A/N: I'm partial to one-shots, but I struggle with the in-character-ness of it all. So here's a modern-day multi-chapter fic instead with Eremika as roommates in their early 20s -- bit of angst, bit of tension, etc. Rated T for language and such, but could POTENTIALLY get more *adult* in later chapters.
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Day One
All Mikasa remembered from that day was the phone ringing. It rang once, then again, and then one more time before she picked it up. Three rings before nothing was ever normal again.
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Day Three
People stopped by. They knocked on the door, left baskets in front of it, slipped cards through the mail slot. She never opened any of them, and neither did he. He stayed in his room, and she stayed in hers. They didn't go into the third room, the one with the seashell on the door.
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Day Five
Sasha came by. She remembered where the spare key was — not under the doormat, but in a tiny pocket stuffed into the side of it. That had been his idea.
Sasha fussed over her a lot. She drew Mikasa a bath, tossed her clothes into the wash, cooked her a warm meal while explaining how Niccolo had taught her the recipe. Mikasa listened, but she couldn't bring herself to care. And it wasn't like she didn't want to, she really did. But all she could do was nod, sip the soup, and stare at the wall. Once, Sasha walked over and sat down next to her, and took Mikasa's hands in hers. She asked her where "the other one" was, Mikasa said she didn't know, and Sasha gave her a look that Mikasa had never seen her give anyone before.
That night, she sobbed in Sasha's arms, and her friend rocked her and stroked her hair until she wore herself down to the point of fitful sleep.
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Day Six
Mikasa woke up to a note from Sasha:
"Had to go to work, call me if you need anything at all. I left soup and sandwiches in the fridge. Both of you need to eat them. I love you."
One scan of her surroundings told Mikasa that Sasha had cleaned up a bit before she left: her books were back on their shelves and the shards from the glass that she'd dropped two nights ago were no longer scattered across one side of the room. Her curtains were pulled back to let in the sunshine, and from the window, she could see the city skyline stark against the blue sky. As always, she could hear the muffled sounds of traffic and construction work on the streets below.
Mikasa lifted herself from the bed, albeit with tremendous effort, and went to the kitchen. But upon reaching the doorway, she stopped.
He was sitting at the table with his head in his hands, motionless except for the rise and fall of his frame with each breath. In front of him sat a bowl of the leftover soup, practically untouched.
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. Here was the only other person who understood exactly what she was going through, the only other person who was feeling the same things she was — and Mikasa had absolutely no idea what to say to him. So she said nothing; she grabbed her own bowl, heated up a serving of leftovers, and pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table. All she got was an empty glance, one split second where their eyes met, and he put his head back down. As she ate in utter silence, Mikasa wondered if maybe it was a good thing that she hadn't tried to talk to him; that he probably wouldn't have answered anyway.
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Day Nine
She stared and stared. She stared at the sunken eyes, the knotted black hair, the pallid skin. The girl in the mirror stared back.
You can't go to a funeral looking like this, they'll think you're about to need one too.
So she took a brush to her hair, dabbed concealer under her eyes, picked out a black dress with long sleeves.
When she went to zip it up, her hands couldn't reach. She tugged at what she could, but the zipper got stuck on the fabric; she tried pulling it loose, but it only got stuck further. It wouldn't budge, and her arms cramped up from the weird angle, and then her skin got caught on the zipper and the sharp pain made her want to scream. So she let out a scream, a small one, and slammed her hand against the wall.
"I'll help. If you want."
Mikasa spun around.
There he was, leaned against the doorway, in a black suit and tie. His hands were shoved casually in his shorts, like he hadn't just seen her lose it over a dress.
Those were also the first words either of them had spoken to the other in a week.
"Yeah, sure," She replied, biting her lip and willing her eyes to cease their watering.
He pushed off the doorframe and walked over, and Mikasa turned back around. A moment later, she felt his hands behind her, one fiddling with the zipper and one holding the dress together at the top.
"He used to help you with these kinds of things, didn't he?" The voice that brushed past the nape of her neck was low, raspy. It was a voice that clearly hadn't been getting much use.
Mikasa inhaled sharply. "Yeah, he did."
A pause, and then she heard a zip.
"Done."
She turned around, parting her lips to thank him, maybe just to say anything that would keep them from descending back into utter silence. But he was already on his way out the door.
An hour or so later, they stood in the graveyard along with the rest of their friends, as one by one they took turns saying goodbye. There was no coffin because he had once told them he wanted to be cremated, but there was a memorial. And a tombstone. And Sasha held Mikasa again as she stood in front of it and cried quietly, and everyone else gave her the exact look she'd expected — the, oh, that poor girl with the dead best friend, look. Eren was the only one who didn't; he stood next to her and stared emptily at the hunk of stone that was supposed to represent their friend. Once, their eyes met, and he gave her a slight smile, one that was sad and barely a smile at all. But the tiny spark of solace Mikasa saw there — she held onto it tightly and let it keep her going.
They asked her to say a few words, but she didn't really remember what she said. Mikasa knew what they wanted to hear: about how kind and sweet he was, how he was such a light to everyone around him. The things everyone says at funerals. And she did say those things, and they were all true. But she didn't tell them about any of her favorite memories -- the ones the three of them made -- because those belonged to them, and them alone.
That night she was too tired to fight with her zipper. So Mikasa passed out with her dress on, mascara streaked down her face.
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Day Fourteen
As it turned out, rent didn't take a backseat to grief — meaning she couldn't put off going back to work any longer. And Mikasa liked her job well enough… but working at a bookstore hadn't exactly been an idea of her own (she'd had some influence from a particular someone who had wanted to use the accompanying employee discount on marine biology books).
Going to work was nice, though, kind of. It was quiet and never crowded, and even though she was at work, Mikasa could read when the shop was empty. She could distract herself as much as she pleased. And no one asked her if she was okay, or how she was holding up. Thank god.
Even so, by the time Mikasa got back home, she was exhausted. But it seemed that, while her evening was ending, someone else's was just beginning.
"You're going out?" Mikasa asked, not even trying to mask the incredulity to her tone as she slipped off her shoes by the entrance.
"Yeah," He replied nonchalantly, tugging on boots and a jacket. His brown hair was pulled back into a low bun. "I'll be back late. Don't wait up."
And with that, he was out the door, and Mikasa was left standing alone in the hallway, a bit miffed that he never said where he was going.
Partially from spite and partially from worry, she decided to wait in the living room until he returned, when she could appropriately death-stare at him for vanishing without much in the way of an explanation. She watched a movie, finished a book she'd brought home from work, ate a burrito, all while sitting on the couch — and nothing. She texted him, to no avail. The clock ticked onward, and the front door remained decidedly shut.
Around four in the morning was when Mikasa started to freak out.
"Eren, I don't know why you're not answering my texts, but it's late. Turn your location on, or tell me when you'll be back, just give me something to go off of," She gripped the phone to her ear, trying to get a handle on her voice, which was threatening to crack. Mikasa knew he hated when she got all overbearing, but at that moment she didn't really care.
She paced. She bit her nails. Mikasa considered grabbing her keys and going after him herself, but she had absolutely no clues as to where he was thanks to his frustratingly cryptic departure. Her brain ping-ponged around in her skull:
He's an adult, you're being an idiot. But where is he? Why isn't he home? What is he doing? Is he okay? What if something happened? What if-
Mikasa clenched her eyes shut and squeezed out every last little destructive thought.
Don't do this to yourself.
Eren was safe and fine, and she had to keep telling herself that. She just wished he was better at answering his goddamned phone. At some point, she slipped into a light slumber -- despite her head spinning with worry, eventually, exhaustion washed over her and she succumbed to its current.
Nightmares, again.
When Mikasa awoke, the first thing she noticed was the light streaming in through the window, and her eyes shot open. It was morning. Did he-
But as she sharply jerked her head upward, eyes darting around frantically, her attention settled on the pair of boots by the front door: the same pair of boots he had been wearing when he left. He did come back. Her heart ceased its pounding.
She sat up — maybe to walk over to his door and berate him for the shit he'd pulled, or just to ask him where he'd been — but as she moved, a blanket slipped off of her and onto the floor.
A blanket Mikasa definitely hadn't been using last night, because it wasn't hers. And she sat there for a minute, realizing what that meant, and briefly pictured him coming in and putting it over her. She checked her phone, and there it was, one text from him at an ungodly hour: I told you not to wait up. I'm fine.
Asshole.
--
Day Sixteen
"Stay still."
Mikasa pressed her hands to the sides of his head and tilted it forward, then took the scissors and began snipping away at the ends of his hair. The dark brown locks fell in small tufts onto the kitchen floor.
"Not too short," She heard him grumble from his seat.
"Relax, I'm only doing a little bit," Mikasa replied. "Trust me, I like your hair long, too."
A pause.
"So, you're not gonna take revenge on me for the other night?"
She stopped for a second, his hair between the fingers of one hand and her scissors in the other.
"I wasn't planning on it, no," She replied after a moment. "But…"
Mikasa tugged his hair back until his face was tilted up towards her. His green eyes glinted.
"Don't freak me out like that again."
He hesitated. But then, he gave a slight nod, and she released her grip. Mikasa continued snipping.
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Day Twenty-One
Whereas the past couple weeks had felt agonizingly sluggish in their passing, as the days ticked on they started to become... bearable, again. With work as a constant, and Eren not entirely closed off, Mikasa began to feel as though she was regaining some semblance of normalcy.
But there was always that lingering feeling. Every night there was a dream or nightmare; sometimes starting sweet and turning sour, sometimes so nice and warm and real that when she woke up she had to remember all over again the kind of reality she existed in. Those were the worst, because she wanted them to be true and real more than anything in the world, and when she realized they weren't… she had to wake up and grieve all over again.
It was nearing the time when the two of them would have to decide where to spread the ashes. Their best friend's ashes. And yet, Mikasa felt as though a lid had been stuck firmly on her soul — she couldn't talk about him, couldn't think about him, couldn't so much as go into his room. She was a vase teetering over a ledge, unfathomably terrified that when she shattered, there'd be no putting her back together.
But if Mikasa was going to shatter, it certainly wouldn't be tonight.
"I'll be back later."
Mikasa looked up from her late-night cereal to see Eren on his way out the door. Again.
"Um, okay," She replied.
It had been every night recently; he would leave at eleven or twelve and find his way back around four in the morning. Sometimes later. Mikasa knew because she'd often lay in bed and stare at the ceiling until the muffled sound of Eren's boots clomping through the front door assured her he was home. Not out of necessity, but just because she wouldn't sleep well before then anyway.
But instead of rushing right out as usual, he briefly leaned back so he could see her from the doorway, one corner of his mouth upturned, his eyes softening: "Not too late, though. Promise."
Mikasa quickly shook off her surprise and nodded. Eren held her gaze for a second longer, and then he was gone, pulling the door shut behind him.
These past few days, Mikasa had started to believe that maybe the two of them could be friends again, kind of like before. She knew it would never be exactly the same — but maybe they could start small.
So a few hours later, when she heard Eren's boots and his keys turning in the lock, Mikasa thought perhaps she'd ask him to stay up and watch the sunrise with her. Something they used to do; something that could feel normal.
But she got out of bed and hesistated:
Maybe he's tired, and that's why he came home earlier tonight. Maybe he just wants to sleep.
Mikasa paced a few times around her room, trying to convince herself it was fine; his sleep schedule was most certainly fucked up already. But by the time she worked up the courage to go out and ask, he'd gone into his room and closed the door. Mikasa stood there, thinking if it was worth knocking, when she saw his jacket strewn across the couch. And then she thought, maybe she could just knock, tell him not to leave his stuff on the couch, and then invite him. Normally.
The jacket smelled strongly of alcohol, and Mikasa scrunched her nose a little as she bent down to pick it up. Great, he's probably drunk.
But as she lifted the black leather piece from the couch, a little piece of paper with something scribbled on it fell from one of the pockets and onto the floor. And for whatever reason, she picked it up and unfurled it.
Thanks for tonight ;) Call me, I want to see you again, the note read.
She flipped it over. A phone number was scrawled on the back. Her chest tightened.
Mikasa folded the note back up, stuck it in the jacket pocket, put the jacket on Eren's doorknob, and went back into her room.
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I will be continuing! Pls review!
