It was a long, difficult week.
Difficult to move, to shower, to eat, to attend her classes. Even taking care of her dog. Fucking being alive made her exhausted. Dehydrated from crying. She couldn't stop crying, unable to relieve the painful weight in her chest. It was so heavy. She didn't want to carry it anymore.
And they all tried to help her, they really did. Jax seemed to be equally Sasha's, and she was feeding and walking him, generously handing him over to Mikasa for therapeutic cuddles as she lied curled up in her bed. Armin would visit her, try to get her up, to go to the gym with him. They hadn't worked out together in a while.
Mikasa missed her classes that week. Except for her Tuesday night class. Only because she wondered if he would come to walk her home. Just like he had done every week. But when class ended and she descended the staircase, he wasn't there. He hadn't shown up, like he said he always would. She walked home alone in tears. It made her feel worse and recoil into bed for the remainder of the week.
Sometimes when she closed her eyes, she could feel him touch her. When she curved into her bed and inhaled her pillow, she swore she could smell him. She was beginning to forget his scent. It scared how, how used she had become to the fragrance. How strong and warm it was, just like him. She liked to pretend she was still in his arms and that everything was okay. Sleeping felt better than being awake. It was difficult to face reality.
Someone unexpected had forced her to get up and take the world for her own. Slowly, painfully. He came to her Friday afternoon, cursed the dog yet bent down to pet him eventually. Dragging her chair, he brought it to her bed. She hadn't bothered to move, lying there in her own misery, hoping she wouldn't cry. What he said to her next did however. But not for the reasons she expected.
She was never really close to her uncle. He was kind to her, very sarcastic. But they never formed a deep relationship. Mikasa became very connected with her maternal grandparents, who raised her after her parents passed. She always felt more linked to her Japanese side than her father's American roots. That was how she was raised, so deeply engraved in the culture. Levi was a crude American, short and arrogant, even bitter. Yet, he was very well loved by her family.
He sat before her with his knees opened, a slouch to his back as his arms folded across his chest. There was a thin line pressed against the shin of his tailored black slacks. She found her reflection in the glimmer of his eyes. It was disappointing how pathetic she looked. It made her want to hate herself for being so weak.
"The worst day of my life was also the worst day of yours."
Her stare was blank, unfocused, settling under her blanket as he continued. His gaze shifted for a moment, a concentrated sigh heaving his nostrils as he contemplated his next words.
"It's easy to be tough when you have nothing to fight against. Such a shitty façade when there is no threat to your happiness. So when my brother died, I wanted to keep that mask on, to pretend that it didn't hurt me. I wanted to keep being tough because for anyone to see my pain meant that I was weak, a failure."
She felt a tear slip down her cheek, but she didn't move to wipe it. Her stare remained forward, empty, her eyes boundless black holes.
"But you…You were just a little runt. You lost everything. More than what I had. Just a tiny little shit. There was no way you could have had your life together. Your life was still their life. But somehow, you were more of a man than me. This kid, who lost her parents, whose entire life was turned sideways. You fought for your right to be alive. To be happy."
Their eyes connected when he leaned forward. Her cheeks burned from the trickling flow of tears.
"You're the strongest fucking person I know," he said lowly, reaching to grasp her shoulder. "You went and danced for your mom on that stage months after she was taken from you. I know they were both watching you, kid. They wanted you to live, and you did. You didn't self-destruct. You have persevered since."
Her body quavered from her silent whimpers, the pillowcase damp. It had been a long time since she had sat down and remembered them in this way. It was so painful, recalling the night they were taken from her. How drastically her life changed. Then, just like now, she was surrounded by people who loved her. She flinched when she felt the gentle press of his hand against her own, her fingers curling against the sheets.
"So don't, fucking don't, let some shitfaced boy make you forget what was really the worst thing you ever went through." His eyes were stern then, narrowing and glittering and so profound she would never forget what he said to her next. "He is not the worst thing to happen to you. He is nothing. And if I had the power to beat the shit out of him for what he did, I would do it in a heartbeat. But I can't. I can't do anything. But you can. You can get up and keep living your life like you did when you were just a scrawny kid."
It was what she needed to hear then, between her friends coddling her and treating her like a fragile flower. Levi was right, she had been through worse. So much worse. She was strong. Monday she would go back to class, she would face everyone, face herself. She would dance on that stage again for her mother. Dance as if she was still watching her.
But when he left, she didn't get up immediately. Her strength wasn't automatic. That evening, Sasha had left to be with Nicolo at that bar. It was Halloween weekend and he was working all night. She asked her if she wanted to join, though she already knew the answer. Mikasa didn't want to go anywhere, she just wanted to be alone. A knock on the door caught her off guard.
Her hair was a frazzled mess. When was the last time she brushed it? She lacked the will to care. The white Calvin Klein tee shirt she wore was baggy, her jogger short riding up as she lifted herself from the bed and staggered to the door. A wave of dizziness passed her from standing up too quickly. Jax followed her excitedly, doing a little series of jumps by her legs.
When she opened the door she found Armin behind, smiling cheerfully as he held a bag of Pixy Stix. "Trick or treat," he quipped, and she was tempted to shut the door on him.
"You couldn't even bring me fucking chocolate?" she groaned, but then took the bag from him anyway as he walked inside. She barely had the stomach to eat anything in days. Pure dyed sugar seemed like something that wouldn't make her want to puke.
Taking one stick, she opened the tip with her teeth, fumbling back over to the bed as she allowed him to get himself situated. Neatly he removed his shoes, hung up his jacket, greeted the dog. He seemed to attempt to match her in her comfort wear, in familiar grey joggers and a tee shirt. But even then, he still managed to be put together. His hair looked nice, his scent was light and pleasant. Meanwhile, there were people in decade long comas who looked better than Mikasa.
She felt the shift on her mattress when he sat at the edge of the bed. Her cheeks inverted as she sucked at the sugar stick, feeling the candy paint her tongue, the flavor sickeningly sweet. She curled herself into a ball, watching the gentle hunch of his back, his gaze focused onto his lap as he fumbled his fingers together.
"How are you?" he asked her, a shimmering glaze cast upon his eyes. She noticed how quiet it was in the room then. No television, no music. Just the lingering and uncomfortable sound of silence. As her fingers traced the floral pattern of her grandmother's blanket, a light sigh fled her nose. She just felt so tired and heavy.
"I'm alive," she finally answered him after what seemed like a long time. Her teeth gripped onto the paper wrapping of her candy as she inhaled more sugar. "Why aren't you out at some Halloween party or something?"
He gave her a strange look then. "Because that sounds like a horrible time."
She exhaled, a hint of a smile curling her lips. "That's right, you're too cool for parties."
"Besides," he began, a teasing roll to his eyes at her comment, "I'd rather be here with you. Making sure you're okay."
A dry lump gathered in her throat then, and as she tried to swallow it away with more sugar, it only felt worse. She rolled onto her back, gazing towards the ceiling. Sasha had taped up an NYSNC poster there to cheer her up. It didn't.
"What if I went to a party," she thought aloud, biting the pixy stick between her teeth as she rested her hands beneath her head. Her gaze focused om JC on the poster. He was her favorite and the most talented of the group. "And I got wasted, did drugs, and had a one-night stand?" There was a gentle lift and fall to her chest as she breathed, her left leg extended as she kept the other bent.
Armin adjusted his body to sit next to her, a wrinkle creasing at the skin by his nose. "And what would that accomplish?"
She was unmoving. "I don't know."
"You would only feel worse," he answered for her.
Turning her neck to look at him, what little was left off the candy fell to her obscurity. She could see the gentle concern stitched onto his face, how the blue in his eyes seemed to quell for her, their hue not as bright and inviting as usual.
"Do you think he's going to parties?" She said it so quietly it was almost as if she didn't speak. But he heard her, taking hold of her hand and squeezing gently. She pressed their connection against her cheek. His skin was warm, a soothing kind of heat.
"It doesn't matter what he's doing," he said, his brows pressed. "And even if he was, I can guarantee he feels like shit too. But that's not for you to worry about anymore."
She attempted to keep the tears entrapped within her lower lashes, but several slipped down her face. She had hoped she wouldn't start crying again. Especially after the talk Levi had given her.
"He's not the worst thing that ever happened to me," she repeated softy. Armin wiped at her tears with his knuckles, his lips curving upwards. "He's not."
She felt him linger there, how velvety and supple his skin felt against her. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend it was someone else. But their gazes were linked, blended like gleaming pools of grey and blue.
"Can you lay down with me?" she asked. He hesitated briefly before nodding.
She felt the press of his body on the mattress, joining in the almost permanent indentation of her own. They shared one pillow, and she could feel his arm brush against her as he lied on his back looking at the poster plastered on the wall above them.
"Sasha did that," she clarified, and he huffed an amused breath.
They lied together in the stillness, the minutes feeling like hours. The sound of his breathing was light, delicate, calming. It felt good having someone next to her.
"Armin," she spoke suddenly, her palms rested at her navel. He turned to his side to face her, leaning on his elbow for support. "I'm sorry."
She watched him raise a dark blonde brow. "For what?"
"For," she motioned vaguely with her hands, "this."
He smiled at her, nudging her shoulder. "You don't have to feel sorry for anything. You didn't do anything wrong."
But she sighed, heavily, her lungs expanding from her breath. The skin around her eyes was raw, swollen. It would really fucking hurt if she started crying again.
"I said something really horrible to him." Her voice was hushed, shaky. More air filled her chest to control her emotions. "I can't stop thinking about it. I wish I could take it back."
He rolled his eyes however, and she shifted on her side to meet his stare. They were so close she could feel the gentle patter of his breath. Warm, not hot. Pleasant, minty. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend he was someone else. But she kept them open.
"I'm sure whatever it was, he deserved it," he mused, yet she sucked in her lips, an acceleration to the pace of her heart.
"It just…really hurts," she spoke, still reserved, her eyes glittering with pent-up tears. They were such a weight on her face, dragging her down, stealing any smile she tried to force. It was out of her control when she released some of that heaviness, allowing her burden to drip down her cheeks, her chin, her neck. She felt the extent of their travel within her shirt towards her clavicle.
She didn't expect him to gather her into an embrace then, his palm clasped onto her low back, pushing her against him. They writhed together on her sheets as her arms slipped around him, feeling the tightness of his back, her fingers delving into the dramatic dip of his shoulder blade. He was smaller than him, but he felt strong, solid.
Her cheek found solace against his shoulder, the warmth of his body melding into her own. And it felt good, so very good to hold someone. To inhale his delicate scent, feel his pulse flutter against her skin. He was different, very different. But similar enough, that if she closed her eyes, she could just pretend.
She kept them open.
As she wriggled against him, a muffled hum sang in her throat, and she could feel his breath, warm air caressing the side of her neck.
"Do you remember in second grade, when you passed me that note in class?"
She felt his lips curve into a smile along her skin. "Yes. I do."
"Will you go out with me? It said."
"You circled no." He laughed, hugging her tighter as if in retaliation.
A short chuckle slipped from her mouth. "I'm sorry."
She tensed when she felt his fingers graze the length of her spine, a trail of shivers tickling her flesh. "Don't be. I'm glad you did."
There was a long pause then. It was almost uncomfortable. "I should have picked yes."
She could physically feel the falter of his pulse, how he stiffened against her, carefully choosing his next words. "If you did, we would have broken up three hours later. Instead of becoming best friends."
Her fingers brushed the thin, darker layer of hair that was his undercut, and for a minute she stopped blinking, her heartbeat only a faint stagger. "Maybe not."
She felt him move his head, so that their faces were close, eyes adhered, gazes combined. His lashes were long and curled, delicately touching the length of her own. He breathed through gently parted lips. They were pink against tinted peach skin. And with the cerulean of his eyes, there was so much color on his visage. Like a vivid impressionist painting.
"You know how special you are, right?"
She didn't answer, but instead kneaded her teeth along her bottom lip. He smiled then, his thumb grazing over her temple, swiping strands of hair behind her ear.
"You're too special for a stupid note. Or for douchebags who wear conch shell necklaces. You deserve everything you want and nothing less."
There was a placid separation of her lips as he spoke, her eyelids drooping. Her fingers pressed deeper into his shoulder, feeling the tight rope of muscle plated on his back.
"And I'll be here for you, always. Because you're special and important to me," he furthered, his voice falling to a whisper. "And because I love you."
I love you.
You make me happy.
The platonic, comforting words of a friend, skewed in her mind. Because she was reaching for something, desperate to feel anything but this horrible, heavy pain.
And when she looked from his gaze to his mouth, she finally closed her eyes.
She kissed him once, slowly. Lightly. He tensed at the gesture, his lips unmoving as she pressed onto them. Her body squirmed, and she kissed him again. This time she could feel him pucker in response, felt the warm breath that fled his nostrils, hitting her skin as a steamy mist.
She continued, kissing him repeatedly. Short, languid, wet kisses, their bodies sinking into the mattress. It was so strange, so bizarre, but it felt so good to be kissed. To shut her eyes and pretend. To feel the heat, the closeness, to have a solid toned body hoisted beside her.
His lips were tender, so soft. Almost like raw, supple skin. And they way he kissed was different, taking in her mouth, his method so fluid and sensual. Where did he learn to kiss like that?
They couldn't have been kissing long, because when she curled her leg against his his, he pulled away from her, a series of weighted breaths heaving from his mouth.
"Mika—Mikasa, stop," he tried to interject, but she tugged on the sleeve of his shirt, kissing him again. He had stopped reciprocating the gesture, attempting to detach their bodies.
When she could no longer reach his mouth, she finally opened her eyes, seeing the uneasiness of his expression, how his brows sewn together. It took her a second to catch up to her breathing, her lips puckered and swollen.
"What's wrong?" she asked, a frantic shimmer in her eyes.
She panicked when she saw him sit up, his shirt wrinkled, the Tommy Hilfiger logo stitched towards his breast uneven. He seemed frazzled, bewildered. With wide, ample eyes, he rubbed the bottom of his hand against his forehead, as if trying to process the whole encounter.
"This was a bad idea," he said, glancing at her briefly. And she, too, lifted her torso from the bed, her hair untamed and tangled.
"Why? I want to." She clutched his shirt, the fabric bunching in her fist. She saw his lips fumble uncomfortably, a tremble to his eyes.
"You're not in the right mindset," he explained as gently as he could. His jaw shifted. "And this would fuck up everything. Our friendship means too much to me. I don't want to take advantage of you."
It felt like rejection and it fucking hurt. Even if she knew he was right, and she was acting irrationally. She really just needed to feel close to someone.
"You don't want me?" she asked, her gaze falling downward.
He became rather flustered then, redness succumbing his entire face, that he stood from the bed as if to avoid temptation, kneading the side of his head uncomfortably.
"I'm not gonna lie and say I haven't pictured this moment a thousand times in my head," he confessed, the shade of his skin deepening to a dark crimson. "I mean, you're fucking beautiful."
She blushed at the comment, her back curving into a slouch as she peered at him with intrigue. He started pacing then, using vivid hand gestures to explain himself.
"But you're hurting. I know you're hurting. And this isn't going to make you feel better. It will only make everything worse."
He kept going on, telling her all the reasons why hooking up was a bad idea, saying things she already knew. She didn't want to hear it. There was no release from being rational. Why would it be so bad to lose herself for a while? She just wanted to make the pain go away, even if it was for just a fucking minute.
"Armin," she said with a low voice, cutting him off. He stopped to look at her, and it was then when she sank her knees into the bed, the sheets grazing her skin and enveloping her thighs, as she swiftly lifted her shirt up and off her body. Her breasts released from the captivity with a delicate bounce. A sharp trifle of air that caressed her caused her nipples to instantly harden.
She had never seen his eyes so big, taking up the majority of his face. And he just stared for a moment, a really long moment. One that she knew he would admit was too long and overdrawn. But something snapped him back towards reality, because he abruptly approached her and lifted her grandmother's blanket to conceal her nakedness.
She felt numb as he sat beside her, holding the comforter towards her shoulders. "Mikasa, please stop," he said to her softly. There was no hint of aggravation or annoyance in his tone. Just sympathy, understanding, a delicate concern. And she couldn't help it as another rush of tears swarmed her face, drenching her skin. Her fists gnarled the blanket against her chest, and he didn't object when she cried onto his shoulder. Her hair flung forward, concealing her face.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she wept, her voice cracking, and his hand felt warm as he caressed the bare skin of her back reassuringly.
"Don't worry, Mikasa. It's okay."
They stayed like this for a while, words unspoken until her sobs transitioned to soft whimpers. His shirt was damp, clinging to his shoulder. And eventually he left her alone, promising to call her the next day.
Once again fully dressed, she brought Jax onto the bed with her, lying with him silently as she watched him quickly fall asleep. The events of the last hour felt surreal, and her brain struggled to grasp the concept of her actions. Did she just really make-out with Armin? And then flashed him? It scared her to consider what else she might do from the depth of her heartache.
This wasn't the worst thing that happened to her. It really wasn't. But right now, at this moment, it really fucking felt like it was.
It was not something that would pass quickly, a misery that could be cured with the touch of another. Mindlessness would do nothing but prolong her pain. She needed to sit with it. Let it simmer, let it hurt. If she tried to mask the pain, it would never go away. She would never heal. But she wasn't sure if she wanted to heal.
Because god, she fucking loved him. And she missed him so much that it was unbearable. His intense fragrance, the feel of his mouth on her own and the rest of her body. She missed his smile, his laugh. How he would gush about her dancing as if he had any idea what great dancing looked like. It didn't matter, because he saw her when she moved, witnessed the pouring of her soul, all her emotions bleeding from her body and splattering across the room whenever she danced. He watched her dance and just understood. Whose eyes would ever see her that way again? Could she even continue dancing now?
Tears soaked her pillow. Fuck, she was crying again, and crying hard. She was so sick of crying. An entire week passed, and nothing had changed. The weight was still heavy. Her heart still grieved. Why couldn't they be together? Did this really have to end everything? Maybe she could forgive him, he could make her understand. She'd understand him just as he understood her when she danced. He had to have a reason—any reason—for what he did. He could tell her something, anything, and maybe the pain would go away. Even just for a minute. All she needed was a minute.
She was hysterical when she picked up the phone. Sasha had gotten rid of all his numbers she had written down, but there was one she memorized. His pager. Her thoughts were racing, mind hectic. As she pressed onto the dial pad, her fingers were clumsy, and she had to hang up twice to start over. It rang once before she was greeted by his mailbox.
More tears, heavy, thick and consuming. She wept so hard that the words that came out of her mouth were almost incomprehensible. Sniffling, quavering, she clutched at her heart, her face convulsing into an expression of pure agony and pain. His name spilled from her mouth like vomit. It tasted so horrible.
"Please make me understand," she pleaded, her voice contorted by her cries. "Please, please. I love you and I miss you so much. Please just make me understand why. I'll listen this time. Whatever I did wrong, I can do better. I don't want to be away from you anymore. It hurts so bad. It hurts so—"
"To send this message to the mailbox, press one. To delete, press two."
She stiffened, her hand cramping as she held the phone compactly to her ear. Suddenly, she stopped sobbing so hard, a remnant of her tears remaining. Her breathing calmed, her vision clear. The heaviness lingered. In her chest, the pit of her gut. Her head, her eyes, everything was heavy and painful and drowning.
You deserve everything you want and nothing less.
You know you're special, right?
What the hell was she doing? Begging the man who cheated on her to take her back? Putting the blame on herself again. She would never get better going down this path, throwing herself into his arms like a desperate puppy as if she was the one who harmed him. It had to end, she needed to find the strength within her.
You're the strongest fucking person I know.
Her thumb dialed two, and she flinched when she heard the click of the chunky button.
"Message erased. To begin recording a new message—"
She hung the phone back onto the receiver, a profound pounding against the walls of her chest.
Her forearm swiped at the persistent tears on her cheeks. A shiver had taken her then and she shuddered from some sort of thrill that developed inside her. She was done crying tonight. She would no longer step backwards.
She wasn't thinking clearly when she stood from the bed, and Jax followed her curiously, his tail wagging behind him as she snooped through Sasha's drawers until she pulled out what she had been intent to find. A pair of haircutting shears Sasha used to cut her own bangs, held confidently in her grasp. The blades glistened like sterling silver, and Mikasa sucked in her lips as she sat herself in front of her full-length mirror, glaring at her reflection in loathing and disgust.
She had long black hair like you, too.
Lifting a thick lock of hair, she held it straight and taught over her head. It was so soft, shiny. Long and pretty. Her breathing was tumultuous, uneven, hefty puffs of air leaving her nostrils like blistering fumes. The scissors made a slick noise as she opened the blades, her hand trembling as she placed the tresses between the sharp edges. She held there, hesitant. Terrified.
You remind me of her in a lot of ways.
With a grunt, she sliced the rope of hair close to the root, watching with large, horrified eyes as the strands fell into a messy heap onto the carpet. What the fuck did she just do? Was she out of her mind?
Her breaths were so erratic it looked as if there was a bomb strapped to her chest, and immediately after she cut her she panicked, tears hovering over her lashes. She felt herself crumple, her back hurled forward. What was she doing? Why did she do this?
She was really funny, like you. Real sarcastic. And so sweet and kind.
Her brows furrowed angrily, and she heaved a sharp breath as she tugged on another bunch of her hair, cutting it instantly. And as she stared at her reflection, it wasn't so pathetic anymore. A senseless grin consumed her face as she witnessed the absolute insanity that was her hair in the mirror. But god, it was so fucking freeing, liberating. Like she was cutting off some of the heaviness weighing her down,
And she cut again, and again. Thick globs of her hair showering down like a storm, covering the vicinity of the carpet. With every strand she obliterated, she freed herself from him, his expectations, his downright bizarre comparisons. She never wanted to be like his mother, to remind him of her. And if he ever saw her again, she would make sure the last thing he thought of was her.
She sliced and cut until there was nothing left, shaggy and short black tresses feathering her face. It was like staring at a different person. She didn't recognize herself. Simultaneously appalled, amazed, entranced, fucking horrified.
And as she pressed her palms against her cheeks, she peered at her reflection closer toward the mirror. The depth of her eyes was endless, an empty black void of despair and agony. She wanted to feel better for a minute. And she did. For only a minute. But even with the weight of her hair ravaged, it didn't lift the hurt entrapped within her. It was still so heavy. So fucking heavy.
She had promised herself she wouldn't cry anymore tonight. But as a tear soddened her cheek, she knew she had failed.