The day before Eren's coronation stands out in my memory with excruciating detail, the smell of spring heavy on the wind, the taste of rain faint in the distance. It was the first whisper of dawn that had startled me awake, the tender warmth of the sun brushing gently against my cheek with the timid nature of a butterfly. It was a kind touch, curious and patient, gliding across my skin, curling around my ear, my jaw, my nose, my lips. It stilled there for a while, almost afraid, but then moved away as if out of guilt; to this day I can still hear Eren turning in his sheets, pulling away from me, his nearly-inaudible sigh heavy with anger and loss.
His pain had always made my heart ache, especially after he fully recovered from his illness, because I always felt like my sacrifice should have protected him from this, from hurting like this ever again; instead, all I can do is reach out, my hand sliding slowly out from under my pillow and stretching into the space between us. I was staring at his back, watching his shoulders move when he breathed, watching his muscles flex as he shivered...
My hand connected with cool skin, his reaction a small gasp from the other side of the bed. He tensed up at first, his body hard and unforgiving under my touch, but then he relaxed when he felt me pushing forward, wrapping my arm around his body and pulling him backwards into my chest. I curled up my legs beneath his, locking us together as close as we could, and then we just lay there, lost to time, Eren's restlessness slowly bleeding out of him.
After a while, he said my name-just my name, quiet and slow, like he meant everything he was trying to say with it. His voice was barely a murmur, as soft and fragile as he felt in my grasp, his laugh breathless with exhaustion.
I didn't have the strength to tell him, not then and not now, but at that time I needed him even more than he needed me. Memories like this were all I had to cling to when the world was dark and heavy and pushing down on the back of my head with enough force to shatter my spine; sometimes I even believed that if I kept it close enough to my heart, held it harder, tighter, then I could use the feeling of Eren's breath on my skin, the smell of him in my nose, the taste of him on my tongue, to fight off the shadow of death I knew was growing in the bottom of my soul. Usually, it was just enough; usually, but not that day.
Eren had been mumbling for a while, his chest buzzing against mine. "What would I do without you?" He asked, reaching up to take my hands in his, rubbing his thumb against my knuckles. He was so sweet when he wanted to be. So sweet.
"You'd do a lot," I replied, my voice managing to sound just as convinced as I felt. I nuzzled the back of his neck, using the pause to push back memories of his illness, the way he always shook and screamed like his skin was on fire, the way his ears and eyes wept blood, the way death clouded thick behind his eyes. "I can't imagine your life being all that much different from the way it is now."
Eren turned then, at that, but was careful to stay in my arms. "For all your smarts," he said with incredible seriousness, "you can be such a fool sometimes."
I expected the kiss before he leaned in, and although I wasn't sure I could handle it, I moved to meet him halfway. At first we're rather cautious, pressed together in a moment of indecision and reassurance, but then, before I realized it, we're meeting together in a harsh collision of bitter and sweet, desperate and hungry like either of us might just disappear if the other doesn't hold on hard enough. His hands grip the front of my shirt as he pushes me back, his chest lifting from the bed as he angles on top of me, his weight shoving me down, imprisoning me beneath his body. My hands twined in his hair, frantic in my efforts to keep his mouth as close to mine as I could, crazed as I sought something deeper inside him, something hotter and more raw than I'd ever known.
We're a flurry of kisses, hard and hasty and feverish, our bodies moving into each other with the ease that came from years of practice. When his lips reached my neck I was reduced to only muffled moans, his mouth wicked and teasing. When he moved lower, forceful and wild, like an animal, I could only stop him by twisting my legs through his and quickly flipping him onto his back, his eyes wide with the lust I knew my own body betrayed.
"We...we can't do this, not now," I stammered, my throat dry. "You have people to see today."
"I've already seen all the people I need to see today," he shot back, his expression unwavering and uncompromising. "They can wait."
"Eren," I said, meaning to chastise him, but his name is forced from my lips in almost a speak. I dropped my head, my mind blanking in favour of the sensations he was sparking all across my skin, his hand caressing my stomach, my hip, my thigh, then lower. I became an embarrassing mess of groans and halfhearted protests, writhing against him like my body was outside my control, nothing but instinct. I fell onto his chest, my arms trembling from the terrible effort it took to keep myself upright, all the while Eren relentless in his movement beneath me, laughing gently against my cheek as I scrambled desperately for the coherency to return the attention.
"Don't worry about it," he had whispered, like he knew how much I needed this, needed him and me and us and this. I needed more, more like I was drowning, more like I was dying-I needed the way he pulled sweet nothings from my mouth, the way he made my skin burn at his touch, the way he could kiss me and tell me everything I've ever wanted to know and more.
/
The Eren from those mornings were never the Eren I saw outside of his bedroom, even here, the two of us completely alone, just steps outside the throne room. Here he was calm, reserved, even princely if such an emotion existed; his eyes said business, his glorious white suit said power, his deep purple embroidery said royalty. Everything about him was just...wrong.
"You look good, Eren," I said softly, trying to inspire something from him, something even at the edge of his lips that made him remember where we had just been, what we had just been lost in doing. But in his face, no matter where I looked, there was nothing.
This was serious, serious as nothing either of us have ever known; everyone who showed up today, from the lowest of nobles to the highest of kings, they all wanted what I had just the tiniest taste of-they wanted Eren, magnificent beside them, holding their hand on a throne decked in gold and red, showering them with both the power of the monarchy and the affection of a loving spouse. Even to picture it, just then, his smiling face next to theirs, fingers intertwined, their laughter mixing together like the most stunning of harmonies...I'd always expected it, always, but it made the truth no less easy to bare.
I had never wanted the throne, despite what the rumours had said at the time; since the very first day I met Eren, I had wanted nothing but his happiness. If that meant he had to be with someone else, that I had to be pushed aside in favour of someone taller and smarter and funnier and braver, then fine. But even knowing this, believing this, wanting this, to trail after him as he pushed into the throne room, to hear the cheering that greeted him, to see all the faces that lit up at the sight of him, it hurt me because suddenly this was real, losing Eren was real, and I was never, and would never, be prepared for that.
/
I remember so few of the faces from that day, names and titles and unique characteristics mashing together to create only a mess of crazy colours and blurry movement. Eren grew tired more quickly then I had expected, but he hid it with more skill that I imagined possible; every man and woman who stepped up before him, kissed his hand, showered him in gifts, he entertained them all, repeated back their names, thanked them for their interest. It was almost as if the Eren I grew up with had been swallowed behind the man who now sat beside me, his loose and restless nature completely scraped in favour of the royal facade he now displayed.
I have never possessed the ability to aptly describe this change in him, but perhaps I could come close. It was the way the sun tangled around his features, bringing out the sharp definition of his cheeks, his jaw, his hands, his chest; it was the quiet power that burned in his eyes, the promise of strength and courage and bravery and more; it was the quirk to his smile, the sly way it slipped away from him, the movement of his cape as it clung to his shoulders like a ghost, the brilliant glisten of his crown as it sat nestled just above his brow. He was born to be a leader, his stance always seemed to say so, the very air around his head heavy with confidence and assurance. He was, and had always been, born to be a king.
/
It was the shrill call of evening that signaled the arrival of the last few suitors, the sound of bells, the cruel rush of chill wind that fluttered in through the windows. Down the lane we could just see their silhouettes, clumped together due to their distance, and at last Eren seemed to relax, counting no more than four men with a dozen guards between them.
"You musn't look so pleased," I whispered, poking him playfully in the side. I realized my misstep too late, but Eren reacted only with a shake of his head.
The first of the four to arrive was a princess from one of the western provinces, her face lost to me now but her voice, heavy with a strange accent I couldn't place, still something I can distantly recall. The second was a prince from the northernmost province, the fur lining his boots, sleeves and hood a flurry of colour surely no living animal could have provided. The third...the third stood out, from all the rest, for reasons I didn't know and didn't understand, not then. "Jean Kirstein," he had said, bowing low with his fist clenched over his heart. "From Trost."
In the sea of names and faces and titles that I had been bombarded with all day, he really should have just been another suitor; his clothing was unremarkable, grey and brown and gold, his entrance unhindered and unflourished, his introduction short and to the point. But the longer I stared at him, the less ordinary he seemed to become. His dark hair was shaved almost against his skin at the back, the coiffured style of the light brown that framed the top of his head lending him an intriguingly militaristic look; his bearing betrayed an arrogance off-set by his demeanor, his expression nothing but respect and honour. But his eyes-
As he looked up, his gaze restless, he finally noticed me kneeling next to Eren, the tiniest flicker of something showing through on his face. Immediately I found myself lost in the intensity of his hazel eyes, an intensity that was almost familiar somehow. It took me a long while, and it wasn't even until he was turning to leave that I realized his eyes had reminded me of Eren's-it was the crazy determination I saw there, the shocking level of ambition and passion for life that had always seemed so unique to my best friend. Now, it find it in another man, carried so easily it could be a well-made pair of gloves, I could hardly comprehend it; it was like running into two demigods, each sharing a tiny, tiny piece of each other's indescribable power. As ridiculous as it should have been, perhaps, I only remember being stunned, stunned more absolutely than I could care to admit.
Eren, of course, had seen none of that. "He looks like a horse," he had said, his careless observation giving no justice to the worth of the man that had just been in his presence. "Please take him off the list of potentials."
I took out the folded sheet of paper from my vest as ordered, finding Jean's name near the middle. But when my quill was a hair over the letters, so close the ink was welling between the tip and the parchment, I found I just couldn't. "Are you sure?" I asked. "He seemed...put together, didn't he?"
Eren frowned, his irritation further emphasized when he wrinkled his nose. "So are picnics," he said carefully, "what's your point?"
Knowing I could never explain myself, not really, I just shrugged and hurriedly scratched out his name before I could convince myself to do otherwise. "Nothing," I whispered. "I guess I'm just trying to make this list look less empty."
I could feel Eren's eyes on the side of my face for a heartbeat longer, perhaps sensing my lie, but thankfully he decided it wasn't worth his time. When he looked back towards the door, waiting for the last of the suitors, I reached unconsciously for my chest, willing myself to breathe less rapidly, less hard. I needed to be better composed; I needed to better control myself.
The last suitor to arrive was King Erwin, welcomed into Jaegar Keep with a procession of trumpets neither too elaborate to overplay his status nor too little to underplay it. He was the ruler of the province just before the edge of Wall Maria, and was, I thought, better regarded than anyone else in the country; the defense of the entire kingdom, after all, rested with him, his soldiers the best trained, his tactics some of the most renowned in history. Accordingly, I noticed the immediate shift in Eren, the extra attention he offered freely to this man-if there were a way to better emphasize how much a 'potential' Erwin was besides circling his name three times on the list, I'd had done it.
For now, however, Eren and Erwin only exchanged light pleasantries, the king clearly exhausted from a long day of travel. He was imposing, even from his place at the foot of the podium, his build like a prize-winning stallion. Interestingly enough, though, it was the man at his side that drew my attention.
He hadn't been introduced yet, but I could guess his importance from the style of his uniform. He was short, maybe even shorter than me at the time, with black hair cut just above his ears and an expression that dared anything in life to surprise him. At his throat was a frill of white cloth, giving him a classy, almost sophisticated look, and his eyes were dark as night, heavy with a brooding strength that could rival any nightmare. He was not to be underestimated, that was undeniable, but to what extent that warning would go I could never have imagined.
He struck just as Erwin had excused himself, saying, completely deadpan, "Thank fucking god you took your sweet-ass time, this room looks like it was decorated by a colourblind toddler with every intention of giving me a migraine."
I remember so clearly the immediate stiffness that seized almost everyone in the room, the shock that shone even through Erwin's impressive composure. For a gruelingly long moment no one so much as breathed, even me.
But then, out of nowhere, Eren started to laugh. It was an explosive sound, genuine and honest, and it was as if his entire persona had shattered to leave, for a brief moment, the kindhearted youth I had come to love with everything I had. When he finally came down from his high he pushed his fingers through his hair, ruffling the style into an unintelligible mess that very clearly showed his opinion on this man's outburst.
"I'm so glad you think so," he said, his tone tangling with an almost pathetic amount of relief. "I hate the decorations in here. I was absolutely convinced I was the only one."
As Eren composed himself again, dropping his eyes for a moment, I caught the barest flicker of something in the other man's expression. It might have been...amusement? But it was gone too fast for me to be sure, buried quickly behind a wall of boredom just as Eren looked back up.
"You will need to forgive him," Erwin was saying, trying his best to keep his tone lighthearted but failing miserably. "This is Levi Rivaille, the captain of my guard."
I expected Eren to say something out of place, now that his princely facade was destroyed, but instead he said, "There's nothing to forgive."
That should have been the end of it, the end, but he added with a smirk, "I gather, from the fact that he's the only member of your personal guard, that he makes up for his mouth with his sword?"
Levi caught the subtle implication in Eren's words without batting an eye, spitting it right back up at him before Erwin could comment. "Watch it kid," he snapped, an odd tugging at the edge of his lips, "or maybe I'll just have to show you what my sword can do."
He should have been arrested, or fined, or in the very least reprehended-even I would never address Eren like that-but Eren just raised an eyebrow and waved him off, completely undisturbed by Levi's rebuttal. There was almost a playfulness to Eren's smirk, a nonchalance that twisted into something resembling anger in Levi's eyes. Thankfully, before either of them could make the situation worse, someone signaled for the closure of the throne room, a hastiness that pushed for the prince to get himself ready for the night's grand address.
Eren, oddly enough, allowed himself to be taken away, my steps only a stride behind his. Although I didn't have his consent, didn't have his permission, I knew he wouldn't correct me-quickly, without making a sound, I pulled out the list again and added another name, hurried and sloppy, to the bottom, feeling more like a prophet than I ever dared believe. But then, seeing it there, the letters proud and stark against the faded colour of the parchment, I felt my anger bubble up inside, rage colouring my eyes.
I scratched it out.