A/N: I have an original novel to be writing but this idea came to my head and wont leave me alone. Basically a college drama AU based in the year 1999 (bc I am 31 years old and cannot write about zoomers). Lots of 90's references, some purposely cheesy, in pure 90's fashion. Ill be writing a modified version with name changes and some other details too so I feel like I accomplished something original. Each chapter will be named after a song that came out between the years 1996 to 1999. Hope you guys enjoy! This will be in third person told through multiple point of views, but each point of view will be separated.

CONTENT WARNING: This story is not recommended for hardcore Eremika shippers.

Early September 1999, Paradis University

The tightness in her core burned, sending waves of delicious pain through her abdomen. Her fists were buried in her black pigtails, each hand grasping one velvet scrunchy. And every time she sat up, she felt the result of her efforts, an ache that felt so good, allowed her to feel stronger and in control. A pain that would result in balance and power over her entire body. How gloriously it radiated, the sharpness of each crunch, every puff of air exhaled through her mouth as she tried not to grunt.

The pressure on her feet was firm, held down by the weight of lean arms, pressing on the toes of her sketchers. Whenever she lifted her back from the mats, she was met with a handsome face, his brows knit together in concentration, the blue of his eyes shimmering as if he were trying to avoid her gaze whenever she met his.

"How many so far?"

Her question came out quick and breathy, and he faltered for a moment, adjusting his knees folded under him, and she came up at least another three times before he answered her.

"About a hundred, I think? Sorry, I lost count a few times."

A hot breath fled her nostrils then, though she retained her momentum, tightening the muscles in her neck to push herself up, her eyes capturing his in a sharp glare. "What the fuck Armin, you're supposed to be counting. It's not that hard."

She caught a glimpse of him rolling his eyes, and she felt the weight on her feet lessen. "You could be counting too, you know. I mean, this is your workout, Mikasa."

"I'm concentrating."

The longer she repeated this motion, the more aware she became of her body and everything that touched it, the dig of the spaghetti strap of her tank top, the tug of the waistband of her sweatpants below her hips. She felt every drop of sweat glisten on her abdomen and forehead, a cooling warmth on her skin. Her exhales muffled against her ears, but she could hear Armin's voice clearly.

"How've your first week of classes been?"

A grunt finally rumbled in her throat. Now he was starting a conversation and no one was counting. With a loud huff, she landed onto the floor, crossing her arms over her chest. Suddenly she became aware of the noise around them, the radio playing in the background, the sound of weights and treadmills and other students conversing with one another.

"Same dance classes, same bitches. Different year." she said, looking towards the ceiling at a broken fluorescent light. "What about you?"

Repositioning himself, he pressed his knees onto her toes, leaning his body forward as he rested his arms on her knees. She saw the sleeve of his tank top drape over his shoulder, and he smiled at her then, looking down at her while she was still painted red and flushed.

Strands of blonde hair fell in front of his eyes, and she reddened more when he caught her stare. Further she pressed onto her chest as if to flatten her breasts, suddenly very aware of herself and their proximity, how she could feel his weight on top of her, the brush of his hand against her pant leg.

"Class has been alright," he finally spoke, now crossing his arms over her knees and resting his chin on her. "I have a lot of homework already though." He watched her for a moment before adding, "Are you and Connie going to be competing together again this year?

Readjusting herself, Mikasa cradled her head with her palms, straightening her back. But on the ground she remained, stalling herself from beginning another set of sit-ups.

"Yea, we're going to start rehearsing tonight."

With a huff she lifted her upper body, completing one crunch. However, she held herself there, noticing how he stumbled his lips at their proximity, and she smiled at him before lowering her body and bringing herself up again, her reps slower now and more controlled.

She could feel the tap of his fingers on her knees, until he grasped one of her knee caps with his palm. "You guys always come up with the best routines."

Mikasa wanted to laugh, but it came out as a forced puff of air as she crunched forward. "We fucking suck. That's why we never win."

"You don't suck. You're an awesome dancer, Mikasa."

The roll of her eyes was very dramatic, painful even, as she made sure to show him as much of the white of her eyeballs as she could. She didn't respond after that, finally feeling the fatigue of her abs. With an overdrawn sigh, she rested back onto the mat, her lips squirming about her face as an uncomfortable silence took them.

He remained lounging over her, however, causing an involuntary arch of her back, and she found herself pressing her knees together and sucking in her lips. She could see he wanted to speak, but was hesitant, still holding her knee, giving it a gentle squeeze. Despite fabric of her pant leg separating them, she could feel the friction of his touch, how his fingers curved against the top of her thigh.

His smile then was warm, comforting. A smile she'd grown to adore through their years of friendship, one that was so sincere and captivating that it always eased her, even through the awkwardly tense moments they shared.

"How are your grandparents doing?" he asked her rather quietly. She could barely hear him through the commotion of the gym, but intently she had tuned into his voice, capturing his words.

"They're fine. They miss you. You should have come visited this summer."

She smiled when his own brightened, a sheepish chuckle leaving his throat. "Really? I always felt weird coming over. That they thought I was a stupid American."

But Mikasa laughed, every chuckle causing a splash of pain in her sore torso. "Armin, no. They love you. They think I'm the stupid American."

As she finished her sentence, the laugh that immediately followed came out as a snort, and it caused her to giggle feverishly then, while Armin grinned at her beneath him, a boyish laugh trapped in his throat as he exhaled humorously through his nostrils.

Mikasa felt her body fill with contentment, her fit of giggles vibrating through her torso, and she could make out Armin's remarks that she "was so silly" and "such a dummy" before she heard the sound of a bag dropping near them.

Her eyes broadened when she turned her head to her left. The movement was abrupt and sharp, and she could feel the biting pull on the muscle of her neck, a long line of stiffness pressing onto her pulse.

Several feet away a large Adidas duffle bag had dropped onto the mats carelessly, beside them a pair of strong legs draped in matching sweatpants. And she followed their length, her eyes tracing the white stripes of the fabric, watched as those legs moved to sit onto the bench near the weight rack.

Legs connecting to v lined hips, a muscled torso hugged by a white tank top, and golden arms. There was a tempting spasm of his arms, hi biceps flexing as he took a water bottle and brought the opening to his mouth. Every muscle separate and defined from the rest, craved into his arms with a sinfully perfect precision. Dark brown hair tied messily into a bun, several strands lose from their restraint and framing his face.

And when he placed the bottle down and used his forearm to wipe the wetness from his mouth, he opened his eyes, two large emeralds perched like doves. And swiftly did those beguiling eyes meet hers, trapping her in a gaze that caught her heart in her throat, ceased her breath. And with even greater quickness did she avert his gaze and look direly at Armin.

"Shit," she whispered coarsely, snagging Armin's attention, and he raised a brow at this as he continued to lean casually over her bent knees.

"What?"

"Oh my god, it's him."

He faltered, squinting his eyes as he repeated, "What?"

Giving him a knowing look, her expression was stern as she pressed her lips together firmly, shaking her knee to get his attention. "It's him, Armin."

With a wrinkle of his nose, he turned his neck to glance at what had gotten her so animated, and there was a very obvious roll to his eyes when he brough his focus back onto her.

"Oh jeez, you mean that douchebag you've been crushing on?"

She shushed him then, pressing her palms on the mat and lifting her upper body to him. Their faces were inches apart, so close that she could feel his warm breath on her skin as well as the roughness of the mats beneath her fingers.

"Shut up, Armin. Why are you so loud?"

"You've been obsessed with him we've seen him here this week," he sighed. "You should just go talk to him if you like him so much."

Immediately she blushed at his comment, covering her chest and shaking her head at him bashfully. Her pigtails bounced from the impact, a silent wail vibrating in her throat.

"No! No way! Are you crazy? I can't just go up to him." She paused then, grabbing a strand of hair and twirling it around her index finger. "He should talk to me first."

Armin then looked back and forth between them, a lingering sigh leaving his mouth. "To be honest, you don't exactly look inviting."

And he was absolutely right. He held onto her so comfortably, so casually, their posture so fiercely intimate to the untrained eye. Anyone would have thought that they were together. And Mikasa then felt a wave of panic collide into her chest, that she glanced over at the handsome stranger again.

Her throat contracted and she lost the ability to breathe for a moment as she watched him sit on that bench, curling a weight in his fist. How his arms trembled with each repetition, and when he lifted his gaze for a moment, he caught her staring. She turned her head before she could decipher his reaction.

"Shit you're right," she whispered, biting onto her bottom lip so harshly that she could taste blood. "You're a cockblock."

Armin's glare was blank with a hint of annoyance. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No. No! Sorry about that." She looked over at him again, on reflex now, watching the droplets of sweat forming on sun kissed skin, how gloriously he glistened under the ugly gym lights. She felt her heartbeat pounding against the walls of her chest, a hollow feeling forming in her stomach.

"We just…" she continued, avoiding Armin's glare. "Just act natural. Be cool. I'll just continue—"

She had intended to resume her workout, that when she threw her body back down and lifted her herself upwards, she could seamlessly continue her crunches. Yet, the transition was so quick neither of them had time to comprehend it, when the striking collision of their foreheads occurred, and Mikasa crashed on the floor with a loud, sharp groan.

"Mikasa, what the hell—"

Landing grimly on his tailbone, Armin clasped his head with both hands, as Mikasa lied on the ground with her knees curling into her chest, her palm flat on her forehead.

"What the fuck, Armin!" she bellowed much louder than she wanted to. "Why weren't you paying attention?!"

"You didn't give me any warning!"

Mikasa's ponytails bobbed with vehemence as she lifted herself off the ground and swatted angrily at his shoulder. "Why is your head so fucking hard?"

As he gently pushed her off of him, the two of them scuffled on the floor, attempting to regain their composure. Her head was throbbing, and she knew a bump would ultimately form. She could feel the pulsing of her skull, her skin tender as she sat onto her knees, while Armin seemed to still be seeing stars, clutching at his skull.

Yet, horror captured her when she realized she had forgotten all about the hot guy that had caused her to act so abruptly. And with trembling lips did she focus her attention to him, her finger nails digging into the mats. She watched him rise from the bench, grabbing his duffle bag from the ground.

She prayed desperately that he had not noticed her, hadn't witnessed the loud and distracting commotion she had caused that already gathered amused stares from the others around her. Frantically she converted to every religion in an instant, pleading to any deity that would be merciful upon her that he would be absolutely oblivious.

But she saw the beguiled smirk on his face, the dimples that creased by his mouth as he chuckled very visually, his eyes finding hers. The green in his irises glistened towards her in intrigue, and she found herself drowning in them, suffocating as she struggled for breath, so focused on his gaze and his smile and every beautiful part of him that she thought she might explode from a spontaneous orgasm right then and there.

A chill crept on her skin, and she shivered while she watched him keep his gaze only a moment longer before he averted and walked away. Even the saunter of his walk was mesmerizing, the simultaneous stiffness and sway of his hips, how the muscles of his shoulder blades contracted inward, his smooth flesh on display from the cut of his shirt.

And slowly did she find herself curling her knees into her chest, in a pathetic fetal position, burying her forehead onto the cotton of her sweatpants. Her hair fell in front of her face, and all she could see was blackness, hear the muffled music of the radio as she tried to close herself off from the world. "Fuck my life."

However Armin's voice was loud and clear, painfully articulate, as she felt him shift beside her, and she swore his amusement radiated off his body and taunted her.

"Yep…he's really going to talk to you now."

She sighed, not even bothering to look at him. "Shut up, Armin."

~oOo~

The locker room was small yet empty, and she could hear the echoes of her subdued commotion as she began to dress herself. Hastily, Mikasa struggled to pull the tights up her legs, tinting her cream skin black, grappling the sheer fabric to force them over the swells of her thighs.

She searched briefly for her leotard in her gym bag, feeling her nipples perk from a sudden chill as she stood there bare chested, a delicate bounce to her breasts and she then shimmied into the small and stretchy article. She felt it grip to her butt, indenting her skin and providing a modest lift, and as she slipped the thin straps over her shoulders, she found herself pressing down on her chest, trying to flatten herself as much as she could.

For years Mikasa would bind her breasts for her dance classes and performances. As a child, she was the epitome of a perfect ballerina, until puberty claimed her body and transformed her from a thin dancer into Pamela Anderson.

She was tall and lean and beautifully fit, but the dip of her hips and protrusion of her breasts had become an obstacle for her. Her instructors would make public comments about her shape, and instead of a blessing Mikasa found her tits to be a curse. But she decided she had different goals this year. As a dance major, she had thought success would be making it as a ballerina or contemporary dancer. She foolishly believed this, until she started watching more music videos on The Box and realized there was a whole other side to a dance career, one she wanted to tap into and explore.

And she knew if her nice tits weren't appreciated here, they definitely would be in the world of pop music. So she discarded her binds this year, and as she slipped on her sweatpants and a Gap hoodie to conceal her dance attire, Mikasa sat on the bench, legs spread unapologetically.

She pulled out both her scrunchies then, using her fingers to comb through her long hair as as she carefully began to twist it up into a bun. She had grabbed several bobby pins from her backpack, securing them between her lips as she adjusted her hair without the guide of a mirror.

When she felt a painful tug at the roots, she knew the bun would be tight enough and she planted it near the top of her head. A delicate sigh fled her mouth as she slipped her sketchers back on, taking her bag and exiting the locker room.

Armin was waiting for her outside the building, and she was greeted by a gentle cool breeze as she stepped out and noticed the back of his body, backpack slung over one shoulder, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans. His short blonde locks blended into his undercut.

There was a small bustle of students leaving and entering the school's gym facility, as well as others carrying books and backpacks, making their way to class as they ventured the intimate campus.

As she approached him from behind, Mikasa carefully placed a hand on his shoulder, her fingers squeezing briefly and she felt his muscle tense. He turned around to greet her, their faces level as they stood equal in height.

Hi lips curled upward, his smile comely and boyish. He was dressed modestly in a dark blue sweater, a few shades darker than his eyes. He winced however, when his glare landed on her forehead, and his mouth squirmed as he carefully stroked his thumb over her skin.

"Sorry about that," he mumbled, and Mikasa sighed, digging her fingers under his fringe to feel his own lumpy head.

"Oh shit, don't apologize, Armin. It's my fault. Yours feels way worse."

He shrugged it off, however, chuckling nervously. "It's no big deal. There are worse ways to get your head bashed."

She huffed through her nostrils in amusement, playfully shoving his shoulder. "Where you off to now?"

"I have a short break before my biostatics class." He hesitated before poking at the bun atop her head. "And you are obviously headed to dance."

She nodded. "Walk me to the performing arts building?"

The demanding sun of the early afternoon seemed to bicker with the cool breeze of the season, and Mikasa found herself simultaneously cold and warm in her sweatshirt. Armin walked beside her leisurely, and she could feel the slight brush of his arm against her own. As they neared the building, Mikasa let out an exaggerated cough, her throat suddenly burning from a strong stench of smoke. Instantly, she knew the source.

Outside the arts building, standing in the shade smoking cigarettes, the third year in a row now. The same group of freaks. The grunt grumbled in her throat, though it remained silent, and she shot Armin a knowing look, coughing again, louder this time. Though they paid no heed to her.

Two guys, massive in height, stood against the concrete of the building, smoke trickling from the cigarettes hanging loosely between their fingers. One was blonde and muscular, wearing a loose long sleeve graphic shirt and jeans with tears along the knees. His friend was even taller, a giant, dressed in flannel and black jeans, his hair dark and unkempt.

On the bench beside them sat two girls, strikingly smaller than them. One was a tiny blonde, being eaten alive by her clothes. Her hair was a bright shade of yellow, almost orange, tied back in a messy ponytail, fringe falling in front of her face. She sat with her one leg on the bench, ashes trickling from her cigarette and landing on the grass beneath her. She displayed worn out sneakers and jnco jeans that were bigger than her entire body, her torso hunched and consumed by a grey faded university hoodie.

Beside her sat another girl, equally as small, for some reason wearing a catholic school girl uniform with her green striped tie undone. Long black hair rested tangled near her eyes, which were heavy and encircled by darkness. She looked absolutely strung out, and despite wearing a skirt she sat there with her legs spread open, her lips puckering as she placed the cigarette to her mouth, closing her eyes in bliss as she inhaled.

Mikasa didn't realize she had stopped to stare at them, her eyes narrowed in repulsion as Armin nudged her gently with his elbow.

"I hate it that they choose to smoke out here."

"I know. You say this all the time since Freshman year."

She shook her head however, straightening her posture as she continued to shoot them aggravated glances. "It's just so gross Armin. They could have chosen any building to pollute and they had to pick this one."

He shrugged however, finding himself glancing towards the tiny girls on the bench. "It's not a big deal. They aren't bothering anybody. You only have to smell it for a second."

She could feel the thick strap of her backpack digging into her shoulder, and with a quick adjustment, Mikasa groaned softly in disappointment as she continued to make her way forward towards the entrance. "You're always the nice guy, Armin. Seeing the good in everybody."

He chuckled at her comment as they stalled by the door, several students rushing in ahead of them. "Have a good class, Mikasa. Tell Connie I said what's up."

Leaning in for a hug, they were careful not to graze foreheads, and she felt him slip his palm beneath her backpack and press softly against her lower back, his fingers curling tenderly. Pulling back, his mouth curved into a sweet smile, poking again at the top of her bun.

"Call me tonight, maybe we can all go out."

She paused. "Maybe. I might be practicing all night."

"It's Friday, Mikasa," he noted, and she glanced upwards in annoyance yet defeat.

"Fine, I'll call you later. Have a good class."

She watched him briefly as he walked away, yet could not resist the urge to allow her gaze to wander back to the smokers, much closer to her now, the wafts of cigarette smoke strangling her lungs and burning her nostrils.

The short blonde girl being swallowed whole by her jeans caught her stare, raising a surprisingly impeccably plucked brow at her. Her eyes were a menacing shade of cerulean, and Mikasa felt herself stammer, caught off guard by the sudden attention.

"Got a problem, princess?"

Mikasa froze in place, her hand reaching for the door, her grip on her backpack tightening. Her voice was surprisingly light and feminine, but possessed such a frightening power that she found herself afraid for some reason.

She saw her pink lips furl into a grin, balancing the cigarette between her teeth and then interlocking her fingers, bending the joints backwards to stretch them, and Mikasa could hear the bones of her knuckles crack one by one. That's all she had to witness before she bore her gaze back forward and stammered into the building, hearing the light chuckling of the group behind her.

She kept her eyes focused on the ground as she walked the halls of the arts building, rushing up the stairs until she finally entered the room of her Ballet IV class. Instantly she was greeted by bright lights and dancers crowding the floor stretching, socializing. She was surrounded by full length mirrors, could see herself in every angle as she walked towards the back of the room, finding a free spot to place her belongings.

Holding onto the barre, she pulled down her sweatpants before lifting her hoodie over her head carefully, not to disrupt her bun. Her eyes caught her form in the mirror before her, tracing the shape of her own body, following the length of her lean legs, the dramatic curve of her waist, her nipples peaking through the fabric of her leotard. And shit, she quickly rubbed her forearms over her chest, hunching forward for some modesty, hoping they would become less erect and noticeable. She did not want a lecture from her instructor today.

Seizing her own stare in the mirror, she saw herself in the glittering silver of her eyes, the stern look of concentration plastered on her features. And she tried to relax herself, to appear more pleasant, forced an expression that was more befitting of a ballerina.

With a plop she landed onto the floor, humming silently as she dug through her bag searching for her ballet flats. Before she could manage them onto her feet, however, she heard the agonizing coos of several girls and she didn't even have to raise her head to know who just walked in.

One girl after the other, trying to get their turn talking to him, wondering why he never called, when they would hang out again. And finally she rubbed at the throbbing bump on her head, lifting her gaze as she watched him briefly acknowledge the lovestruck girls hoovering around him as he made his way directly towards her.

Connie fucking Springer. He never wanted to be a dancer. Mikasa knew this because he had told her when they met freshman year in Jazz I. When he was in first grade his mother saw him doing the splits and immediately put him in a ballet class. He wanted to quit, because despite having natural talent and flexibility, ballet was for girls. Until he grew a little older and understood that ballet had girls. Lots of girls. But too quickly he realized the ballet girls were more modest, and getting under their tutus proved to be a challenge.

So Connie remedied this by joining the cheer squad in high school. Because cheerleaders would have sex with him, and they did. He claimed two at a time, sometimes three. Mikasa wasn't sure how embellished his account was, but she definitely believed him. And now he was sleeping his way across the entire dance department.

He approached her with a grin, dropping his bag by her, and she would have avoided his gaze had it not been for the monstrosity that decorated his head.

"Are those…frosted tips?"

He ran a hand only briefly through his hair, as if to not interfere with the gel, before pulling down his pants and revealing sculpted legs covered in tight black leggings. She saw the muscle of his quad contract as he sat beside her instantaneously, pressing more weight against her than she would have liked.

"Yea, I got it done yesterday. What do you think?"

Mikasa really tried to give it a chance—she really did observe the entirety of his hairstyle and carefully prodded at the blonde ends connected to dark roots.

"It's…interesting," she commented, concealing a smile. "Natalie's going to have a fit when she sees you."

He scoffed at her words, however, stretching his feet before reaching for his slippers. "Natalie can suck it. What's she going to do, kick me out of the program?"

"You know she hates it when we don't look traditional." She paused. "You remember on Monday when she yelled at Ymir for wearing those hot pink tights."

When they were clad in their footwear, Connie stood, extending an arm to help Mikasa up. They stood nearly equal in height; however, he was about an inch or two taller than her. Despite his lean appearance, Connie reserved a lot of strength, probably from his cheer days, and made the perfect dance partner and spot to Mikasa.

"Are we still meeting after class to start rehearsing?" And the instant she spoke, Connie hunched his shoulders and grunted, holding onto the barre brutishly.

"One track mind, Mikasa."

A frown tugged onto her lips then, her leg rising effortlessly as she placed her ankle on the barre, pointing her toe to perfection.

"You know how important the competition is to me."

He sighed, watching her stretch with an obvious intrigue. "Yes, I do. And we always lose."

"We'll win this year," she shot back briskly, furrowing her brows at him. "I have a really great idea for this one."

She caught him smiling, noticing the lift of his cheekbones as a dimple pressed at the side of his mouth. "It can't be better than the cowboy hats and glitter shorts."

She could hear the sarcasm in his voice, and she paced herself before responding, fidgeting her mouth. "You loved the cowboy hats."

He extended his finger at her though, lifting both his brows. "No, I loved the glitter shorts, actually. But only on you."

Blushing, she focused her gaze on her form in the mirror, a dramatic roll to her eyes. "Keep dreaming, Springer."

"Can't blame a guy for trying."

There was a brief moment of silence between them then, before Connie added, "But to answer your question, yes. We'll start rehearsing after class. I booked us one of the studios for the rest of the semester."

Avoiding his gaze, Mikasa smiled to herself triumphantly, extending her arm as she stretched with elegance over her propped leg. She could feel the extension of her muscle, a generous pull tugging at her hamstring. The sensation was a natural occurrence now. She was used to the pain associated from dance, even craved it. It was addicting almost, how her body begged to be moved this way, constantly, and she never tired of it, the movements becoming fluid as a part of her everyday life, the endless ache of her feet now such a normal occurrence she could not imagine living without it.

But despite dance being more ingrained in her than walking or even breathing, she never felt truly exceptional at this school, especially whenever she shared the shared the same classes with her.

And when she walked into the room, all four feet whatever of her, so light and dainty like she could easily be broken if you fucking poked her, Mikasa gripped the barre so brutally she felt a splinter pierce her skin.

It was annoying how perfectly her pretty blonde hair was folded into a bun, and how it shone like gold beneath the studio lights. She smiled and waved to her classmates, before her face lit up and a glistening grin claimed her mouth when she spotted her best friend, Ymir.

She hopped towards her gracefully before being captured into a hug by the much taller dancer. Ymir was pretty, though a bit tomboyish. She matched Mikasa in height, her body type leaner and thinner. There was a natural tan to her skin, her hair a medium shade of brown and tied into a loose ponytail. She knew Natalie would scold her for it, but she did it anyway.

When her small friend threw her arms around her, the brown of Ymir's eyes glistened like amber and she effortlessly lifted her off the ground and enveloped her in the embrace.

"Ymir!" squeaked the tiny blonde, resting her cheek against her shoulder.

Ymir spun her once before placing her carefully onto the floor, like a precious doll. "I missed you, Historia. I was afraid you weren't coming to class today."

Mikasa felt bile creep up her throat at the mention of her name. And honestly, despite the lingering jealousy, she didn't know why. Historia was never unkind to her, they rarely interacted. But she actually did, in fact, hope that Ymir's fear would have come true, that Historia would miss class and she could spare ninety minutes not hearing Natalie gush about her for nearly all of them.

Connie sensed her discomfort though, and without even looking at her, he lifted his right leg onto the barre, rising his opposing foot in releve, and said sternly, "Don't."

Mikasa switched legs, also averting his gaze. "I didn't say anything."

"Good."

Pausing, she allowed herself once glance at Connie, scooting closer to him. "But why they have to act like they don't see each other everyday—?"

She was cut off his groan, the sound exaggerated and vibrating in his throat. "Oh my god, Mikasa." She could see the white of his eyes as he rolled them aggressively.

"What."

He looked at her then, a knowing tilt of his head. "Why do you have to hate everybody?"

Taken off guard by his comment, Mikasa lowered her leg from the barre, crossing her arms over her chest. "What are you talking about, I don't hate everybody."

"Name one person you like."

She didn't hesitate when she said, "you—" but was immediately interrupted by his burst of laughter.

"Barely."

Her eyes narrowed into grey slits. "Armin."

He nodded. "Okay."

"Sasha."

He raised a brow in interest, turning his body to lean his elbows against the bar, his posture slouched. "How's she doing—"

"Fuck off, Connie. She has a boyfriend now. And she still fucking hates you."

He raised his hands in defeat, a smug grin creeping onto his lips. "That was two years ago, is she still really that mad?"

"Yes, she's mad. And honestly, I still am too." When she shoved her elbow into his ribs in retaliation, she was surprised to hear the sound that emerged from was a chuckle, and it only added fuel to her impatience.

"You made things incredibly awkward for me. You really need to start thinking less with your dick."

He made the motion to reply cleverly, yet there a hustle that took the room as an older woman walked into the studio, clipboard with notes in hand, followed by a casually dressed student who made her way towards the piano at the corner of the room.

As the melodic sounds of the musical warm up drifted into the air, Mikasa shot Connie one final glare before she took her appropriate position at the barre beside him.

~oOo~

Class had ended twenty minutes ago and Mikasa sat sprawled on the studio floor that Connie had reserved for them across the hall. He had yet to join her as she lied stomach first on the smooth black floor, notebook open before her, growing flustered as she tried to get the ink of her gel pen to write onto the paper. Scratching the tip over the top of the page repeatedly, the milky mint hue began to bleed through, and she smiled at herself in satisfaction before beginning to jot down her notes.

Connie burst into the room a minute after, throwing his bag on the floor beside her before taking a seat.

"Sorry about that. Natalie was giving me shit for my hair."

Mikasa snorted a chuckle. "Told you."

Stretching his arms above his head, she could hear his shoulder pop, and she looked up at him then, lifting her torso from the floor.

"So what's this brilliant idea you have planned for the show?"

Mikasa faltered, wondering where she should begin. She had envisioned their entire number every time she listened to the music, and she decided that was a perfect place to start.

Sticking her hand inside her backpack, she pulled out a CD case with ease, handing it to Connie. He looked at the album cover blankly, his lip quivering as if he wanted to speak, but he didn't say a word while his brows knit together.

"Track one, that's what we're dancing to."

He turned the CD over hesitantly, and she could see the fear crawling into his flesh as he braced himself for the reveal. She was not disappointed when he groaned in literal agony, throwing the case onto the ground and shaking his head adamantly.

"No, you've got to be kidding me. Mikasa—"

"Sorry Connie, it's already been decided."

Swiftly did he bring the CD back into his grasp, glaring at the front and then back again, as if hoping the results would be different this time. "We are not going to dance to this. Nope. No way. You have to have another song in mind."

She frowned at his persistence, folding her legs together as she rested her chin against her palm. "I had a different one originally. But then I heard this on the radio this week and –"

"Yea, I heard it too. They literally play it every five minutes!" he exclaimed, rubbing at his forehead. He seemed visibly pained by her song choice.

"Well, I love this song, Connie. And I have a great idea for a choreography!"

He sighed then, to which she hoped was in defeat. "Aren't you half Asian, Mikasa? Why do you make such white decisions?"

She ignored his comment, taking the album and holding it to her chest. "You aren't going to change my mind. This is officially my favorite song now and we are dancing to it. Everyone will love it."

She witnessed the will to counter her slowly dissipate from him as he seemed to accept his failure that there was no way he was going to get her to give up this song.

"I'm afraid to ask," he began, eyeing her carefully, "what you envision us wearing for this?"

Looking down at the cover, she shrugged her shoulders, nervously peeking towards him. "I thought we could pay homage to the album cover. Wear all white."

He whined into his palms, a forlorn wail escaping his throat. "Oh my god."

She frowned. "You're being overdramatic. It's going to be great, I promise."

It was true, and she knew he believed it too. Mikasa always came up with unique choreographies, entertaining performances. There was never a boring moment, and nothing they did was ever traditional, always a playful fusion of modern dance. And that's why they would never place, often losing to classic modern and ballet pieces by other participants.

Connie always wanted to win, winning engraved in his system from four years of cheerleading. But he also knew that with Mikasa as his partner, her goal wasn't to win. She would say the same thing every year, that the ultimate prize was to be noticed. By who? She never specified. Who the fuck would notice them at a dance show at this school? But it was apparent how important this was to her, and despite giving her pushback on her choices, he would always give in, because this was really about Mikasa and not about him.

And the moment she felt the air of the delicate sigh that fled his nostrils, she claimed her victory, noticing the careful smile that pulled at his mouth. "So…" he began, watching her with discretion, "were you think jazz shoes, barefoot, or…?"

"Jazz shoes," she answered swiftly, "For you."

His eyes narrowed. "And you?"

"For me…" she dug through her backpack then, taking out her hoodie, two beanie babies, and four velvet scrunchies before she pulled out a silky bag and emptied the contents onto the floor.

"These."

Connie picked up the left shoe and held it in his hand, inspecting it with a lifted brow. "Ballroom shoes?"

Triumphantly, she nodded. "Yup!"

She watched him cradle the footwear, observing it from all directions. It was a cream nude color with a peak-a-boo toe and a stiletto four-inch heel. "Have you even worn these?"

"I…" she hesitated. "I tried them on."

He chuckled. "These are going to be black and bloodied by the time you wear them on stage." He gathered her gaze then, a wrinkle to his nose. "Do you know how to dance in heels?"

She huffed at his comment, picking up the adjacent shoe as if that somehow proved a point, "I've taken ballroom classes, Connie. And besides, they aren't real high heels. They're dance shoes."

She watched as he fumbled with the sole, testing its flexibility. "Tell me, Mikasa, in this ballroom class you took, were you doing leaps and pirouettes?"

She grabbed the heel from him then, deciding that she would prove him wrong by putting them on. He watched her in amusement as she slipped her feet inside and buckled the clasps, gracefully standing from the ground before him. She knew his pervert eyes were gliding over the curve of her legs, now enhanced by the heels, and she saw as his rubbed his chin in obvious entertainment, nodding accordingly.

She did a little spin for him and walked in a circle, maintaining her posture and balance. "See, asshole? It's not that hard."

"Well, I do admit, you look great in them," he agreed, and he stood as she rolled her eyes, though she was caught off guard when he took a step back in apparent dismay.

"What? What's wrong?"

He could only shake his head at her feverishly. "Nope. No way! Mikasa!"

"What?"

"How tall are you, five eight?"

"Five seven," she countered, and instantly she knew what his complaint would be.

"Well those shoes make you damn near six feet tall." A smile claimed her lips as she found herself looking down at him, but he was unamused by her response.

"We are going to look ridiculous."

"It's going to be fine, Connie. Relax."

"Fuck it, then I'm going to wear pointe."

She pushed him lightly, a twinge of fire burning in her chest. "No you are fucking not, Connie."

"So I'm supposed to suck it and be you're good little short spot?"

She shook her head at his accusation, resting her hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Connie. We both know you are more than just a spot. The height difference is not that bad. Trust me. I already thought about it."

He hummed then, a sound that sounded strange to Mikasa, watching him as he began to circle around her while rubbing his chin. "More than you thought about how you are going to dance in those shoes, no doubt."

An aggravated sigh fled her throat, her focus lifted to the white lights on the ceiling. She would rather blind herself than deal with Connie's pessimism. She felt the automatic curl of her fists, the muscles of her stomach contracting. And that goddamn throbbing of the bump on her head she had almost forgotten about and his jerk face had failed to notice.

"I'm not saying it won't take getting used to," she admitted firmly, "but I know I can do it, Connie. It's going to look beautiful and impressive."

Yet, as their rehearsal progressed into the two-hour mark, Mikasa found herself eating her words.

No actual choreographing began as she struggled to maintain her balance. The soles of the heels were causing her to constantly slip and though she was able to perform some good turns, doing multiple seemed impossible. Landing harshly onto her bum for what felt like the millionth time, Mikasa crawled over to the boom box across the room, feeling the friction of her tights against her knees as she stopped the CD, bringing the studio to a harrowing silence.

She felt so defeated, unable to even look at Connie as he came over to her and sat beside her. He had put his sweatpants back on, his thin white tee shirt clinging onto the sweat of his chest, and she noticed several droplets trailing down his neck.

"I suck," she muttered, and she felt him place a reassuring hand on her knee.

"You don't," he attempted to comfort her, then giving her a playful nudge. "You know I think you're a beautiful dancer. That's why I put up with your bullshit."

An amused puff of air left her nostrils as she found the courage to meet his eyes, and the hazel of his irises sparkled towards her with encouragement, the green dancing and blending with the auburn brown.

He shuffled closer to her then, tapping at her ankle. "Let's try to make this work. Take off the heels."

She wasn't sure where he was going with this, but she obeyed him silently as she unclasped the straps and handing him both shoes. Dropping one onto his lap, he held the other meticulously, now already showing signs of wear, and Mikasa suddenly felt the wave of pain hit her feet. It felt like they had been stabbed with sharp ice, and when she looked down she witnessed her parts of her tights shredded, a fresh blister forming at the base of her big toe, as well as speckles of blood decorating the rest of her toes and tiny cuts towards the top of her foot.

She bit her tongue, refusing to show any more of her implosion to Connie. But when she glanced over at him and saw him bend the entire front of her shoe backwards, her breath caught in her throat.

"What are you doing?"

"A favor," he answered simply. When she didn't respond, he continued, now reaching for the opposing heel. "Trying to give you more range of motion."

She nodded. It made sense, she supposed.

"Also, you are going to need to scratch up these bottoms before our next practice. It'll help you from slipping around." She saw a warmth in his eyes when he handed the heel back to her, and he stood up abruptly, ready to keep going, "Now put those back on, I have a few ideas we can try."

She wanted to be grateful for his sudden enthusiasm, but she found herself stuffing her battered feet into the ballroom shoes with dread, taking her time to wrap them around her ankles before standing up with a sigh, taking the arm he extended towards her.

"Alright, so obviously as we learned, we are going to need to modify a little bit."

Mikasa shuddered. She hated that word: modify. It equated to weakness.

"Before you start pouting, what's something you can't do in heels that you can do in literally every other dance shoe?"

Was he really quizzing her now? She could only shrug in response, opening her arms in frustration. "What is it, oh wise one?"

He answered simply, not paying heed to her sass. "Literally put any weight on your heels, dumb ass."

She stopped herself from responding, blinking repeatedly. Was Connie actually giving her a dance lesson now? And he was making sense?

"So now you basically have to retrain yourself and learn how to dance with your weight shifted differently. And that means some moves are going to be performed differently or not at all." He saw her visible disappointment and he furthered. "And that's ok, Mikasa. It doesn't make it any less impressive or good. It's just a fact and every dancer who dances in heels knows that. And I know how talented you are, you'll kill it in these shoes. I'll make sure of it."

Another two hours passed, as Mikasa pushed herself to master the art of dancing in heels. It proved a challenge focusing on the redistribution of weight on her feet, and she would not have called herself an expert after that evening's drills. By the end of the night her feet were burning, but she was successful at beginning to feel more comfortable in her movements.

It was pretty early into the evening when she walked home to her dorm, the sun gone and replaced by a dark chill of the night. Despite wearing her sneakers again, she could still feel the ache of her feet, the back of her shoes rubbing against the fresh cuts at the top of her heels. She thought her feet had built enough scars and callouses over the years, but perhaps nothing could protect her from breaking in a ballroom shoe.

She limped herself home, absolutely exhausted and fantasizing about the warm bath she would slip into. For a moment she struggled with her keys, searching for the correct one, and a heaviness released from her chest as she walked inside and went straight towards her bed.

But that plan backfired, and she was met with a franticly loud squeak.

A blaring grunt fled her throat then, as Mikasa covered her eyes and turned herself towards the door. She could feel herself boiling with anger, burning her alive.

"Sasha."

A few more squeaks and scuffling sounded before she gathered a response. "Mikasa, I'm so sorry. I thought you would be home later."

She released a noise that was a hybrid of a grumble and a sigh, tapping her foot in impatience as she waited for her roommate to become decent. There went the delusion of her warm bath. And for the third time this week she walked in on Sasha getting head from her boyfriend. How was this possible? That she would interrupt the exact same stage of the act each time? It was as if they planned it somehow. And don't they ever hear her jumbling the keys against the door?

Maintaining her position away from them, Mikasa chimed with a low monotone hum, "Hey Nicolo, what's up. Haven't seen you around here for at least 12 hours."

She imagined him to be putting his shirt on, and he hesitated before he replied. "I'm…I'm well. How are you?"

She sighed. "I'm fine. Though I could have lived another day without seeing your jaw clenched around my friend's pelvis."

"Mikasa. You can turn around now."

And she did, slowly, as if she were expecting a surprise attack, and she relaxed herself when she saw the both of them were dressed, albeit messily. Sasha's hair was absolutely chaotic, the crimp of her reddish-brown locks frizzy, and the butterfly clips that held her strands away from her face were loose and barely hanging on. Smeared lip gloss extended to her cheek and chin, and Mikasa was sure her cropped shirt was on backwards while her skirt sat uneven on her hips.

Nicolo appeared more put together, a nervous smile curving his lips as he brushed his hand through his dark blonde hair. He had skipped a button on his shirt, however, and the tint of his cheeks and sticky wetness around his mouth made him look just as guilty as her.

When Mikasa's eyes caught a glimpse of Sasha's sparkly string thong on the carpet beside her feet, her gaze remained downwards, until they followed her stare in unison. Sasha shrieked again, hot pink polished toes pushing the tainted garment underneath the bed. Mikasa had never seen her face burn such a deep crimson before...except for all the other times she walked in on them.

Nicolo was a few years older than them, a student at a nearby culinary school. When he and Sasha began dating last semester, living in their former dorm became almost impossible. He was there all the time. And the insane thing was, he had his own apartment! But somehow, he was always here, because he was walking her home from class, or brining her food, or whatever excuse Sasha came up with. The good thing was she usually disappeared to his place on the weekends. She promised this semester would be different, that it would happen less. But one week in, and already Mikasa could describe in detail the shape and texture of Sasha's waxed labia.

But they did look very good together. Nicolo, tall and handsome, appearing as if he walked straight out of a boy band poster from Tiger Beat; and Sasha was such a pretty girl, and so girly. Always made up, hair done, make-up applied, her outfits never repeating—Sasha was probably the prettiest girl Mikasa knew, and so annoyingly yet warmly friendly. When they became roommates their freshman year by chance, they decided they would continue to room together.

Mikasa decided she didn't care to confront them, or give a lecture about being more considerate of her. She was simply too exhausted. Instead, she went to her bed wordless, dropping her backpack at the edge before throwing herself face first onto the sheets. She wanted to take off her shoes, but dreaded the agony she would feel sliding them against her ankles and peeling off her blood-soaked tights. So she lied there almost dead, sight consumed by the patterned flowers on her comforter, the one her grandmother forced her to bring with her so she wouldn't get cold.

"Long day, Mikasa?"

At Sasha's harmonic voice, Mikasa grunted, unmoving.

"I suck as a dancer and I am a disgrace to the art form," she spoke, her voice muffled against the sheets. Groaning again, Mikasa grasped the fabric with her fists. And damn, her grandmother was right, it was warm.

She expected her roommate to come to the bed and comfort her, and she could definitely feel both their stares on her. However, she only heard Sasha chuckle in response.

"Do you want to talk about it…during drinks tonight? Nicolo is bartending."

No, she could not talk about it. Not to Sasha, because then she would have to mention Connie, and that would be so awkward and dreadfully uncomfortable, especially with Nicolo in the same room. She wasn't even sure if he knew about their one-night tryst, even if it was before they met. But Mikasa was still dancing with him, and she knew Sasha was still pissed about it, even if she was obsessed with her new boyfriend.

Of course, she realized Sasha didn't really care to talk about it, she wanted to get Mikasa to come out drinking with her. And she would have argued, saying she was too tired, her feet bloodied after a battle with high heeled danced shoes. She also worked out, took two dance classes, and had her head plastered because she was busy checking out a good-looking stranger.

However, she had promised Armin she would hang out with him tonight, and with a grumble she flipped herself over onto her back, timidly meeting her friend's gaze.

"I guess so."

Surprised by her reluctant agreement, Sasha bounced happily, taking Nicolo into a hug. "Awesome, Mikasa's going to join us, babe! Now I don't have to sit alone while you're working." Encircling her arms around his neck, she showered his face with kisses. Mikasa wanted to puke.

Instead of emptying her insides, she reached over towards the phone on the nightstand between their beds. She stared at the dial pad for a moment, trying to remember the number to Armin's dorm. The phone was large in her fist, transparent, and she could see all the multicolored wires and compartments within it. Defeatedly, she lifted her body to open the drawer, finding the piece of paper he had scribbled his number on.

The phone rang twice before answered it with a comely, "Hello?"

"Armin, it's me, Mikasa."

"Oh hey, Mikasa, how's it going—"

"We are going out to Sasha's boyfriend's bar. Meet us there."

He paused, and she could hear the shuffling against the phone. "Oh sure, what time?"

She looked over at Sasha then, as if she could hear him, however she continued to be absolutely disgusting, planting wet kisses all over Nicolo's face.

Carefully, she sighed. "What time, Sasha?"

She didn't even turn to Mikasa, giggling blithely while he began to trail his mouth over her neck. "What time for what?"

Blinking repeatedly, her grasp on the phone tightened and she could hear the plastic crack. "What time are we going to the bar?"

She watched her plop a finger in her mouth as if to ponder, chipped glitter nail polish sparkling under the dim yellow lighting of the room. "Oh, about an hour or so?" She faltered. "Who are you talking to?"

"Armin, he's coming with." Then she spoke directly into the phone. "In an hour, Armin."

"Ok cool, alright Mikasa." She could feel his hesitance, knowing he had more to say. She knew him so well that she could sense it over the phone.

"Hey…" he began, a bit awkwardly. "You know, I don't think Jean has anything going on. Maybe he could come with?"

"Armin—"

"Come on, Mikasa, give him a chance. He really has a thing for you."

She was ready to strangle him, and automatically her fist curled into the tangled cord of the landline. "Armin, stop. I am not going to get with your roommate. I already told you how uncomfortable it will be if things went south." She shot Sasha a glare, hoping to prove her point, but the girl was no longer listening to her, still interlaced with her boyfriend as he unsuccessfully was trying to leave for work.

"Yea…but he's really a nice guy! You might like him. At least consider it."

"Not tonight, Armin. My feet feel like they've been run over by a bus and I just want to drink until my belly feels warm." Squinting her eyes, Mikasa leaned forward. "He's not there right now, is he? You aren't saying all this in front of him, are you?"

He was quick to reply. "Oh no, of course not! I…I wouldn't ask if he were here."

Slouching her shoulders, she allowed herself to rest her back against a stack of pillows. "Good…then we'll see you soon."

~oOo~

When Armin placed the phone back onto the receiver, he did it slowly, meticulously, keeping his gaze forward. A conquered sigh fled his mouth, and he leaned back into his desk chair, hands resting behind his head, finally glancing over behind him.

"Sorry, dude…I really tried putting in a good word for you."

There was an amused chuckle from the desk at the opposite end of the room, and Armin could see the back of a head covered in shaggy light brown hair before the recipient shuffled his chair to face his direction.

Dark brown eyes met with brilliant blue then, and while Armin frowned gently, he could only smirk in beguilement, rubbing his thumb against the stubble along his jaw.

"Don't worry about it. I like a girl who's hard to get."

Armin snorted a chuckle however, growing just as amused as Jean. "You are not going to give up, are you?"

His grin broadening, Jean grasped the collar of his shirt and flipped it smugly. "No way. Girls like Mikasa come once in a lifetime."

Softly, Armin smiled, exhaling through his nose. "That's true. No one is quite like Mikasa."

A moment of silence passed between them, before Jean cooed, "She is just so pretty. She's a princess. Like Mulan or something."

Armin wanted to speak, parting his lips, but struggled to find the words. He could only shake his head, rubbing at the concealed lump on his forehead.

"Please don't ever say that to her."

A/N: So im sure with a little bit of sleuthing you guys can probably figure out the song Mikasa and Connie are going to dance to. You can guess in the comments, i wont confirm or deny lol. It will be revealed when it actually happens :)