let go and drift away to a blank void without feeling anything.

~oOo~

Armin had managed to drag the connecting cord of his phone to the outside of his door, stretching it to its absolute limit as he seated himself on the floor. He felt a rapid pacing of his heart as he dialed quickly before pressing the phone against his ear, cradling it on his shoulder.

It rang twice before someone picked up. "Hello?"

"Sasha?" Armin beamed quietly.

She paused. "Armin?"

"Yes—"

"What the hell is going on?"

He sucked in his bottom lip, repositioning himself on the ground as he felt his tailbone digging into the floor. "Mikasa is here, with me and Jean. She's staying with us tonight. She came here hysterical because she caught Eren with another girl—"

He was interrupted by her sharp, earsplitting gasp, and a beat passed before she replied, "Is that why he called here looking for her all frantic?"

A frown curled at his mouth and he found himself gripping at the phone as the receiver nestled into his lap. "He fucking tried calling her?"

"Yes! It freaked me out how upset he was. I got so worried something happened to her. Is…is she alright? Oh my god!"

"She finally fell asleep." A light sigh fled his nostrils as he rubbed at his scalp. "She was not in good shape, though. I honestly don't know how we're gonna get her through this."

"The…The other line is beeping. I think he's trying to call again."

A sudden fervent urgency filled his lungs then, a scowl claiming his expression as he extended his legs on the floor, the crevice of the phone taut against his ear.

"Don't answer. Get a new number tomorrow. Don't let him call her. You weren't here to see what I saw. She is a wreck. I have known Mikasa most of my life and I have never seen her fall apart like this aside from when her parents died."

The gravity of his words caused a silence to drift between them. And when she didn't respond, he continued. "She's worried about Jax. Just please take care of him until she gets back."

"O—Of course. I know how to feed him and walk him and everything. Please let me know how she is doing tomorrow." Concern plagued her voice, and his chest only felt heavier. It was still difficult to process everything that had just happened, the intensity and utter insanity of it all.

And the most bizarre part…Eren and Mikasa had only just started having sex. And from the way she gushed about it and described it, it sounded like it was really good. So why did he do this? It made no sense. Even if he fit all the characteristics of a douchebag, it didn't add up. There was no reason for him to fucking cheat on her.

Their romance was so intense and heavy and passionate, and all so quick and fast paced…he already knew their breakup would be met with the same fiery fervor and force.